A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  I found it remarkable that Grandfather had a few stories from decades past that even Alzheimer’s couldn’t extinguish. We must all have hidden treasures in our minds that nothing or no one can steal. What Omar Sharif fought to preserve must have been from the absolute best part of his life. In the end, Alzheimer’s relegated one of the most famous people in the world to an unknown landscape, lost in time and space, isolated to scraps of memories and few friends.

  Throughout the years, Grandfather and I spent a great deal of time together. We rarely took pictures, but before I left him in Dublin, I needed to have one more memory in hand. When I asked Grandfather to take a photo with me, his unpretentious look of surprise was unforgettable. As a child, I’d sit at the dinner table and he’d teasingly make faces at me. It was part of our playful exchange. That morning, he put his hands up like two claws and made one of those silly faces. Without hesitation, I did the same. Catherine quickly captured on my phone what would be my last moment with Grandfather.

  I embraced my grandfather, whom I always called Omar, with my soul and kissed him on both of his whiskered cheeks before watching him walk away. It was reminiscent of the last scene in Funny Girl when Grandfather’s character, Nick Arnstein, stood in the dressing room with Barbra Streisand’s character, Fanny Brice, seated at a vanity mirror. He was charming, gallant, and the air of sophistication about him remained intact even though he was aware he was about to go to jail. He kissed Barbra goodbye and walked out of the dressing room. I couldn’t help but acknowledge the pain in Barbra’s vibrant blue eyes. As Grandfather left, I felt a lot like that, too. He walked out just as dignified as he walked in, only this time, I was left, broken, in the chair.

  That morning, Grandfather returned to Egypt, and I went back to my apartment in New York. The reported heart attack wasn’t the cause of my grandfather’s death; Alzheimer’s had ravaged him for years until there was nothing left.

  I heard my phone vibrating from the bedroom and knew it was Mom calling in response to my text. I put the computer back on the coffee table and returned to the phone lying on my bed. Expecting to be bombarded with a series of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer, I picked up, reiterated my text to her, and quickly got off the phone before heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth and shower. I didn’t know how to process Grandfather’s passing, so I internalized the grief and opted to move forward with my day. Forty-five minutes later, I was dressed and walking out the door, in conversation with a family member in Egypt.

  I boarded a crowded subway train headed to the Flatiron District, deliberating whether I should take the risk and return to Egypt for Grandfather’s funeral. As the rhythmic sound and movement of the train began, I stared out the window, as if I were in a catatonic state or my mind had shut down, but it hadn’t. I had plunged deeper into thought. Time was crucial, and I was aware that by Muslim custom, Grandfather would be buried before sundown that day, even if relatives couldn’t make it in time for the funeral. At the latest, it would take place before sundown the following day. If I didn’t figure things out quickly, I wouldn’t make it in time.

  I had close friends in Morocco who called that morning, offering to help me acquire diplomatic immunity so I could return home, but it wasn’t that simple. There was a great deal to consider, such as the sobering conversations I’d had with my family in Egypt. They didn’t shy away from voicing their opinions, and one in particular explicitly communicated that the idea was ill-advised. Dad was in a bad state, and she thought I might risk being thrown in jail as soon as I got off the plane. “I don’t want to tell you not to come home, but think about your father’s health. Let’s not cause him added stress,” she warned.

  I had heard what happened to people imprisoned in Egypt, especially people like me. I didn’t have to imagine anything, because I knew the threat was real. I’d already received thousands of them. I remembered my Uncle Simon telling me that it had taken Grandfather Omar’s appeal to stop those threatening my life or well-being. He had pleaded with them not to harm me for coming out. He didn’t want them to take his grandson’s life for finally having the courage to live openly and authentically. Of the many things I knew about Grandfather, one was that he stood for both tolerance and acceptance, and he didn’t back down from that position nor change his opinion of me. I hung up the phone, understanding the possibility of jail was a viable threat, due to the actions I had taken over three years prior—when I chose to stop being invisible and share my truth.

  I couldn’t forget the images of young Egyptians from different religious and socioeconomic backgrounds crowded in Tahrir Square, in what were to be nonviolent demonstrations targeting the Mubarak government over legal and political matters. I had heard accounts from people who were punched in the head, kicked, and stabbed by competing camps of supporters. I knew what Egyptian society could do to anyone who wasn’t what they wanted them to be. The demand for change had caused violent clashes with police that killed over eight hundred people and wounded a reported six thousand plus in the Egyptian revolution of 2011. Cairo had become a war zone because there could be no understanding or compromise. That same hate in Egypt was strong enough to wound me, too, because I’d brought awareness to something they wanted to keep out of the light of existence, hidden from the rest of the world.

  As if rehearsed, when the subway train jolted to a stop, commuters crammed tightly together and quickly exited while others impatiently waited on the platform to get on. I climbed the stairs out of the tunnel, leaving the rail sounds, darkness, and stale air behind as I continued down West 28th Street across Sixth Avenue. I arrived at my destination early, feeling lost, so I took a moment to regroup before entering the building.

  I went to the seventeenth floor and checked in. Minutes later, the gentlemen interviewing me came out into the lobby and shook my hand as he introduced himself. Kevin’s even blend of tapered black and gray hair made him look distinguished. His eyes were gentle, as though he had long ago discovered the secret to maintaining internal peace and happiness. He escorted me into his office and motioned for me to have a seat in the chair in front of his neatly organized desk. Before delving into my background and proposal, Kevin’s eyes traveled from my suit to my posture and back to my eyes, indicating he was studying me or trying to determine if I was in the right mental state for the interview. It was apparent that he’d already heard the news when he asked, “How are you doing?”

  “Unsure,” I admitted. “My grandfather passed this morning.”

  “With great sadness, our receptionist made me aware of his passing a half hour ago. Please accept my deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you,” I replied faintly.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, sympathetically.

  I had thought it was best to go to the interview, as I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t give a verbal response. I shrugged, discreetly wiped away a tear that was beginning to form in my left eye and repositioned myself, making it clear to Kevin that I was prepared to discuss the opportunity.

  Approximately an hour later, I had completed the interview and felt confident I would receive the grant. Kevin walked me out, shook my hand, and said he’d be in touch. When I exited the elevator in the lobby, I pulled out my phone and sent Mom a text to see where she was. When she replied, I headed over to Macy’s, only a few blocks away, to meet up with her and her sister, Anne.

  With her blond hair pulled back off her shoulders and fashionably dressed in white Lululemon athleisure wear, Mom hugged me as though she hadn’t seen me in years. Wearing a similar outfit in black, with her strawberry-blond hair glistening in the sun, Anne followed suit. They looked beautiful and greeted me with the love and warmth I’d always known.

  Mom’s cinnamon-colored eyes raked over me as she asked, “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” I lied. I didn’t want Mom worrying about me any more than she already was, but I knew she didn’t believe me; her reply was a weak smile.

  “I don’t want
to go to the wedding,” I confessed.

  “You don’t have to,” she replied. Anne ran her hand soothingly across my back.

  Mom and I were close, and by this point, she knew me well. She didn’t want me to be alone and thought keeping me busy would take my mind off Grandfather, so she invited me to join them. I rarely went shopping, because I didn’t enjoy it. I agreed to go because I believed Mom might be right, but she wasn’t. Following them around from one place to another proved to be more stressful than I’d thought. I tried to make the best of it, looking at men’s underwear, shoes, distressed jeans, and labels on garments that caught my eye, but I felt uncomfortable. Although I was hovering close to Mom and Anne, I wasn’t really reacting to anything they said or showed me; I was just grateful that they were in New York and that I wasn’t alone.

  Meanwhile, my phone seemed to vibrate every five seconds, indicating an incoming message from family, friends, Twitter, or Facebook. My manager called, informing me about the press inquiries she was receiving and wanting to know how to handle them. As soon as I hung up, I received a call from my close friend Rich, a publicist. He asked if I wanted him to help prepare a statement on behalf of my family. I’d already received thousands of messages offering condolences from people all over the world, so I said, “Yes. Can you please just thank everyone for the outpouring of support?”

  One phone call after another required my attention, and I couldn’t think, distracted by weaving between dense groups of people, some struggling with more shopping bags than they could manage. In one store, the sales staff interrupted my calls continuously to show me something they thought was essential to have in my wardrobe, and I couldn’t take any more. The worst part was that everything was a distraction from what I needed to feel, and I couldn’t feel anything. I was no longer in the moment, experiencing it. It was like being a wedding planner rather than the bride or groom. I couldn’t be a mourner, because I was organizing the mourning on this side of the world. Every so often, Mom turned around, just to look at me. It was her way of ensuring that I was okay while calls continued. The press was eager for information about Grandfather’s life and death, but for the most part, they were more interested in a statement of validation that I loved him than in my desire to give thanks for the outpouring of support, as if I had some ugly gossip to spread. I was so busy trying to give other people what they needed that I neglected myself. When Rich called back, I wandered around a boutique scheduling interviews with him, while Mom and Anne continued trying to get me to look at clothing.

  Being in public wasn’t helping. My heart palpitations grew heavy and perspiration covered my body. I could hardly breathe. I stepped outside to find clusters of people rushing about the cobblestone streets of Soho covered with cars. As we walked away from one small boutique, a young Middle Eastern man in his early twenties walked up and politely asked me to take a photo with him. Afterward, he thanked me and began to walk away, then spun around and asked, “Hey, didn’t your grandfather pass today?” Warmth flushed across my face and my eyes shifted shamefully to the little circular glass bulbs beneath my feet as I nodded. I should have trusted my judgment because the last place I wanted to be was needlessly out in public that Friday morning. Flattened by a massive wave of guilt, I told Mom, “I have to get out of here; this isn’t right. I’ll see you at the wedding.” Without further explanation, I slipped through the crowds of people as though I had evaporated into the air. I wasn’t looking forward to going to a wedding, smiling, and pretending to be okay when I wasn’t, but I felt it was the right thing to do. I just had to convince myself I could follow through. I went home and completely shut down so I could make it through the long evening ahead.

  The wedding was in Central Park, near a large pond with a half-dozen rowboats, some drifting aimlessly like me. The trees and lush grass were even more vibrant against the colorful flowers in bloom, adding to the beauty of the surroundings. To combat the heat, the guys were dressed in lightweight or linen suits, and the ladies wore sleeveless or short-sleeved, free-flowing dresses. The night before, I’d put aside a linen suit, but chose a black suit before the wedding instead. I was mourning. I didn’t want to be seen in a salmon-colored suit, so I stood in the park, in the absurd heat and humidity, looking awkward and out of place. I was happy for my cousin, but I really needed a quiet place and time to grieve. Instead, that day was about managing expectations. Mom and my aunts and uncles had driven from Canada for the wedding, and I felt an obligation to spend time with them, not off somewhere alone.

  After the ceremony, people lined up to congratulate and offer well-wishes to the newlyweds in one breath and, in the next, turned to me and extended heartfelt condolences with the opposite expression. The dinner reception was pleasant, and had it not been for Grandfather’s passing, it would have been perfect. My eyes casually drifted around the table to our family and friends toasting, laughing, and having the most delightful time. Of all the wonderful things Grandfather and I had done together, dinners happened to be our favorite. There wasn’t one favorite in particular; we loved every one. As I was typically the only child at the table, all Grandfather’s friends would become my friends. We’d enjoy the most delicious foods and drink good wine while generating interesting, intoxicating, and intellectual discussions about everything imaginable. Sometimes he’d engage his friends with a game of charades. Grandfather had been a master at keeping everyone drawn into the conversation. He would jump from one language to another, effortlessly managing the attention of his guests. My fluency in six languages allowed me to stay involved in their exchanges and laugh right along with them.

  Returning from my reverie, I weakly stood up, trying not to draw attention to myself, and abandoned the celebration at our dinner table, making my way over to the ornate bar in the main dining room. Mom’s older brother Holden followed closely behind. We seated ourselves at the bar and quickly downed four shots of tequila each. After placing my fourth shot glass on the bar, I checked the time, said goodbye to Holden, and disappeared through the doors.

  Instead of hailing a cab, I decided to walk home, hoping the night air might relieve some of the pain. In that crowded restaurant, surrounded by love, I’d never felt so empty. A part of me was missing. The adage goes that when an old relative dies, they can haunt you, but in this case my grandfather’s absence was haunting. For thirty years, the only thing I successfully knew how to be was his grandson. He was always with me, in the corner of the room, behind the door; people saw him standing next to me even if he was on the other side of the world. As Omar Sharif’s grandson, bearer of the same name, so much of my identity belonged to him. Now, he was gone, and I was alone. For once, I was just myself, and it was terrifying.

  By the time I arrived at my apartment, Grandfather’s funeral was about to begin in Cairo. When I found a live stream, I turned up the volume, sat up straight in front of my computer as if I were in attendance, and took everything in just as I had done with Grandmother Faten. At the time, I had to watch her funeral on YouTube like an outsider—it was depressing. I couldn’t help but feel that Egypt was punishing me once again.

  People are quick to say be yourself, as if that’s easy to do. Be proud of who you are, they say, as if the world is ready for that. Tell the truth—but when I did, after years of hiding in fear, I was banished from my home in Egypt—forced into exile for being myself. The ramifications were tremendous, and because of them, the only way I’d be able to say my final goodbye to Grandfather was through a flat, impersonal screen from the confines of my small New York City apartment.

  When they entered the mosque, carrying the coffin past the line of mourners and throngs of international press, all I could do was imagine being there. When the camera panned over the horizontal line of family and friends inside the mosque, the grief-stricken expressions on the faces of my father and my little brother, Karem, broke my heart. Although Karem and I had different mothers and a sixteen-year age difference between us, we were extremely close. I wante
d to be there to pay my last respects, and for Dad, but I should have been there for Karem, too. I leaned in toward the computer screen when the camera zoomed in on my father’s face. It was frail; he had never looked older than he did that day. I could only imagine what losing both parents within six months had done to him. Seeing my dad made me worry about him, the same way he always worried about me. But I couldn’t be there to help him through this or take care of him. I couldn’t go home. Egypt no longer wanted me, so I kissed my finger and touched the screen.

  After the funeral at the Hussein Tantawi Mosque, Grandfather’s coffin, draped with the Egyptian flag and a black shroud, was rushed into the back of a car and driven off. I closed my computer and exhaled.

  I spent the rest of the early morning in silence. I picked up my phone and began reading and responding to the incalculable messages of sympathy sent through text and social media channels. When the heaviness became too much, I took a long, hot shower, hoping the pelting streams of warmth would strip off the layers of pain and wash them away. But when I stepped out of the shower, the pain had increased and the emptiness inside of me was weakening. There were no more distractions to the day, and I could feel everything. I went into my room and collapsed onto my bed, held captive by more thoughts of what had been.

  2

  Worlds Apart

  The next morning, I took the time to manage what I was feeling. After responding to a handful of calls, including one from Rich, I finished a bottle of coconut water and headed to the gym a few blocks away. The press wasn’t finished, and I had to prepare for what lay ahead. If journalists were going to ask questions, I wanted to make sure they had the right answers. The reported accounts of Grandfather’s legacy needed to be accurate, which is why I accepted every request for an interview that my publicist received. Within a few days, I had significant press opportunities. One of them called for international travel, so I boarded an overnight flight to do a live, sit-down interview in Arabic on a popular youth-oriented talk show. Televised on DW’s Arabic channel, the interview would be my first exclusive in the region since coming out. Going to Egypt wasn’t a viable option, so the interview with Jaafar Abdul Karim on Shababtalk, scheduled to be forty-five minutes long, was held at their Berlin studio. When I arrived at the studio, it dawned on me that the interview might be a setup, and I became uneasy. So-called “gotcha” journalism is common in the Arab world. I hadn’t done an Arabic interview about coming out, a taboo subject in the Middle East, because I couldn’t control the substance or tone of questioning once we went live. To protect myself, I advised the producers that if they asked anything inappropriate, I would sabotage the live interview.