A Tale of Two Omars Read online

  To my grandparents for shaping and molding me.

  And to Diane for then offering this advice:

  “Now, be you.”

  I’m not an activist; I’m just a person with a story.

  OMAR SHARIF JR.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  1. Icon & Iconoclast

  2. Worlds Apart

  3. Funny Boy

  4. Doctor Zhivago Jr.

  5. Che! (Oy Vey)

  6. New Beginnings

  7. Omar of Gayrabia

  8. Trophy Boy

  9. Rock the Casbah

  10. A Tale of Two Omars

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Published in The Advocate

  March 16, 2012

  I write this article in fear. Fear for my country, fear for my family, and fear for myself. My parents will be shocked to read it, surely preferring I stay in the shadows and keep silent, at least for the time being.

  But I can’t.

  Last January, I left Egypt with a heavy heart. I traveled to America, leaving behind my family, friends, and compatriots who were in the midst of embarking on a heroic journey toward self-determination. Despite the sound of gunshots in the streets and the images of Anderson Cooper being struck repeatedly over the head on CNN, I left hopeful that I would return to find a more tolerant and equal society. While I benefited from a life of privilege being Omar Sharif’s grandson, it was always coupled with the onerous guilt that such a position might have been founded upon others’ sweat and tears.

  One year since the start of the revolution, I am not as hopeful.

  The troubling results of the recent parliamentary elections dealt secularists a particularly devastating blow. The vision for a freer, more equal Egypt—a vision that many young patriots gave their lives to see realized in Tahrir Square—has been hijacked. The full spectrum of equal and human rights are now wedge issues used by both the Supreme Council of the Egyptian Armed Forces and the Islamist parties, when they should be regarded as universal truths.

  I write this article despite the inherent risks associated because as we stand idle at what we hoped would be the pinnacle of Egyptian modern history, I worry that a fall from the top could be the most devastating. I write, with healthy respect for the dangers that may come, for fear that Egypt’s Arab Spring may be moving us backward, not forward.

  And so I hesitantly confess: I am Egyptian, I am half Jewish, and I am gay.

  That my mother is Jewish is no small disclosure when you are from Egypt, no matter the year. And being openly gay has always meant asking for trouble, but perhaps especially during this time of political and social upheaval. With the victories of several Islamist parties in recent elections, a conversation needs to be had and certain questions need to be raised. I ask myself: Am I welcome in the new Egypt?

  Will being Egyptian, half Jewish, and gay forever remain mutually exclusive identities? Are they identities to be hidden?

  While to many in Europe and North America mine might seem like trivial admissions, I am afraid this is not so in Egypt. I anticipate that I will be chastised, scorned, and most certainly threatened. From the vaunted class of Egyptian actor and personality, I might just become an Egyptian public enemy.

  And yet I speak out because I am a patriot.

  I am a patriot who remembers a pluralistic Egypt, where despite a lack of choice in the political sphere, society comprised a multitude of beliefs and backgrounds. I remember growing up knowing gay men and women who were quietly accepted by those around them in everyday society. The motto was simple: “Stay quiet, stay safe.” Today, too many are staying quiet as the whole of Egyptian society moves toward this monolithic entity I barely recognize.

  Last month I went for an afternoon run outside my home in Cairo. It was hot, and so I removed my T-shirt. I got the strange sense someone was watching. I felt a car begin to slow behind me, and a man began to shout that I could no longer go out in the streets shirtless in the new Egypt. With reticence, I put my T-shirt on and continued to run.

  Today, I write.

  I write this article because there are many back home without a voice, without a face, and without an outlet. I write this article because I am not unique in Egypt and because many will suffer if a basic respect for fundamental human rights and equality is not embraced by Egypt’s new government. I write this article because as an Egyptian national newly acquainted with a land of freedom, I feel a certain privilege that I can finally express myself openly as well as artistically. I have a voice, and with it comes a responsibility to share it during this time of social and political change, no matter the risks.

  I write this article as a litmus test, calling for a reaction. I challenge each of the parties elected to parliament to speak out, on the record, as to where they stand on respect for the rights of all Egyptians, regardless of gender, sexual orientation, or political belief. Do religious parties speak of moderation now only to consolidate power? Show us that your true intent is not to gradually eradicate the few civil liberties and safeguards that we currently have protected by convention, if not constitution.

  I write this article to understand my own position in the new Egyptian paradigm. To a greater degree, though, I want to know where my newborn sister fits, my Coptic Christian friends, and the entire list of those who seek a basic guarantee of rights affirmed just to know they can live safely in Egypt. I want to know that we are not sliding downward on a slippery slope from secular(ish) society toward Islamic fundamentalist state.

  I challenge foreign governments and NGOs present in Egypt today to comment and demand answers on equal and human rights from both the leaders of the revolution and the new government. I urge them to lend the Egyptian people and any future governments the support necessary to protect those at risk and strengthen our laws so that an admission like mine is not a sentence to prison, physical harm, or worse. Lend guidance in formulating a new constitution that protects the lives and liberty of all citizens, reminding them that while I know all too well that Egypt is not ready to adopt or accept equal rights for gays, it should nonetheless be included in the discussion. We learn from the entrenchment of constitutional principles in long-established Western democracies that if a group is excluded from the outset, it could be centuries before the issue is revisited.

  I write this article as an open letter to my fellow Egyptian people, mailed from many miles away, commending them on how far they have come in how short a time. We must continue to run toward, not away from, the ideals that started us down this extraordinary path. After all of this, if we pursue a national agenda that does not respect basic human rights, we are no better than the architects of tyranny, contempt, and oppression toppled throughout the Arab Spring.

  I want to have a place in the new Egypt.

  I write asking for my inclusion.

  1

  Icon & Iconoclast

  With a sudden gasp, my body involuntarily shot to a seated position, my heart pounding like I had just crossed a finish line. I frantically patted my bare chest, making sure I was awake from whatever bad dream I had, only to moisten my hands with sweat. Something didn’t feel right. I reached for my phone to see if I had any urgent messages, discovering I’d only slept a few hours. It was 4:04 a.m., and this was not the way to begin my day. Accustomed to years of living in the shadows, I sluggishly got out of bed, only to pace around my dark apartment wondering what had jolted me out of a deep sleep. I couldn’t remember anything, so I shifted my focus to my itinerary for the day.

  July in New York was merciless with its escalating heat waves and drenching humidity. I’d already sifted through my closet the night before in preparation for my interview, selectin
g a salmon-colored linen suit with a white shirt and crochet necktie. That afternoon, I had an appointment with the executive director of a major philanthropic foundation with the declared mission of advancing social justice and conservation issues. The organization presented an excellent opportunity—and one that I needed. I’d spent the previous two years as a national spokesperson for the world’s largest LGBTQ media advocacy organization. I thought it was time to solicit a grant so that I could independently continue my accidental activism. It had taken me a long time not only to discover but also to openly confess who I was without reluctance. I was naive not to have considered the controversy it would spark, but hopeful my confession would bring change in repressive areas around the world, like Egypt, my home. I was in Canada in March of 2012 when I settled my internal struggles and added my voice to those calling for a more open and inclusive Egypt. I wrote a letter revealing a lifelong secret: I’m gay.

  I didn’t think my letter in The Advocate, the world’s leading LGBTQ news source, would travel as fast as it did, but it went viral. My intent was for my words to reach eyes around the world because the need for change was real. Tolerance and acceptance were long overdue. My mistake was that I hadn’t anticipated the tsunami of hate in the aftermath. Yet, as painful as it was, after embarking on that journey, nothing could make me recoil into the isolation and loneliness I’d spent a lifetime trying to escape. I found it necessary to continue creating opportunities and providing hope for people like me, those fearfully struggling to live openly and authentically. I discarded the mask I’d worn and finally used my voice to live out loud, which allowed me to discover the power in speaking the truth, while letting others make their own conciliations.

  I’d grown up in a family in which both sides had made significant contributions to social consciousness. I’d experienced the political sphere, watched it cast a shadow on each of my grandparents, heard harrowing stories about the Holocaust from my maternal grandparents, and witnessed their pain resurface when sharing details of how they’d navigated around death. I’d observed each of them display a remarkable resilience when dealing with adversity, and I needed my family’s strength to pulse now in my blood.

  My second cousin’s wedding was in Central Park that evening and my mom, Debbie, had already arrived from Montreal with her four inseparable siblings. They were the Jewish Brady Bunch, close-knit and wholesome. With the interview, the wedding, and then dinner at Locanda Verde, Robert De Niro’s popular Italian restaurant in Tribeca, my schedule was full. But I needed to spend time with Mom before the wedding as well; it had been at least two months since I’d seen her.

  I entered the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door, squinting as the light met my eyes. After grabbing a bottle of water, I shut the door and returned to the darkness, resting my lower back against the countertop as I twisted the cap off. I took a few sips, returned to my room, and slid between the sheets with an uncomfortable feeling still looming. At some point, I drifted back to sleep.

  I was awakened at 7:13 a.m. by my phone vibrating against my right hip and picked it up to find my father, Tarek. I knew my father well, and unless it was necessary, a call at that hour was uncharacteristic of him and indicative of unfavorable news. The last time I’d heard from him at such an hour was nearly six months prior, when he lost his mother, the iconic Egyptian actress Faten Hamama. I shifted into a seated position, rested my head against the headboard, and answered.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  “Hi. Are you awake?”

  “No. Why would I be awake?”

  A wave of silence paused the conversation, but I knew there was more. Dad confessed, “I have some bad news.”

  Sliding my fingers through my cropped hair, I took a deep breath, exhaling as he uttered three grievous words with his factual and stoic demeanor: “Omar is dead.”

  My eyes widened as an oppressive, numbing sensation swept through my body; I needed to hear it again. “What did you say?”

  “It was a heart attack. I don’t have much information, but I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

  I rubbed my hand across my face and asked, “Where are you?”

  “Paris.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I have to go and make some more phone calls.”

  “Okay. Call me back,” I added, but he’d already hung up.

  I closed my eyes and imagined seeing Omar Sharif—Grandfather—one last time, but he was gone. My chin fell toward my chest as I shook my head in disbelief; the sadness filtered through me. Although we knew the day would come, it came sooner than expected. After a few moments of staring vacantly at the wall in front of me, I sent Mom a short text informing her of Grandfather’s passing and dropped the phone back onto my bed. The cause was the same as Grandmother Faten, both at the age of eighty-three. I flung the sheets off my legs, got out of bed, and went into the living room. Shafts of light had permeated the horizontal blinds, softly illuminating the space with increasingly large stripes. I picked up my computer from the coffee table, settled into the cherry-red armchair next to the sofa, and began tapping the keys. “Only God is eternal,” I typed in Arabic, and then clicked the share button on Facebook. Grandfather had written a book about his life; it was called The Eternal Male.

  The last time Grandfather and I were together had only been a few months prior, in March of 2015. Celebrated film director Jim Sheridan had reached out to Grandfather, confident he’d be perfect for a role in his new film, The Secret Scripture. Until then, I’d merely had a few roles, both film and television, and presented at the Oscars, but as part of the package, Jim offered me a sizable role, too. I loved acting. It was what I wanted to do most, but I hadn’t pursued it the way I should have. I was afraid that acting would cast a bigger spotlight on me while I was still in the shadows. I’d already pretended to be someone I wasn’t for the majority of my life, and I had no desire to draw increased attention if I wasn’t able to be myself.

  When I came out, it was surprising that my sexual orientation never became a discussion with Grandfather. He treated me as if nothing had changed in our relationship, and he loved me the same way. Doing a film with Omar Sharif would let the rest of the world know that, too. At thirty years old, working with my grandfather, an iconic actor, would be the highlight of my career.

  Given Grandfather’s health, Dad was opposed to him taking the role and, without disclosing details, he told Jim, “Omar’s not in great shape. I don’t know what you’d get out of him.” Despite the warning, Jim remained confident he could get what he needed. It wasn’t unreasonable for Jim to ask Grandfather to take on another role, because Grandfather was still making films. Only six years prior, he had played an elderly painter with Alzheimer’s who becomes a mentor to a young girl in I Forgot to Tell You. Full of enthusiasm and connected to his love of acting, Grandfather insisted, “Yes, I’ll do it. I want to see Jim.”

  I felt that part of Grandfather’s motivation for doing a film together was his attempt to leave me with something indicative of our bond and special relationship, just as he’d done with my father in Doctor Zhivago. We didn’t have many photos together, because we enjoyed our time without the distraction of taking them. The limited photographs I have of Grandfather and me are from Paris Match or other magazines. I was in favor of doing the film because I knew Grandfather was ailing and I wanted to have something I’d done with him that would live forever.

  There were times when I could tell Grandfather was mindful of his declining health, though he didn’t always remember what was wrong. Remaining hopeful that he’d be able to shoot on one of his better days, Grandfather selected four consecutive days to travel to Dublin, Ireland, to film on the set of The Secret Scripture. By the time we began shooting, what my father had wanted to avoid came to fruition. When anyone approached Grandfather on set, he’d proudly introduce me as his son to one person, and to the next, with the same degree of pride, as his friend. I never corrected him, because he was g
rasping at whatever came to mind to explain his connection to me. In reality, he didn’t know me, either. I followed Grandfather around on set, taking care of him the best I could. Apparently, Jim observed the way I handled him and modified my role, making me Grandfather’s caregiver in the film, too.

  In one scene, Grandfather was directed to show photographs to the actor Eric Bana and to say, “This was your mother.” After Grandfather leaned forward to examine the photos, he didn’t say anything. Instead, his forehead gathered into little lines that pulled closely together, forming deep wrinkles as his eyes narrowed. It appeared as though he were trying to pull an image of the woman or the people in the pictures from his memory but couldn’t. When Jim attempted to get Grandfather to deliver the line, he locked eyes with Jim, thumped his index finger on the photo, and insisted, “I don’t know any of these people.”

  It was difficult to watch. The coaching became too much, and Grandfather sat with his shoulders rolled forward in defeat. His dark, sorrowing eyes didn’t lie. He was lost—in another world. They continued feeding Grandfather his lines, instructing him to say the words, as if he would snap out of it, but his frustration mounted, and instead he just snapped, “I don’t know them! I don’t know any of them!”

  Grandfather was right; he didn’t know the people in the picture or the reason the film team was trying to convince him to say he did. Then it hit me that he wasn’t aware he was on set or supposed to be acting at all.

  I was proud of my grandfather. He was always so perfect, not a star who was nice to everyone in public but mean to people behind closed doors. He was always in the now, never fake. Grandfather was charming, put together, focused, and eloquent, but on set that day, he was frustrated, confused, lost, agitated, and yelling at people. I was looking at a stranger and a stranger was looking back at me. I tried to be helpful by asking Grandfather to do something that was in the script, but he became angry. He lashed out at me because he believed I was telling him to do it in real life. My face flushed with embarrassment while strangers and bystanders looked on as though that was our normal relationship. I was mortified but intent on trying to help Grandfather maintain his dignity by delivering a final product for the film, so I bottled it all up and did what I was there to do.