by Omar Sharif
Now that I’m acting, I embrace roles that allow me to represent my authentic self, the same way Grandfather Omar always championed. Omar Sharif didn’t realize it, but that door he worked so hard to open benefited his own grandson. I’ve become somewhat of a go-to guy when the industry wants an LGBTQ Arab, and I’ve appeared on the television show Mélange, where I play a Syrian refugee, and in Assi Azar’s hit Israeli series The Baker and the Beauty, where I play a gay Lebanese man in a loving marriage with an Israeli despite the characters’ opposing political views. Assi was one of the first public personalities to come out in Israel and to embed his authentic self into every one of his projects. In fact, when I came out in Egypt, he sent me one of the first kind messages that I received over Twitter to say he was proud of me. When my participation in the new season of his series was announced in late 2020 it was met with large-scale criticism and backlash in the Middle East, even as more Arab states continued to normalize their relationships with Israel. Calling my decision to take the role controversial and shameful, the Arabic media keeps asking audiences, “What would Omar Sharif think if he were alive today?” I know that he would be proud of me. I can finally do what my grandparents did and use art to change people’s hearts and minds. Throughout my childhood, I thought it was my job to straddle the walls between my Arab, Jewish, and gay worlds, but now I know it is my job to dismantle them. And nothing tears through walls better than art.
In February of 2019, I traveled to the Middle East for the first time since coming out. Whether in Morocco, Qatar, Jordan, Palestine, the UAE, or Saudi Arabia, I was so close to Egypt that a gentle breeze brought me the smells and sounds of my home, which I would have believed impossible. I could hear the muezzin summoning Muslims for prayer each morning and smell the burning of tobacco in the streets. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine walking along the beach with my father or sitting at Grandfather’s table—having dinner with him and his friends. For moments, I even wondered what it would be like to go home and see my father, younger brother, and the family I was exiled from in 2012. When I opened my eyes, that mental picture vanished like a mirage in the desert. I still wouldn’t dare let my feet cross the border—not yet. The only thing I can do is accept that I’ve now come closer than I’ve been in years and continue to hope that one day I will return.
With all I’ve been through, I draw on the advice from my family for strength and encouragement in difficult times. My grandparents are no longer here, but they left me with valuable life lessons and two incredible parents. Grandfather Omar inspired me to live in the present and with no regrets. When I finally came out of the shadows, I finally started to live. There is no life until you are living authentically. My letter in The Advocate might not have turned out the way I had planned when I wrote it, but I have no regrets. And though I might never go home to Egypt, I will always have hope.
Epilogue
Every morning I wake up to an inbox flooded with disturbing and disheartening messages out of Egypt. The messages come from friends and strangers alike, members of the Egyptian LGBTQ community I left behind nine years ago when I came out as gay and withdrew from the country, hounded by threats of violence, intimidation, and even death. The message writers are desperate to do what I did: escape a country gripped by an outbreak of homophobic persecution. Failing that, far too many of the writers say they want to escape their lives. I do not know what to tell them. I would like to offer them hope. I would like it not to be false hope.
When I came out in 2012, I wanted to use my status as a public figure to push LGBTQ acceptance through what I then worried might be our darkest hour. Unfortunately, since then conditions have only worsened, and the country is now gripped by a brutal crackdown against some of its most vulnerable citizens.
In recent years, Egyptian police have started stopping men who they suspect are gay in the streets, searching their phones for incriminating photos or hookup apps, and throwing them in prison for sentences ranging from six months to six years. There have been raids on bathhouses and on at least one purported same-sex wedding. There are stomach-churning reports that police have subjected suspects to forcible anal exams, which are—let us not mince words here—a particularly humiliating form of torture.
The supposed impetus for this crackdown was a widely circulated video from a September 2017 concert in Cairo, during which some attendees waved rainbow flags in support of the band’s lead singer. The images spurred a wave of hateful rhetoric from Egyptian cultural commentators, who claimed these debauched radicals represented a slap in the face to our country’s identity and goals.
These hateful messages found fertile ground in a country that is rightfully frustrated by a slow and painful pace of progress. As many frustrated societies have found, gay people make a convenient scapegoat. When we are already forced to live in the shadows, we are the perfect, faceless villains. In the photographs of the men being dragged into Egyptian jails, they all cover their faces with their shirts or their hands, hiding their shame and leaving observers to imagine that these men could be anyone—anyone except their friends or brothers or sons.
I don’t talk about this with my American friends. They hear these stories with the horror you’d expect, but I can’t help but think that it’s laced with some faint admonishment, and behind their pity I hear: “Well, what did you expect, having the foolishness to be born gay and Egyptian?”
They don’t know the fundamental warmth and joy I still associate with the Egyptian people, despite my exile. They don’t understand the fierce patriotism and pride I feel for my country, a pride that exists for most LGBTQ Egyptians, despite their persecution. Though the country’s conservative talking heads paint the Egyptian LGBTQ community as treacherous and debauched radicals, our goals are the same as the government’s: security, stability, and economic prosperity. Prosperity, it bears mentioning, is harmed when Western tourists associate the country with human rights abuses and choose not to visit.
It’s difficult to explain to people who came of age during the heady wave of victories for the American LGBTQ movement that our goals in Egypt are much more modest. For the most part, LGBTQ people in the Arab world just want to live in the same relative quiet that they have for generations, free from the terror that the slightest gesture or glance might betray them.
I know this fear firsthand. I was taunted in school for being different. I had men expose themselves to me in the streets of Cairo. An ex-lover threatened me with a handgun, afraid he might be outed. I was drugged, groped, assaulted, and raped by powerful men. These encounters all share a common root; I’ve come to understand that the closet is actually a weapon used against us. When people can hide their crimes in the shadows and when victims are too afraid to speak out for fear of rejection or reprisal, justice often goes unserved. The closet doesn’t just hide gays; the closet protects the predators who prey on us.
Throughout this book, I’ve chosen not to name some of the higher profile predators I’ve encountered. That choice was not made out of cowardice, but rather out of conviction: the confidence to finally keep the focus on my story—the courage to finally be seen and heard. I’ve freed myself from the silence and shadows of the closet. These men have taken so much from me already; they won’t get the spotlight in my story, too. My goal in writing this book was never to seek justice against those who have wronged me; though I may not have named predators in this book, that does not mean I have not pursued action along other avenues where appropriate. My goal was always and primarily to give voice to the voiceless.
I can’t tell the young gay Egyptians who message me to come out en masse like I did; I don’t want them to become cannon fodder for my ideals. I can’t even tell them to come out to their own families; few of them had the liberalizing experiences my grandparents did, working on movies with people from all walks of life. So I tell them to be safe, to be careful, and to hang on. I try to offer them hope.
I wish I could tell the people who write me messages how long they
will have to wait to feel safe in their own country. That answer will partly come down to the country’s access to positive Egyptian LGBTQ representation in media; for now, such stories are censored. It will partly come down to a commitment from institutions like the World Bank to safeguard LGBTQ people by making respect for all human rights a precondition of investment.
More than anything, it will depend on the Egyptian people accepting that the tide of tolerance is inevitable. Egypt, like every nation, must decide how many lives will be lost and broken before they acknowledge that we are not faceless men but brothers, sisters, and fellow citizens.
There is nothing radical about what I am. LGBTQ people have existed in Egypt since the dawn of our great civilization. And there is nothing radical about what I want. I want to go home, quietly and safely. I want to visit the graves of my grandparents, whose funerals I was unable to attend. I want to give my country the same things my grandparents gave: my full, honest self, not as Egypt’s scapegoat or its martyr, but as its patriotic son.
On January 1, 2019, I received lawyers’ letters from several nonprofit advocacy groups wishing to formally disassociate themselves from me. These were groups that I had worked with for nearly five years—organizations whose work I continue to support and admire. With them, I traveled the world and spoke on behalf of the LGBTQ community. They taught me how to be a better communicator, a better advocate, and a better human. The reason for these letters was that I had traveled to Saudi Arabia a month prior, at the invitation of the Kingdom, to experience Vision 2030, and the first international sporting event and concert in the nation’s modern history.
I was hesitant to travel to Saudi Arabia because I knew full well about the Kingdom’s strict adherence to Sharia and what it meant for the many LGBTQ people living there—people who risked imprisonment or death for living openly and authentically. But I also knew that an invitation from Saudi officials presented a unique opportunity to be visible and engage in an honest, albeit limited, dialogue about LGBTQ rights and HIV/AIDS policy in the region. More than that, I knew what it might mean for LGBTQ youth from the Kingdom who sent me messages daily via social channels. Seeing an openly LGBTQ person as a state-sponsored guest at a high-profile event in their country might give them hope that greater change was on the horizon. It might give them courage to hold on another day.
I was amazed at how open leading Saudi officials were about discussing the changes they sought as part of Vision 2030. I challenged them on the war in Yemen, on imprisoned and tortured female activists, and on the horrific murder of author and journalist Jamal Khashoggi. Their answers weren’t always to my liking—they often seemed rehearsed and disingenuous, but they also seemed to be masking a certain internalized shame, which I found somewhat redeeming. Ultimately, I chose to attend the Formula E sporting event and the celebratory gatherings that followed and experienced a pang of hope. It was not primarily because of the government officials I sat with or the members of the royal family who greeted me, but because of the thousands of Saudi citizens who came to participate in the Kingdom’s first outdoor concert featuring Western artists. It was the first time men and women would be permitted to dance together in public. As the bands started to play, the crowd cautiously swayed to the beat underneath an imposing Saudi flag, unsure of this new reality or how to respond to it. However, by the time David Guetta took the stage, men and women were fully embracing one another publicly, dancing with abandon, jumping up and down, riding on each other’s shoulders—and most were crying. These were tears of joy from never experiencing this level of freedom in their own country—and from never expecting to experience it in their lifetimes. I, too, began to cry. Their joy and optimism for change was palpable—contagious. I was reminded that values, once instilled, cannot be so easily whisked away, that once people experience their first tastes of community, of love, of acceptance, of a chance to live free, there is no dam that can ever hold them back. The tides of modernization in the Kingdom are inevitable.
It was in that moment I fully understood that progress is rarely linear. It often occurs two steps forward, one step backward, particularly in a region with thousands of years of history to overcome. It’s a journey down a mountainside river; it ebbs, and it flows. It can be smooth and slow and then unexpectedly rapid and turbulent. Sometimes the river even appears to turn back upon itself. The one assurance we have is that a river will continually run its track, unimpeded until it meets the sea. It’s a voyage of discovery and self-discovery for which a final judgement should not be rendered midstream. This was true with my coming out, with the history of our civilization, and so it will be true of the Saudi experiment if we can maintain our optimism. You don’t need to have blind faith in people, but you do need to give people a chance to prove you wrong.
I no longer consider myself an activist.
Many of the actions I see activists taking these days seem to be motivated by polarizing, all-or-nothing confrontations. A sense of pragmatism is on the decline. I get criticized for sitting at tables and engaging in difficult dialogue that yields limited results because I refuse to believe that any person is inherently bad or that anything is impossible. I get the wrath of extremists from both sides, from those who believe that my existence is an affront and from those who believe I’m selling out to the enemy. I’m okay with that. These days, I’d rather take the hits than take a side. Movements need insiders and outsiders; they need people to do the yelling and people to sit at the table—both roles are equally important. I’d much rather reach my arm across the table in the hopes of catching another, even when it is more likely that I will grasp at straws. And when a country like Saudi Arabia is making strides to change, that is the moment to hold their hand tighter—even when they make terrible mistakes. The price of letting go is far too severe; the alternative to progress is a far worse fate.
I believe in engagement and dialogue above all—in finding common ground. I seek to provide hope and inspiration. Maybe it’s because I experienced and survived the downfalls of sudden revolution that I have come to appreciate a steadier rate and more managed approach to change. We cannot be afraid to compromise for some immediate, if limited, wins that could change the reality for millions of people, hoping that we might instead achieve systemic, full-scale change. I’m not suggesting that we all need to move toward the middle, but that there is an overwhelming need to find common ground, mutual respect, and empathy—these are two very different propositions.
Despite the backlash I have faced, as I write these closing words, I’m planning my return to the Kingdom. It remains a country that is perhaps the worst place on earth to be LGBTQ, a country that is one of the worst offenders of human rights and civil liberties violations. I return because, despite all the challenges and struggles I have faced, I’m still an optimist. I still believe culture can change the world, that movies will continue to open hearts and minds—and even Saudi society. Call me naive, but I will always follow Bubbie’s philosophy of forgiveness and Grandfather’s philosophy of leaving it all on the table, believing that the prospect of reward will always outweigh inherent risks, fear, and the greater likelihood of failure or loss.
I will continue sharing my story and staying visible for youth who still have far too few examples to look up to—reminding them that there is always hope for change. I’m just a person with a story. And I will continue to ask those listening—whether LGBTQ, ally, or stranger—to share their stories. Stories hold incredible power—power to create change, to instill empathy, and to increase acceptance—and this power lives within all of us. My story is just one of many millions, but that doesn’t make it small; that’s what makes it huge. We’re not alone, and together, with our stories, a little optimism, and a lot of empathy, we can change the world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In writing this book I was forced to revisit much of the trauma from my past, but it equally offered me the opportunity to see how much love and support I was tendered by family and friends. Thank
you for always being there.
Thank you to Elizabeth Koch, Andy Hunter, Mensah Demary, and Dan López for empowering me to share my story with the world, and to Marala Scott and Dr. Michelle Golland for helping me to find both the words and the courage.
To an extraordinary group of women who rule the world (and my heart) and who helped me find peace and home in Los Angeles—I would be lost without you: Irena Medavoy, Anne Simonds, Sybil Robson Orr, Rosanna Arquette, Kimberly Marteau Emerson, Linda Collins, Lyn Lear, DVF, RBA, Rica Rodman, Anna Lewis, Joanna Simkus Poitier, Amb. Colleen Bell, Amb. Nicole Avant, Ghada Irani, Tania Fares, Wendy Stark, Cheryl Saban, Jacqueline Emerson, Kimberly Steward, Nona Summers, Katharine DeShaw, Lorenza Munoz, Teni Melidonian, Barbara Berkowitz, Aida Tackla O’Reilly, Carly Steel, Regina K. Scully, Angela Meng, Bahya Murad, Zoe de Givenchy, Heidi Roddenberry, Kathy Hilton, Crystal Kung Minkoff, Julia Gouw, Lorena Fuentes, Shoshana Bean, Anne Ramsay, Morgan Fairchild, Gigi Pritzker, Abby Pucker, Andrea Nevins, and Michelle Domb—the world is more beautiful because you’re in it.
To mentors and friends who teach by example: Kevin Jennings, Doug Wurth, Eric Esrailian, Steven Borick, Alejandro Ramirez, Tom D’Angora, Eugenio Lopez, Mitch Ivers, Abdi Nazemian, Alan Cumming, Bob Simonds, Assi Azar, Max Mutchnick, you’ve given me the greatest gifts—purpose and inspiration.
Lastly, to every teacher I ever had, to every teacher out there, and to everyone who wakes up each morning determined to make the world a better place, thank you.
© Thomas Synnamon