A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  I stayed in Montreal until I made the decision to follow the sheikh’s advice and apply to an acting school in Los Angeles. I went online, sent in the application, and in November, the Lee Strasberg Theatre & Film Institute notified me that I’d been accepted for the next semester. Neither my father, Grandmother, nor Grandfather would be receptive to my choice, but I no longer cared. I needed to do something that resonated with me. But because classes began in January, I let Mom know. I never disclosed what really happened in the GCC, but I believed she sensed that I’d changed because, well, I was different, quiet and withdrawn. Mom wanted to be supportive and told me to be happy. She and my aunt Evelyn even offered to pay my rent and expenses for six months so I could focus on acting.

  Along with my Egyptian and Canadian passports, I neatly tucked all the money I had inside an ankle safe, packed up my new Mercedes-Benz, picked up Gill, and headed to Los Angeles. Gill made the road trip far more exciting than it would have been had I done it alone. Our conversations and occasional stops for sightseeing and fun kept me from thinking incessantly about what had happened. With that journey behind me, I could focus on the road ahead. We stopped in Pittsburgh for the night and went to the Andy Warhol Museum, had dinner in Kentucky, and spent a memorable 2011 New Year’s Eve listening to live music in Nashville, Tennessee. On the fifth day, we reached St. Louis, the gateway to the West and to my future happiness, and I dropped Gill off at the airport. She flew home to begin law school, and I continued my journey west—to fulfill my American Dream. I don’t think Gill had any idea of how much our time together meant, but I needed her—more than she could have imagined.

  Somewhere along the way, I called Dad to give him my new phone number and told him where I was headed; Grandfather Omar was with him. When Grandfather heard that I was moving to Los Angeles to become an actor, he made his stance clear: “I gave you my name, I gave you my looks. I’m not going to give you anything else. You have to do it entirely on your own.” After what I’d been through, I had to believe that I could, or that I would die trying.

  What happened in the GCC altered the direction of my life; I was hungry for something meaningful, and the only thing I wanted to focus on was acting. In Egypt, I was already known by some, referred to as Egypt’s favorite son by others; but in LA, I was starting over. I immersed myself in my studies and began making connections in acting class the same way I’d met people in London. In a fortuitous turn of events, I met Bruce Vilanch, Roland Emmerich, and Kevin Huvane at the Abbey, a popular gay bar in West Hollywood. Bruce told me that he had the same agent as Grandfather, whom he’d jokingly called “Cairo Fred,” because Omar was as common a name in Cairo as Fred was in the United States. Our banter that night was memorable, as expected, considering that Bruce Vilanch has been writing comedic banter for the greatest stars and events since the 80s.

  Bruce invited me to a charity fundraiser the next evening for the American Foundation for Equal Rights to end Proposition 8 in California. It was held at a private home in the Hollywood Hills, where Elton John would be performing. Not only did Bruce invite me, but at the fundraiser he introduced me to Bruce Cohen, who’d won an Oscar for American Beauty, had produced the movie Milk, based on the life of LGBTQ icon Harvey Milk, and was producing the Oscars ceremony later that year. While I was standing next to the two Bruces, one turned to the other and suggested, “Wouldn’t it be great if this year, instead of having just female trophy presenters, we had a guy?”

  Cohen replied, “Yes. How about Omar?” Those three words set things in motion.

  I went to a casting, met with people from the Academy, and was selected as a presenter. Within a couple of months of moving to LA, without calling any of Grandfather’s contacts or friends, I’d made unbelievable connections. Grandfather’s big rise in Hollywood came with an extended entrance, filmed in one continuous shot, of him riding in from the desert on a camel in Lawrence of Arabia. Here I was, making my entry rapidly—on one of the biggest and most watched stages in the world. I went home that night incredibly excited. This time, being a trophy boy felt like a positive!

  On January 25, 2011, I flew to Atlanta to see Magda, Grandfather Omar’s only sister. My eagerness to share the news with her about the Academy Awards was interrupted the second we sat down together. Magda picked up the remote and turned up the television. A revolution had broken out in Egypt. Activists were protesting government corruption, unemployment, poverty, and three decades of power under President Hosni Mubarak’s reign. On what was called the “day of rage,” thousands of Egyptians marched in Cairo, as other protests took place across the country. The government cut the phone lines, cell service, and network access, including Facebook and Twitter, because they didn’t want people organizing in the streets. I couldn’t reach Dad, Karem, or any of our family. CNN showed scenes of tanks moving into the city, water cannons spraying demonstrators, and tear gas used to repel my fellow Egyptian citizens. Droves of people were rioting, and gunshots echoed in the background—it was terrifying. Neither of us slept that night.

  I was grateful when my brother Karem called the next day to tell us that because the president’s children had homes where my family lived, the tanks were moving in to protect our compound. While that should have provided some sense of relief, it only added to my apprehension. The threat was real, and I didn’t know what sort of revolution this was going to be—political or economic. For now, it seemed to be just chaos. No one could have known what this thing was or how far it would go. Even if there had been a stated purpose, it could quickly transform into something else.

  On the one hand, while I didn’t love the fact that Egypt was an authoritarian regime under Hosni Mubarak, I did appreciate the stability and security it had provided and that there was continuous economic growth, including a slowly growing middle class. But on the other hand, the rate of progress was far too slow, and many people were excluded. I was hopeful to see people reclaim their voice and express their rightful desire for self-determination. I was torn—happy that people were demanding change, but scared because I didn’t know the outcome that change would yield. There was no way of knowing how many Muslim Brotherhood supporters or extremists were hiding in the shadows. For years, Islamists had been cutting their beards and keeping a low profile so they could go out into the streets. Otherwise, they would have been arrested, jailed, or worse under the military regime.

  A few days later, I returned to Los Angeles to rehearse for the Oscars while the revolutionaries continued to hold court in Tahrir Square. Since I would be the Oscars’ first trophy boy, there was inevitably press around it; I saw it as an opportunity to stand up for Egypt. When the opportunity came, I spoke up and shared what a critical moment it was for Egypt—and that people shouldn’t be afraid to visit Egypt, because I didn’t want our vital tourism economy to collapse. I told reporters that people were finding their voice at what could be the pinnacle of Egyptian modern history. I had the platform to speak out, and I wanted people to see the wonderful Egypt that I saw—the Egypt of my grandparents. Although the period around the Oscars should have been the most exciting of my life, it was the time that I felt most afraid. I had been ready to die as a teenager and thought I might be killed in Syria, but the thought of losing the family that I loved and the Egypt that I knew petrified me most.

  One day during rehearsal for the Oscars, I was waiting in the wings to direct stage entrances for talent and presenters. A notable actor and producer walked up behind me, introduced himself, and then stood directly in front of me, waiting for his cue to go on stage. As he stood there, I began to feel the back of his hand rub against my genitals. I assumed it was by accident, because of the tight spacing in the wings, but as soon as I turned slightly, he grabbed my buttocks. Memories from the GCC and the farm flooded back. Shock and paralysis set in; I couldn’t move. The actor started to make small talk while he continued to touch me. Trying to be nice and defuse the situation, I told him I was Omar Sharif’s grandson and also an Egyptian actor,
and that I was a big fan. He replied, “If you come home with me, you’ll find it easier to work in this town.”

  I nodded, walked away, crossed back of house, and told the stage manager, “Tomorrow, in this sequence, when the presenter comes on stage left, I’d like to be waiting in the wings stage right. I don’t want to be back there in the darkness with him,” I said, looking directly at the actor who had taken the stage to rehearse. The stage manager didn’t seem surprised.

  The day of the Oscars, my stomach was in knots as I prepared for the show. Just as I finished changing into my tuxedo, Melissa Leo, nominated for The Fighter, walked into my dressing room wearing an attention-catching, short-sleeved ivory lace gown with a high collar and a fabulous pair of heels.

  “Is Omar Sharif here?” she asked.

  “You’re looking at him,” I replied, adjusting my bowtie as I turned to face her. “I’m Omar’s grandson, and the trophy boy tonight.”

  She was looking for my grandfather, of course, as OMAR SHARIF was on the dressing-room door. She’d never met him, but she admired his work.

  “Do you mind if I sit down and share your changing room?”

  “Of course not.” I smiled and told her confidently, “You’re going to win tonight.”

  “Do you know that as a fact?” Melissa asked.

  The envelopes were sealed, so I couldn’t have known, and I replied, “No, but if I were the Academy, the decision would be unanimous.” Melissa began removing her heels to put on a pair of ballet slippers and I interjected, “Don’t put your flats on—you’re going to win—and you’ll want to go onstage in your heels.” Melissa smiled and kept her heels on.

  I was thrilled to find out in a last-minute reveal that Kirk Douglas was going to be a presenter at the show. Backstage, he took me aside and confided in me, “Whatever’s in the script, we’re just going to switch it up and go big. You’re not just going to walk me out there. I’m not handicapped,” he joked, although he had taken years to recover after a stroke in 1996. “Whatever I do, just play along.” The knots in my stomach tightened—who wants to improvise in front of a billion people watching live? That said, I knew this would be my opportunity to shine on stage for the first time. Kirk crushed it! He was the highlight of the show. He kept the nominees on their toes, stretching the reveals, and then engaged in a fake fight scene with me over his cane. We had the audience in hysterics—all unscripted. At one point, I turned to the audience and caught Nicole Kidman pointing at me and mouthing to her husband, “Who is that?” I wanted to yell, “Hi Nicole, I’m Omar!” but I restrained myself and completed our bit.

  After Kirk Douglas finally opened the gold envelope and announced Melissa Leo’s name, she ran on stage, gracefully bowed to Kirk, and accepted the award. Then she turned to me and yelled, “Omar!” into the microphone. I went from being an unknown in Hollywood to doing a comedic sketch with Kirk Douglas, while Melissa Leo graciously included me in her acceptance speech. I felt I had made it. Dreams are made on the Oscars stage, and even without a nomination, mine was no exception.

  A lot of press was written about that night, which helped me acquire an agent and a manager in the days that followed. People were asking who I was, and I’d suddenly become a recognizable face in America—at least for fifteen minutes. I was determined to capitalize on that time. The media tracked me down for interviews, TMZ waited for me outside restaurants and movie theaters, and I was able to use those opportunities to talk further about Egypt, our nascent revolution, and my love for our people.

  I didn’t take what was going on in Egypt lightly. In February, Hosni Mubarak was removed from power after thirty years of ruling Egypt. While Egyptians were having conversations about a constitution, who belonged in a new country, and what a new country could look like, I wanted to make sure everyone had a place in it. I met Paul Colichman, the CEO of Here Media and owner of The Advocate. Paul invited me to lunch and told me that I had an historic opportunity to come out back home. There wasn’t a voice for people living in the shadows in the Middle East, and he thought I could do a lot of good. I was concerned about the possible repercussions in Egypt. I’d seen the coverage of Cairo 52, where fifty-two men were arrested and charged with habitual debauchery and obscene behavior on the Queen Boat, a floating gay nightclub on the Nile. They were vilified by the Egyptian media, who printed the real names and addresses of the fifty-two and branded them as agents against the state. Twenty-one of the men were ultimately convicted. I saw what happened to gay people—how they were rounded up, accused, tortured, and publicly tried. I was keen to seize the moment, but I knew if I were to come out, I’d have to do it in a diplomatic, hopeful, and optimistic way.

  At the time, my agents and manager advised me not to come out. They accurately surmised that I wouldn’t get as many opportunities to work in Hollywood. I was forewarned that Hollywood wanted me to be exactly like my grandfather. They wanted me to have darker hair, with a mustache or a beard, and to be a suave, charismatic leading man. But on the inside, that wasn’t me. I was still unsure of who I was, but I surely knew I was still broken, still vulnerable, and still not in a position of strength.

  After surviving the Gulf, making it to Los Angeles, and taking the stage at the Oscars, I figured this was not only an opportunity, but also my responsibility to speak out. I thought about the legacy my grandparents had left me; it wasn’t to be an actor, and it wasn’t to be famous. It was what my Grandmother Faten and Grandfather Omar did throughout their lives and careers in Egypt. My grandmother had used her voice, her films, her platform, and her heart to advance causes for women. Her film I Want a Solution had famously helped women gain the right to file for divorce in Egypt and to emancipate themselves from their husbands. I thought about my grandfather’s last five or six films—all about empathy and religious tolerance, at a time when there was so much fighting in Egypt between Muslims and Coptic Christians.

  Omar, after all, was born Catholic and had converted to Islam to marry Faten. In fact, the church in Egypt had excommunicated him for this egregious act and had tried to stop his family from contacting him. Grandfather took part in a dialogue of acceptance and understanding with the films Hassan and Marcus and Monsieur Ibrahim. In nearly every interview, he used his platform to promote tolerance and acceptance. And so, I realized, my true legacy was to similarly use my platform to make a difference in other people’s lives.

  As I watched the unfolding situation in Egypt, I feared that a political coalition, dominated by the Muslim Brotherhood, would come to power. I saw fractured liberal groups running six or seven candidates instead of banding together. The Muslim Brotherhood supporters coalesced around one party, as we liberals lay in pieces, destined to lose the upcoming presidential election. The Muslim Brotherhood had already taken almost fifty percent of the parliamentary seats—bringing the total Islamist seats to seventy percent—and they were running a candidate for president after initially declaring that they wouldn’t. I wondered what it would ultimately lead to in Egypt, and if we were about to slide backwards on a dangerous slope toward Islamic fundamentalism. Would the gains in women’s rights and religious tolerance that my grandparents had fought so hard for be eradicated? What would happen to the LGBTQ community, who already suffered so much? I thought about the Holocaust and my trip to Poland. People were complacent about the Nazis during their rise to power. I was complacent in the Gulf. I’d sat back and slowly let myself become a victim. I was determined not to be silent again. I decided it wasn’t just my responsibility to come out and speak up; this time it was an obligation.

  I wasn’t so naive to think that rights would suddenly be given to LGBTQ people in Egypt. But while we were all talking about what it means to be Egyptian, I thought it was a good time to at least be included in the conversation. The protection of minorities in a new constitution would mean not having to live in the shadows—in fear. It was hard enough to be gay and closeted in Canada; imagine fearing that friends and family might find out, while being bulli
ed and knowing that the state too could come after you, that your very existence is illegal, and that you could be prosecuted and imprisoned—made into an example to warn other people like you. I didn’t see anyone else talking about it—no voices, no faces, no Arabic public figures who were out—just some whispers in the shadows. I had to do something.

  That’s the funny thing about revolutions; as much as they seem structural or societal, they’re actually personal. Sure, they appear to be thousands or millions of people coalescing around certain goals and desires to create change. But really, they are about a mother wanting to educate her daughters, a father wanting to feed his family, or students wanting more opportunity and economic mobility. All revolutions are made up of smaller personal revolts, with personal motivations. Revolution is personal. Collective freedom comes from individual acts of liberation. You must free yourself from the idea that you don’t deserve better; only then can you unite for social or structural change. My simple act was to come out and to live free outside the shadows—free from fear, free from shame, free from bondage. The act of coming out, of loving and accepting myself inwardly and outwardly, was going to be my revolutionary contribution.

  Ultimately, I decided that I was just going to do it. All the possible negative repercussions were outweighed by the slightest chance that I could accomplish something. After the Gulf, diminished and dehumanized, I really had nothing to lose. My grandfather had once told me not to think about the prospect of losing when gambling, that good card players focus on accumulating wins. As such, I had developed a sort of counter narrative to the common risk assessment that guides many people’s decision making. Instead of focusing on inherent risk, I would consider potential rewards, focusing on hope and opportunity. Now was the moment, and if I missed that opportunity to speak, it might not come back around for a long time.