A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  I couldn’t allow LGBTQ rights to get lost among the internal divisions in Egypt. I couldn’t let us forget or ignore what is often the most vulnerable, hidden, and silent segment in society, so I came out. I accepted my reality: I was born gay and half-Jewish. I wanted to belong—to be part of the new Egypt. I asked for nothing other than recognition and inclusion—no special rights or privileges—just inclusion.

  My letter, published in The Advocate, wasn’t something I wrote in a day or two—it took time, thought, and reflection. Nearly three months went by before I published it, and still I really struggled. I only had one chance to get it right. I didn’t tell anyone that I was doing it, because they would have worried about the repercussions. I didn’t tell Dad, because I thought it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. I had resolved to do it, and there was no turning back. That said, I didn’t know how broad the reach of my letter would be. It was to be published in an American magazine with one of the largest circulations to LGBTQ readers in the world, and it was in the language that I spoke best. On some level, though, I thought it might just disappear or stay confined to North America. Also, I wasn’t sure anyone would really care what I’d have to say politically. No one had ever cared before. But I cared, and I hoped they might, too. If I didn’t say it, I would have hated myself. I wasn’t in Tahrir Square. I didn’t go into the streets to protest and demand change, but I also didn’t give up when the liberals didn’t immediately get what we wanted from our first elections. I doubled down and put myself on the line. I gave the revolution my voice, my face, and my name—and I almost gave my blood.

  I was in Toronto preparing for the film Paradise 3D, which was set to begin shooting in the Philippines the following month, when The Advocate sent me a draft of the article, including a photograph I’d taken for it. I was naked and wrapped in the Egyptian flag. The image was a metaphor for the revelation of my true self, hiding nothing, vulnerable and open—and a demonstration of my patriotism. That night, I forwarded the article to Mom because I wanted to give her a heads up that it was coming. I knew Mom would have seen it anyway—she kept a Google alert set for my name—but I still didn’t presume it would reach Dad in Egypt.

  In the middle of the night, Mo, an Egyptian friend of mine from Queen’s University, called.

  “Yo, Junior—what did you do?” Mo questioned nervously.

  “What do you mean?” I didn’t know the article had come out yet.

  “I just got a call from my brother in Egypt. All of Egypt is aflame and talking about your letter.”

  “In a good way or bad way?” I asked reservedly.

  “It’s bad, man. It’s really, really bad.”

  My heart sank. I opened my computer for the first time that day and saw my letter all over the Internet—ABC News, the Daily Mail, Al Bawaba, PinkNews, Der Spiegel, Fugues, everywhere. It hadn’t just stayed in The Advocate; it was an international coming-out story. Within hours, it was trending on Yahoo and Twitter, and the swift reaction was negative and critical.

  First came sheer disgust. People called me a stain on my grandfather’s name. Comments flooded in from all my social media platforms. On Arabic news programs, panels of sinister looking men with beards judged, critiqued, and insulted me, calling me haram, and a sinner—and fanning the flames of intolerance and rejection. News outlets in Egypt went into the streets, conducting interviews with the public and asking what they thought about me. Expressions of revulsion and hate were common. What followed was intimidation, death threats, and messages like, “If you come back to Egypt, it will only be long enough to dig you a hole.”

  And then came the others, the ones I would have expected to support me, the Egyptians I knew. They were the most hurtful. They said, “He isn’t really Egyptian. He doesn’t have the right to talk,” even though I’d spent half my life in Egypt and loved the country with my full heart. Others insisted, “He did this for attention. He just wants to advance his acting career,” even though being gay has never helped anyone’s acting career. No one comes out hoping to book more roles; quite the opposite. And lastly, the queer and activist communities, who said, “He’s just privileged, what could he know about struggle or sacrifice?” None of them knew my story—how could they?—but it crushed me to the core, and once again, I felt totally alone. Instead of inclusion, I had achieved ultimate exclusion.

  I climbed out of bed and threw on a shirt and pair of jogging pants. The messages had imparted a degree of hatred I’d never experienced before. I was depressed and at a loss about how to handle it. I never imagined this kind reaction. I’d thought my letter was optimistic and hopeful, and that it would be received as such.

  Then the phone rang. It was Dad. I hadn’t known it, but a few years prior, a cousin in Egypt had told Dad I was gay, but he’d never mentioned it. Dad treated and loved me just the same. My letter didn’t change his mind, but it did make him worry about my safety.

  “Hey,” I said, hiding my concern.

  “What did you do? It’s a disaster here! You can never come back to Egypt! You know you can never come home!” Dad yelled into the phone.

  “No, I’ll come back. I can come back,” I said, in flat-out denial.

  The phone wouldn’t stop beeping. Calls were coming in one after another.

  “No, you can’t! It would be too dangerous. You’ve given up everything. Even the right to inherit. Only Muslims can inherit from other Muslims, and you told everyone you’re half-Jewish. You’ve given up everything!”

  My father told me that Grandmother Faten was extremely upset with me, not because I was gay, but because she’d always lived her life so privately. She felt that I had put the family and myself at risk. During a time of great upheaval, I’d cast a spotlight—one that I’d avoided for so long—on all of us. I hadn’t made myself a target; I’d made my entire family a target. No one knew if they were going to come after us—no one even knew who they were—but I’d given them a reason to. After deliberating and writing for three months, I hadn’t taken any of that into consideration. My father wasn’t upset with me because I was gay. He never condemned or shamed me. He was upset because he was afraid for my life, and the lives of my family members. I told him I had to go, but he continued ranting about my safety.

  “Dad, I’ll call you later. I have to take this call.”

  It was my friend Chad, a Canadian political consultant and operative, and he’d been following the news that day. He asked me to get in touch with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, believing that I would need round-the-clock security, at least until the dust settled and things could be evaluated more clearly. I’ll never forget his parting words: “Godspeed.” It brought tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat.

  The phone rang again; this time it was Mom, finally awake. I knew she had been watching the same coverage and reading the same messages as me, every last one of them. I didn’t know what she would say, but I felt it would be similar to when I told her I was gay. The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint my mother—again. I stared out the window at the cold, gusting snow and answered.

  “What did you do? What did you do?” she cried, over and over again. She couldn’t say anything else, trapped again in the anxiety she’d had when I was growing up. As I slowly stepped out onto the twelfth-story balcony, my mother’s crying voice became increasingly muted with every “What did you do? What did you do?” I could hear her pain, her tears, and her panic.

  The magnitude of what I’d done hit me, and for an instant, the fear, pain, and thoughts of letting go returned with the same intensity I’d felt as a kid. Petrified, I stood in the blistering cold, shivering and barefoot, wondering if I’d gone too far this time—if I had finally crossed a line I couldn’t come back from. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it; maybe the world still wasn’t ready for me. I gripped the snow-covered rail and stared over the edge, as I had many times before when I’d contemplated jumping, but this time was different. I’d finally done what I needed to do, the way I wa
nted to do it. I wasn’t reacting to the hurt and pain imparted toward me; I was in control this time. I always thought that acceptance from others was important, but self-acceptance is paramount. I no longer needed anyone’s acceptance but my own. I was out, and I was free. The burden of being afraid of what other people would say, feel, and think about me was over. The years of secrets and shame and hiding were behind me. And at that very moment, as if by providence, the snow tapered off and a beam of sun shone through the clouds, lighting up my face. I released the rail, turned around, and walked back inside, closing the patio door behind me as Mom’s voice returned. “What did you do?”

  “I set myself free,” I confessed, and I hung up the phone.

  For once I had no secrets. If there were repercussions, I’d deal with them. I didn’t know what the threats of violence might bring or when they would come, but I knew that whatever they were, I would get through it.

  10

  A Tale of Two Omars

  I was back in Los Angeles, sitting at my kitchen counter and flipping idly through my collection of magazine articles and family photographs. The beautiful photos roused emotions and memories I’d long forgotten, but they offered only a glimpse into the lives and legacies left by my grandparents. Behind their smiles and numerous accomplishments were their struggles and substantial contributions to social change. I ran my fingertips delicately across a black and white photograph of Grandfather Omar sitting comfortably in a chair. He was wearing a dark-colored sweater and had a white chapeau with black trim tilted rakishly on his head of thick gray hair—stylish as always. I smiled, overcome with a fusion of joy and sadness as I thought of the many ways we had lived parallel lives. Grandfather may never have recognized the tremendous influence he had on me, but the reflection in the mirror didn’t lie; he was always there. Perhaps lending my voice to social causes the way Grandfather had done throughout his life had been my destiny all along. Had I continued waiting for that right moment to come out, I might never have discovered my platform. When I took the opportunity to speak up, it changed my life. I picked up the photo and recalled the time Grandfather was interviewed about his reason for making the film Monsieur Ibrahim, for which he won a César Award for best actor. “In these times,” Grandfather stated, “when we’re living with conflicts all over the place, I thought it would be nice to make a small picture with tolerance in it and to say that we can live together and love each other, no matter what race or religion we are.” Grandfather Omar always believed that there was commonality to our common humanity, and he practiced and preached those ideals every day. Even as a teenager, I can recall him counseling me before a night out with friends, “There are only two things one must never ask a woman before kissing her: her age or her religion.” It’s proved sage advice, and I’ve since applied it to men. He had to learn this lesson the hard way.

  In June of 1967, the Arab–Israeli Six-Day War broke out. At the time, Grandfather was filming Funny Girl with Barbra Streisand, with whom he was having an affair. When a publicity shot of the two of them kissing was released around the world, it engendered much controversy; many people in the Middle East were offended, if not outraged. There was no tolerance, not even for a little kiss. Investors in the production of Funny Girl were Jewish, Barbra was Jewish, and the environment in Hollywood was decidedly pro-Israel. Several of the film’s investors wanted Grandfather removed and the role recast, while others wanted Omar to issue a statement condemning Egypt. Ultimately, the director, William Wyler, who was also Jewish, spoke out against removing Grandfather, and they kept him in the film. In Egypt, the press launched a campaign to have Grandfather’s citizenship revoked, and President Gamal Abdel Nasser’s regime accused him of being a Zionist spy. Grandfather wasn’t afraid of being exiled or disliked, because he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. Instead, he went home, moved his family out of Egypt, and didn’t return for a couple of decades. During that time in exile, he loved Egypt just the same. Omar Sharif was never a spy and simply displayed acceptance—an advocate for tolerance above all else. People just weren’t ready to accede to his vision. When Grandfather finally returned to Egypt at the invitation of President Anwar Sadat—who famously made peace with Israel, earning him the Nobel Peace Prize and his assassination—it was as though he never left. He continued to love Egypt and the Egyptian people more than anything in his life—maybe even more than his family. In fact, Omar Sharif was an avid supporter of the 2011 revolution, and he called for the resignation of Hosni Mubarak, saying, “Given that the entire Egyptian people don’t want him, and he’s been in power for thirty years, that’s enough.” My grandfather stood for what he believed was right, even when it cost him. By setting myself free, I had finally done the same, and I, too, had been misunderstood. Like with grandfather, people just weren’t ready to accede to my vision.

  Coming out in Egypt ignited a firestorm against me. As had happened with Grandfather, court cases were launched to revoke my citizenship and ban me from my country. I’d follow the Arabic articles that documented the government and media’s campaign against me, my heart tearing apart a little more with each incoming Google alert. But deep down, like grandfather, I knew I did nothing wrong.

  In the midst of that storm, the global LGBTQ community and many influential people around the world showered me with messages of support and praise. I received a phone call inviting me to meet with Israeli president Shimon Peres at a state dinner hosted by the prime minister and the governor general of Canada. At the dinner, Shimon reminded me that because I was part-Jewish, I always had a home in Israel if I needed it. I thanked him for that sentiment and assured him that I always had a home in Canada, too. I also told him about my visit to Israel and joked that from the moment I landed at Ben Gurion Airport, I was given white-glove service—it was a latex glove, but I was still appreciative. He laughed awkwardly. I was even approached by a member of the U.S. Foreign Service and told that the Department of State had been following my story in Washington. Hillary Clinton had ordered all embassies to report on the state of LGBTQ affairs in their host countries, and my case had been elevated in the event that I might require or request any assistance. Despite all negative emotions I felt because of Egypt’s response to my coming out, it was amazing to feel so much support from a global community.

  In the weeks and months that followed, I was surprised to receive hundreds of messages, and then thousands, from LGBTQ youth across the Middle East and North Africa, who expressed appreciation that they now had someone they could identify with—they thanked me for having the courage to step out from the shadows and for giving the LGBTQ community in Egypt a face and a voice. I had no idea how impactful my story had been or how many people I had encouraged not to jump until I read those messages. They continued to pour in by the thousands and are what keep me going to this day.

  I don’t agree with everything the Egyptian government did to me, but if standing up to them helped a single person feel less alone, then it was all worth it. During my youth, I didn’t have a face to relate to or anyone to talk to about being gay. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself, because I was trapped in my own fear. My only escape was sitting on the sofa and watching shows like Will & Grace and The Bold and the Beautiful. Those shows gave me hope and kept me alive—they were as close as I came to seeing other gay people, to experiencing true acceptance and tolerance, and to understanding my own self-worth. I didn’t have the support I needed, but I came to realize that maybe I could be—for the people in the Middle East or anyone who needed encouragement—what those shows had been for me: a lifeline, hope that it can get better, and evidence that someone does care. Visibility and representation matter. Words and images matter. They are powerful devices that can be used to make us laugh or to make us cry; they can entice just as easily as they can incite. When I came out, I was attacked by the Arabic media but equally by the devastating reality that I was misrepresented to—and misunderstood by—the masses. After living with decades of torment, and comi
ng out to yet more criticism, I quickly realized that I had to keep pushing. My battle for acceptance had only just begun.

  Following my letter in The Advocate, I was introduced almost immediately to GLAAD, an organization that has focused on LGBTQ visibility and representation for over thirty years. Specifically, GLAAD has sought to harness the power of the media to drive acceptance and understanding, laying the groundwork for legal and legislative equality. It was the right fit at the right time, and I became their national spokesperson. The organization offered me the unique opportunity to reach large audiences quickly and in a scalable way. The news media helped share our message, my story, and the stories of others like me. It allowed us to comment and respond to breaking news, current events, and global issues. Entertainment media was just as critical in helping us accomplish our goal of worldwide acceptance, because Hollywood is the largest cultural export of the U.S. I knew that with GLAAD, I could bring about change in Egypt by challenging American media to portray increasingly progressive plotlines and characters that would increase empathy and that LGBTQ people around the world would relate to. American media could make it past Middle Eastern censors because, while people are poor in the region and may not have roofs on their homes, many have satellite dishes. Our objectives were twofold: to give LGBTQ people a reflection of themselves on television, so they could see that they were not alone, and to open hearts and minds, thereby creating more allies. The TV shows and global news outlets I appeared on garnered considerable attention in the Middle East and North Africa and helped GLAAD promote free and open societies in places once beyond its reach.

  With GLAAD, I had amazing mentors, and I was fortunate to learn from leading activists. Rich Ferraro taught me about communication, message discipline, and interview techniques. Dave Montez taught me to trust my instincts and to lead with personal stories that others can relate to. Sarah Kate Ellis taught me about organizational strength and stability. Jennifer Boylan and Nick Adams opened my eyes to issues facing the transgender community, and Wilson Cruz taught me how to leverage and elevate my existing platform for good. Wilson played one of the first out characters on television, and he continues to be an inspiration for many, myself included. With this team, I have been involved in anti-bullying initiatives, transgender equality initiatives, marriage equality battles, as well as the end of the Defense of Marriage Act. On a global level, I represented GLAAD during the Sochi Olympics in 2014 when Russia introduced anti-LGBTQ legislation, which included bans on people raising the rainbow flag and holding hands in public. Russia insisted that athletes and attendees advocating for gay causes would be barred from doing so or risk arrest. Rather than accepting their threats, GLAAD put out a media handbook to help journalists keep public attention on the law throughout the games. We even reached out and met with the sponsors of the Olympics that year and convinced several of them to put pressure on the government and to go into Russia with pro-equality messages. I remember reminding several of these multinational corporations that if they claimed to have certain values in one country, those values must transcend borders. GLAAD also enlisted several celebrities to support our Olympic campaign, who used their power and influence to say and do the right thing.