December 27, 1949 - May 4, 2020  Rest in Peace

Almost everyday, I would wake up at exactly 5:30AM to the sound of soft cooing and gentle footsteps. A moment later, there would be a chorus of meows, followed by a metal can opening. Then, the coffee machine would beep, and my dad, Dr. Niaz Ali, would sit by the window with a cup of coffee before heading to work at Riverview Medical Center as a pediatrician. My room was right next to the laundry room, where the cats' food bowls were, and though I should've been annoyed at being woken up so early so often, I simply found peace in my dad's presence and the gentle way he would talk to Tiger, Cookie, and Leo. At the end of the day, I would always know which cat had been sitting with him by the smell of his cologne lingering on their fur.

My dad started off as simply Niaz Ali, born as the son of a farmer in 1949, in Lahore, Pakistan. He had four sisters and four brothers. My dad's older brother-my uncle, Azfal-decided to pursue a life in Switzerland, and afterwards, my father followed suit, leaving Pakistan. I heard the same lecture over and over throughout the years: He flew to America with seventy-two dollars in his pocket and decided that he was going to make it work, no matter what. After doing odd jobs and sleeping on floors, he eventually joined the military as a Sergeant, until he finally retired early enroute to becoming a Lieutenant Colonel, leaving under the title Major Niaz Ali. He then graduated from Universidad Mundial, Santo Domingo, and attended his residency at Jersey Shore Medical Center, eventually becoming Dr. Niaz Ali-a different title, one that he was very proud of. He became the Chief of the Pediatrics Department in Riverview Medical Center. In 1989, he married my mom, Maliha Ali, an alumna from Punjab University with a Master's in Zoology. They had two children together, a son named Raza Ali and a daughter named Iqra Ali, through which he earned his favorite title: "Dad."

Dr. Ali, my father, was a simple, pleasant man. He liked sandwiches from Subway, veggie pizza, and foods that were spicy enough to make him sweat and tear up. His love and admiration for Sufi poetry was unmatched: he would spend hours and hours listening to recitations, deep in prayer. On my birthday, he gifted me four books about the writings of Rumi. He was also an earnest man.

"Be disciplined" was his motto, the saying that he would always drill into our heads. He lived by this motto himself: at his busiest, he worked at three different hospitals and a clinic; even after he scaled back, he still rotated between the hospital and his clinic. Dr. Ali never complained, always pursuing, and eventually accomplishing, whatever he set out to do with complete honesty and dedication. No project was left incomplete. Nothing was out of reach for my father. If he wanted something, he would work for it and attain it, regardless of the hardships along the way. He would struggle until he was victorious, and in the end, he was always victorious.

Dr. Ali contracted COVID-19 while attending to his patients, despite the fact that his family-us-begged for him not to go to work. "It's my job, my responsibility," he told us. "I have to go." On the seventeenth day post-infection, he breathed his last breath in Jersey Shore Medical Center-the same hospital in which he was a resident, and the same hospital where his children were born.