A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  On the ten-hour flight home from Israel, I was sitting in an emergency exit row of the 747 aircraft. Midflight, a handsome El Al flight attendant in his mid-twenties named Tomer caught my attention. He was sitting in the jump seat directly facing me, and he made sure I noticed him by appearing to accidentally brush his foot against mine. At one point, I got up and went to the back of the plane to ask for some water. Most of the students were asleep. Without warning, the flight attendant grabbed me around my waist, pulled me into a lavatory, and kissed me. I had never kissed or touched another man in that way. He undid his pants and placed my hand inside them. I was too panicked to be excited; literally everyone I knew from high school was on the plane. Not worth the risk! I said in Hebrew, “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.” I made him pull up his pants and open the door. When he did, I stood face-to-face with the most popular and gossipy girl in school. I stepped out of the bathroom, followed by the flight attendant, and a giant grin ripped across her freckled face. Rumors were swirling by the time the plane landed. I didn’t think anyone actually believed her and, fortunately, I didn’t have to go to school and deal with it, because I found out I had mono soon after. I didn’t know if it was stress or if I caught the so-called kissing disease from the first guy I ever kissed. I stayed home from school for a month and went back the final week before graduating—but by then, the rumors had multiplied.

  On the last day of school, I was walking down the hall, and a group of guys walked past me. One of them snickered, “Homo.” Another asked, “Why are you so feminine?” For the first time, I responded, knowing I was about to graduate and wouldn’t have to see them again. I said, “Maybe because I was raised by a single mother.” I turned around and walked away. An hour later two of those boys came up and said, “We’re really sorry. We shouldn’t have said that.” I stood in the corridor wondering if I should have defended myself earlier. Maybe all this time, they hadn’t known that their words actually hurt me.

  That night, I sat out on the balcony waiting for Mom to come home. I looked out into the darkness, wondering how many others were hiding secrets so that they could feel accepted by those around them. Bubbie’s mother had once reassured her, “My child, if you live, there will one day exist a free world for us.” I had to live to see this free world my great-grandmother spoke of. One day, perhaps I could be free of fear, of ridicule, free to live in the open, and free from thoughts of suicide and death. If Bubbie and Zadie had survived so much worse, I could survive this.

  3

  Funny Boy

  Being home in Egypt gave me much-needed time with Dad, Shahira, and Grandmother during summer vacations. But the year after graduating from high school was particularly special. Dad and Shahira had another baby to pour their love into, and I had a brother, Karem. I was happy for them, and it was nice to see Shahira smile again. I was grateful to have another sibling, and although we were sixteen years apart, Karem was my future partner in crime.

  Dad and his family were proper and rarely showed affection; they loved me differently from the way my mother’s family did. They didn’t ask personal questions or appear to worry about me being shy and reticent. I was a little more outgoing in Egypt than I was in Canada because they didn’t constantly smother or judge me. No one really knew much about me, as the focus was always on my grandparents. I didn’t have to fight or evade anyone, but I still had to be careful.

  I spent my first seven weeks in Egypt that summer interacting with family and their close group of friends. We usually played backgammon and cards by the side of the pool or under the cabana on the beach. Grandmother Faten was private, and unless she was working, her preference was to be at one of her beach homes in El Gouna on the Red Sea or in Sahel on the Mediterranean coast. Besides her talent for acting, she had a knack for investing in real estate. Her homes were always serene and exquisite—just like her. Being with Faten was a vacation in and of itself, filled with luxuries, fishing trips, good food, and love.

  In the evening, I’d take our Jeep Sahara and drive over to meet up with my friend, Karim, who was just a few years older than me. I didn’t have a driver’s license, but it didn’t seem to matter. I somehow always felt I was above the law in Egypt; until I came out, just using my grandparents’ names was a get-out-of-jail-free card. When I’d pull up to Karim’s house, he’d jump in the front seat, and we’d head over to the one nightclub in town. The Arena was a circular coliseum with layered seating and a large, open-air dance floor in the middle that sometimes doubled as an outdoor movie theater, making it a favorite gathering spot and the heart of resort nightlife. Occasionally, Karim’s sister joined us, along with her boyfriend. We’d have fun dancing and drinking to excess before calling it a night.

  One evening, the four of us ended up hanging out with a group of girls who were visiting from Ireland. By the end of the evening, one of them had shown interest in both Karim and me. Caitlin was a pretty girl, with light freckles, emerald eyes, and blond hair trimmed evenly above her shoulders. It was evident that a lot of guys were interested in her, and she appeared to appreciate their attention, but Caitlin made it clear that she was going home with one of us.

  In Egypt, friendships often exist within the social circles of one’s parents, so when Caitlin started telling people she liked me, I knew I’d have to respond. Over the years, no one had ever seen me date a girl or known of me being intimate with one. The fact that I was a virgin wasn’t reason enough to prevent me from having an interest in Caitlin. If I didn’t show interest, I could be one rumor away from someone knowing my secret or for bullying to become my reality in Egypt, too. Conceding to peer pressure and to the fear of losing my final refuge, I left the nightclub with Caitlin at around three thirty that morning and drove toward her hotel. We’d barely driven a few blocks when Caitlin jumped into the backseat, kicked her shoes off, and slipped out of her jeans.

  “Come on,” she said, pulling her light blue top over her head.

  I parked the Jeep and climbed in the back seat, trembling. I didn’t want to rush anything, because I was still a virgin, but I didn’t feel comfortable telling Caitlin that. Trying to create small talk, I asked her if she’d had fun at the nightclub. She leaned in and kissed me. From there, I just let her lead. I thought to myself, maybe I can do this—maybe I can hide forever, maybe it’s just a phase. But when I entered her, all I remember thinking is how she opened up just like a Birkin bag—quite possibly the gayest thought one could have during heterosexual intercourse.

  Afterward, I dropped Caitlin off at her hotel and hoped I wouldn’t have to see her again. I did all that just to keep my secret, but it wasn’t worth it. That wasn’t the way I’d wanted to have sex for the first time.

  The last I heard of Caitlin, she had returned to Ireland. At least there wouldn’t be any questions about whether I had an interest in girls. After that experience, I took a step back and avoided conversations with my friends about sex for the rest of my teen years. I decided that the next time I had sex, I would choose the person and the place.

  I was with Grandfather Omar for the remainder of my vacation, and it was during my teenage years that we began to travel together more frequently. My physical changes were more noticeable, and so were the reactions that men had toward me, especially in the Middle East and North Africa. In more conservative and repressive countries like Egypt, Tunisia, Morocco, and others, men are not supposed to have sex with women until they get married, and they can’t marry until they have enough saved for a dowry, which isn’t easy to accomplish with modest wages. In these societies, countless gay and straight men alike view companionship and sex with men as simply a form of release—and if they “top,” they’re not gay. Sometimes these men looked for tourists in the streets to lure into the shadows, where they made their move. I was a local, but because I was light skinned, with light eyes, I looked more like a tourist.

  One afternoon, Grandfather Omar and I were in Luxor, shopping on the bank of the Nile, when I noticed a little tou
rist shop. The stone and terra-cotta-colored buildings on the street stood out just enough to distinguish themselves from the desert sands. No sooner had I darted inside to look at its wares than a shopkeeper followed me into the store, and without uttering a word, he grabbed at me, quickly exposing himself. This behavior was typical for men. They did this regularly to me in souks or even in taxis with prayer beads hanging from the rearview mirror.

  Often, security guards or military police would catcall, trying to get me to follow them into a parking garage or somewhere out of plain sight. For the most part, I was shocked and confused. As I grew older, I sometimes got a little excited when showed that kind of attention, but I didn’t really understand what I was feeling or what I was supposed to feel. I never yelled at them in Arabic, because I knew they thought I was a tourist or a visitor, and I was worried I’d get in trouble if these officers knew I was Egyptian—and it crossed my mind that I might be doing something wrong, too. Most of the time I ran away, and a couple of times I acquiesced, but I couldn’t tell anyone, or they might suspect that those men saw something in me to solicit that reaction. Then, they’d know my secret.

  Before starting college that fall, my cousin Mikey and his friends had planned a ten-day backpacking trip through Greece to launch their next life chapter. As we’d always been close, Mikey invited me along. Mikey knew I was always up for an adventure, and I wanted to spend time with him before he went off to school. My father agreed to let me go and covered the cost of my trip. One of his friends, Naldo, gave me a thousand euros for spending money, and Grandmother Faten and Aunt Nadia added heavily to the fund, telling me to have a great time.

  I flew from Cairo to Athens a day ahead of Mikey and his friends, Lindsey and Rob. When they arrived, the fun began. We went sightseeing, enjoyed traditional Greek dishes, and hit the bars and clubs. The next thing on our itinerary was a ferry to Mykonos, one of the Cyclades islands. When the ferry docked, I couldn’t wait to explore. We walked the narrow streets, spent time on the beaches, grabbed lunch, and took everything in. It didn’t take long before I realized that Mykonos was an alluring paradise for gay men. People were carefree and happy—I’d never seen anything like it. No one had to hide—they were out in plain sight, holding hands, kissing, and showing affection for one another. It didn’t matter where we went—there weren’t any shadows.

  I was sure by now that Mikey had heard rumors about me, but my cousin didn’t mention them or even hint at anything. Mikey didn’t judge me. He just let me enjoy being myself and free. After we went to a couple of straight bars that first evening, I ventured off solo so I could discover more. For the next few nights, I could feel myself breathing serenely.

  After leaving Mykonos, we took the ferry to Santorini, another of the Cyclades islands. The rugged landscape was shaped by a volcanic eruption, and the city was built on a downward slope facing the Aegean Sea. There were charming and picturesque homes, white with blue rooftops, resting on the cliffs. The colorful sunsets were painted with the most perfect strokes I’d ever seen. Its breathtaking views made Santorini the ideal place for lovebirds and honeymooners. But even with all its beauty, it didn’t compare to Mykonos. Mykonos felt like a community—a home I’d never known.

  The next day, the four of us were in line to board a ferry to the party island of Ios. Our plans were to enjoy a few days there and then head home. I glanced around, observing my surroundings while we waited, and a small waterplane caught my attention. The sign in front of it read MYKONOS. I turned to Mikey with the widest grin imaginable and said, “This isn’t my island . . . that’s my island,” pointing excitedly at the sign. I gave Mikey a big hug, said bye to his friends, and without further explanation, I slung my large orange and black backpack over my shoulder, jumped out of line, and made a dash toward a makeshift booth near the airplane. Sounding as though I was trying to escape someone, I asked the middle-aged guy behind the counter, “Do you have room for one more?” Folding the newspaper he was reading, he said, “You’re the last.” I paid him fifty euros, took my ticket, and boarded the plane. I was going back to paradise.

  I didn’t have a hotel reservation or a place to stay, but I knew I’d figure it out. I hadn’t planned to return, but the island called me back like a siren beckoning a lost sailor. When I arrived, I went from one hotel to another, looking for a room until I found one. I checked in, put my backpack in the comfortable seaside room, and set out on adventure. I stopped at the receptionist’s desk and asked him where to begin. He pulled a small flyer out of his pocket, handed it to me, and pointed. “I recommend that you go here. There’s a party at Super Paradise this afternoon; I’m sure you’ll make some friends.” I rented a Vespa and drove toward my destination.

  I parked the Vespa, followed the music toward the beach, and removed my sandals as soon as I stepped off the paved path. The vibe was chill and relaxed, the way I wanted the rest of the world to be—whole and one. There were gay and straight people partying together on the beach and sexuality was a non-issue. People didn’t stare or point, whisper or gawk. Everyone was equal—LGBTQ and allies alike.

  After taking a swim in the bay, I laid my towel on a lounge chair as my toes sank into the pebbles of sand. I stretched out to bask in the warmth of the sun, but before I was settled, a slim, toned guy wearing a dark blue Speedo helped himself to the other chair under my umbrella. Until then, I’d only seen other guys wear board shorts, but when I looked around, I realized I was the only one wearing them on this beach.

  “G’day, mate.”

  “Hi,” I replied.

  “I’m Adrian. And you are?” he asked, seductively scanning my body.

  “Omar.”

  “Nice to meet you, Omar. So, what brings you to Mykonos?”

  I wanted to say, “The same thing that brought you here,” but I didn’t. I said, “Initially, I came here to hang out with friends.”

  “Initially? Are they still here with you?” he asked, looking around to see if anyone was approaching.

  “Not anymore. My cousin and his friends went to Ios, and I decided I wanted to be here. I like this island,” I admitted, as I watched the ocean spill onto the shore with its own rhythm and timing.

  “I like it here, too.” After a brief pause, he added, “You’re quite handsome.”

  I didn’t respond, because that wasn’t something I was used to hearing. Adrian was handsome, Australian, in his early twenties, and built like a soccer player. I listened to Adrian tell me about himself and his job as a flight attendant for Emirates. He seemed to be worldly, friendly, and good-natured. When he spoke, it was refreshing to hear him talk openly about whatever he wanted. He didn’t have to say he was gay, because there was no reason to hide or explain it. He wasn’t shy or uncomfortable with his sexuality, either—at least not on Mykonos. Unlike me, Adrian didn’t appear to be hiding a secret at all. At sixteen, I hadn’t reached that level of comfort, and I wasn’t sure I ever would. But the island didn’t have closets, and until I left, I was free to explore being me.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” I lied. “But I’m going to university soon,” I added, realizing I had just admitted I was a minor but failing miserably to make myself appear more mature.

  Adrian suddenly got up and said, “Let’s go!”

  “Where?”

  “You’re on school break. It’s hot out here, right?” I nodded in agreement. “So, let’s get some ice cream and explore.”

  As the day progressed, I grew more comfortable with Adrian. He bought us some ice cream, and we walked the beach until the heat became unbearable, forcing us to take a swim to cool off. When we emerged from the ocean, we stood there with the waves flushing over our feet. Adrian moved closer to me until I could feel his breath on my lips—as if he was asking for permission. With the warmth of the sun on my back, I leaned in, and he kissed me. I abandoned any thoughts I had and really let myself go for the first time. We went back to my hotel, and long story short, we found out exactly
what I was willing to do for a Klondike bar . . . and it was wonderful.

  The next morning, I headed down to the lobby to ask the concierge if he knew about anything exciting happening on the island that day. Thoroughly prepared for my question, he recited a variety of activities and parties taking place on the beaches and at some of the local bars. When I turned around to leave, I ran into a group of guys who were staying at the same hotel. After some casual conversation, they asked if I was with someone. When I told them I was alone, they invited me to hang with them and explore the island. After getting to know them, I gravitated toward Rayan, a good-looking Jordanian in his late twenties. He told me a lot about himself, including that he worked as a dentist. The more we learned about one another, the more drawn to each other we became. I think it was mostly because of our shared Arab background, but his brawny and rugged appearance wasn’t a deterrent, either. A few hours later, my phone vibrated. I glanced at the message, realizing that I’d forgotten about Adrian. He invited me to hang out with him, but I didn’t know what to say, because I was exactly where I wanted to be at that moment. I really liked Rayan and had wanted to get to know more about him since he’d captured my attention—and when I looked up at him, he still had it. I put my phone away without sending a reply. Following a long day of activities, dinner, and dancing, I was sure I wanted to spend the night with Rayan. And that night turned into another.