A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  The interview was going well, but when Jaafar asked about Grandfather’s funeral, he repeatedly questioned my absence. I didn’t want to address it because I couldn’t go home, and it wasn’t something I wanted to admit. I’ve always tried to remain optimistic—one day I will go home. If I explained why, the interview would have a negative tone. I tried talking around the question, but Jaafar didn’t stop, so I removed my earpiece and said, “I’m having some trouble with the audio.” I sat in silence until he moved on to a question that I was more comfortable answering. When the interview was over, I had accomplished what I went there to do: paid tribute and respect to my grandparents’ lives and legacy, showcased our unbreakable family bond and loving relationships, and shared my full and authentic self as a mourning grandchild, regardless of whether I was gay or straight. It’s since been estimated that some four million people watched the show live, and many regard it as the first time people in the region heard directly from an openly LGBTQ person, and it was certainly the first from someone they watched grow up from a young age who would appeal to their hearts and minds.

  Feeling emotionally drained, I boarded the flight home. Speaking about Grandfather and Faten reminded me that I was still vulnerable to the pain of losing them. While I was buckled up in my seat, patiently waiting for the plane to take off, a flight attendant came over and said, “My name is Sami. I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “And, Mr. Sharif,” he began.

  “Yes?” I replied.

  “I admire you as a person. You changed my life—in a good way.”

  “Really?”

  “I live in Berlin because you gave me the courage to find my freedom.”

  “Now that you’ve found it, stay true and embrace it,” I told him.

  An announcement that the plane was prepared for takeoff interrupted our conversation.

  “I will,” he said, snapping overhead compartments closed as he hurried down the aisle.

  I thought about how different my life had been in the States compared to my life in Egypt. I had great friends and went to good parties, as I had in Egypt, but in New York, I lived the way I’d always wanted to—openly, authentically, and happily. I found it incomprehensible that people would not want that for everyone.

  While living in New York over the previous two years, I had become part of the movement fighting for LGBTQ equality in the United States and across the globe. I did news interviews regularly and spoke at events for GLAAD while traveling extensively around the States, laying the groundwork in hopes that soon the Supreme Court would declare same-sex marriage legal across the land. When it happened in 2015, I remained hopeful that Egypt, along with the rest of the world, might one day embrace acceptance, too. In a sense, the LGBTQ community gave me the same platform that Hollywood had given Grandfather decades before. If I could use this platform to change one flight attendant’s life, maybe it was all worth it. I turned off my reading light, tucked the pillow behind my head, and closed my eyes. Shortly after the plane’s rapid ascent, I pushed the button to recline my seat and fell into the first restful sleep I’d had in weeks.

  The questions Jaafar Abdul Karim asked in Berlin brought to mind how disparate the cultures, religions, and continents that I navigated between actually were. Traditional cuisine, in both worlds, is an example of cultural identity that we cling to. The time we spent as a family enjoying meals kept us connected not only to our culture but to each other. When I visited family in Cairo, my Grandmother Faten would open the front door and kiss both my cheeks, as the welcoming aroma of my favorite meals, like molokhia or bamya, wafted out from behind her. Although she had an entire staff to take care of us, she enjoyed doing many of those traditional things herself.

  As long as I can remember, I felt that I lived in two different worlds. My father’s side of the family in Egypt was one, and my mother’s in Canada was another. As a child, when I understood that I was different and realized that difference was viewed negatively, I created my own internal world out of necessity rather than choice. My world was convoluted, and I couldn’t allow anyone in it for most of my life.

  My name was the reason I appeared privileged, but the truth is that I had to fight for more than anyone could imagine. Regardless of the destination, along every step of the way was a crisis teaching me how to be a fighter and, ultimately, a survivor.

  As Grandfather tells the story, it was somewhat by accident that he facilitated the introduction of my parents to one another. He was staying at the Ritz-Carlton while making a film in Montreal. Dining alone was never his preference, so when my mother, Debbie, took up the dare of a friend to introduce herself at a bar one evening, Omar responded, “My son is coming to visit me tomorrow. If you don’t have any plans, would you like to bring some of your friends and join us for dinner?”

  Mom replied, “Yes. I have a friend. I’ll bring her.”

  When Dad arrived, Grandfather told him, “I invited two ladies for dinner, one blond and one brunette.”

  Dad was immediately drawn to the blond over dinner, which was Mom. They instantly hit it off and spent the rest of the night dancing at Club 1234 on Rue de la Montagne.

  Although Mom was Jewish and Dad Muslim, they married and were together for three years, only to divorce when I was nine months old. Their divorce was unpleasant and Mom had significant health issues, but she did everything she could for me. My father remained in Montreal to be near me every second weekend and on holidays, keeping to his custody agreement.

  For the first few years after the divorce, my mother and I lived intermittently with her parents, Bubbie and Zadie. I was just four years old when Bubbie began sharing stories of the Holocaust and her childhood in Poland, smuggling food into the Warsaw Ghetto, the concentration camps and death marches, giving the most graphic descriptions about the plight and demise of her entire family. When Bubbie spoke of the Nazis, I couldn’t process who they were, so I imagined them as kidnappers who’d kick down our door, take us away, and kill us the way they did the Jews in Europe. I didn’t understand that the Holocaust was over, either; the only ending to the Holocaust in the stories was marked by death, destruction, and despair. It was then that I surmised that shadows and darkness hid something terrible. Before bed, I’d go from one room to another checking to see if my grandparents had locked the windows. I’d secure each one, placing a piece of wood from a broomstick handle inside the frame to prevent the Nazis from opening the windows. The slightest noise at night made me jump out of bed, race down the hall to Bubbie and Zadie’s bedroom, and wedge myself securely between them. Like superheroes, they had beat the Nazis to survive, so surely they could protect me. I inherited that trauma as a third-generation Holocaust survivor, and I was afraid to sleep alone until I was nine.

  Bubbie’s sister’s last words to her during the selection process at the gates of the Majdanek concentration camp were, “Survive. Remember. Do everything you can to survive so you can tell the world what happened to us.” Bubbie had managed to do just that. She told the truth, hoping it would empower us. Though Bubbie had experienced the worst of humanity and remembered every frightening detail of her persecution, she continued to see the best in everyone. She regularly took complete strangers off the street and into her home to feed and shelter them, without judgment. The tattoo of the number 48378 branded along with a little upside-down triangle on her forearm in Auschwitz didn’t change her. Bubbie displayed compassion in the most beautiful ways, convincing me that it was her lifelong mission to help others and save lives any way she could. In time, it became evident that she was trying to pass along the good others had done for her, the little acts of kindness that helped her survive where so many others perished. Bubbie’s capacity to forgive after all that was taken from her made her my heroine.

  Zadie saw through a different lens. He had watched as the Nazis dragged his family from their home and boarded them on a train to Treblinka, where they were immediately ext
erminated in the crematorium. Neighbors had to forcibly hold him back from trying to join them. Unlike Bubbie, the hate that was shown to Zadie and his family never left him. He questioned everything and trusted no one outside our family. Bubbie and Zadie responded differently to that same tragedy, but what they had in common was their love and devotion to family. They kept us close by having us all come together multiple times every week to eat and discuss whatever was going on in our lives.

  I didn’t know it then, but their stories would have a tremendous influence on me. Bubbie’s choice to see the best in humanity became my measure for people. If my grandmother could forgive the Germans, I could forgive, too. I chose to see humanity as good—and when it wasn’t, I’d believe it would get better.

  Divorced families typically have some degree of conflict, and we had ours. My parents were still going to court for custody battles to fight over minute details that had somehow become significant. There seemed to be conflict on every level, both external and internal, on one side or the other. It impacted my childhood, as I didn’t spend my time hanging out with friends or playing ball in Canada during vacations and holidays. By the age of six, I was taking transatlantic flights alone with a sign hanging around my neck so the flight attendants could hand me off at each airport without incident. My summer vacations were allocated for time with Grandmother Faten in Egypt. Sometimes, we’d travel on her yacht in the Red Sea or to one of her homes in Agami along the Mediterranean shore. There I’d wake up to the sweet smell of fresh-cut mango and blossoming fig trees and lounge under the gazebo with my friends or swim in her kidney-shaped pool. I spent the last two weeks of my vacation with Grandfather Omar. At some point, Dad would join me for ten days before returning to Canada for work. When a vacation or holiday came to an end, the sign went back around my neck, and I flew home to Mom.

  My parents were from different worlds, nationalities, religions, backgrounds, upbringings, and socioeconomic groups, and I was the piece of rope in the middle. I realized early that if I were going to live happily, I couldn’t allow them to pull on me in either direction. I got both sides to stop tugging by loving them equally and blending seamlessly—and invisibly—into each of their worlds.

  I spent the first twelve years of my life living in Montreal, shuffling between my parents. When Dad realized the opportunities to work in Egypt were better, he left Montreal. I knew my father didn’t want to leave me, so his absence didn’t threaten our bond. It was no longer convenient for Dad to take me to see two movies at a time, play board games for hours, ride rollercoasters with me at La Ronde—the amusement park in Montreal—or let me fall asleep at his flat watching music videos, but he stayed involved in my life. Change really was constant, and since it happened from a young age, I adapted and grew up in both worlds, with both sets of rules, customs, traditions, and cultures. It developed into something quite natural for me, although this wasn’t so for my parents.

  I was an obedient child, so discipline wasn’t an issue; I didn’t get in trouble. I listened more than anything, became a quick study, and determined what the advantages and disadvantages were to life in each world. It was A Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

  Being raised by a single mother taught me to be independent, and how to survive, make decisions, and be accountable. When Mom and I moved into our comfortable two-bedroom apartment, if I wasn’t with Dad, Bubbie and Zadie took care of me to give Mom a break. Mom worked in advertising, and after work, she went to the gym or the social club to hang out with friends. When I was in elementary school, we maintained a standard routine. I either rode the school bus home or walked to my aunt Anne’s home, where I had dinner and hung out with my cousins, Jessica, Michael, and Zoe, until Mom picked me up at eight. At home, I’d sit in the den or the living room and do my homework. If I needed any help, Mom would sit down and work with me until it was done. Most weekends, and occasionally during the week, I spent time with Bubbie and Zadie at their duplex. If we weren’t gardening in the backyard, they’d rent movies and we’d nestle together comfortably on the sofa watching one after another.

  I’ve always had the constant attention of my family. While Aunt Anne offered comfort and understanding, Aunt Evelyn tendered support, honest opinions, and tough love. There was no sugar coating, but the love in the center was sweet. When I was young, Evelyn took her children, Lisa and Mitchell, to Disney World. She knew Mom couldn’t afford to take me, so she packed my things and took me along with them. Evelyn wanted me to have the same experiences as her children. She loved museums, art, and culture. As I grew older, they captured my attention, too, and we had that in common. Whenever I had a problem, she was my sounding board. She didn’t agree with everything I did or how I did it after coming out—but she made her shoulder available anytime I needed it. When I was younger, Evelyn, like her siblings, was instrumental in taking care of Mom, and when I fell in a hole, she likewise supported me, emotionally and financially.

  Somehow, Uncle Holden knew that I needed attention and guidance, and he always went above and beyond in treating me like a son. He taught me to skate and play hockey, becoming the reason I did well in sports. I didn’t have many friends, but I had my uncle Holden. When the Montreal Canadiens won the Stanley Cup in 1993, Holden showed up at my school and signed me out early. Making me promise not to tell my parents, he took me to the Stanley Cup parade downtown, outside the old Forum. I’d never seen so many people pouring into the streets. When the crowd became too dense for me to see the parade, Uncle Holden lifted me up, sat me on his shoulders, and said, “You’re witnessing history. This might not happen again for a very long time.” The Canadiens were part of our family tradition, and it was exciting to watch their games or listen to them on the radio with Zadie, my uncles, Holden and Simon, and my cousins. It made us feel more Canadian. Hockey is how my family assimilated.

  My mom was a young mother, and she hadn’t finished university, but she did everything in her power to take good care of me the best way she knew how, and sharing her family was the primary way. When I was young, she had many health issues, multiple surgeries, and much anxiety due to the divorce, finances, fleeting love affairs, and whatever else she was dealing with at the time. I didn’t know all the details, but I saw how hard she tried to take care of me and so I kept things that were troubling me to myself. I couldn’t tell her what was happening in school or that I had my own mental anguish. Just looking at Mom let me know that she had enough to deal with on her own. She was always strikingly beautiful, but I could see anxiety in her eyes. I didn’t want to go to school, but I went to avoid causing Mom additional stress. As her son, I felt it was my responsibility to take care of her because she was a single parent. But over time, we became codependent. I was excited to go to Egypt during summer vacations and for holidays, because I didn’t have to take care of Mom, and I didn’t have to worry about her trying to take care of me. It was a vacation from that world for us both.

  Traveling between the two worlds my parents lived in made me into a chameleon who took on the characteristics of my environment. I could be Jewish, Christian, or Muslim; aristocratic, average, or athletic. If I blended in, people might not see how different I was. If I was different, they might see all my differences. I stood for nothing but the status quo in any given situation. Little did I know, this was to be the beginning of my political education.

  Grandfather Omar was transparent about his world, so I could see it as it was. With him, I often had dinners with prime ministers, heads of state, and dignitaries. Their conversations were preparing me—but for what? I didn’t know at the time, but I paid attention. Understanding diversity, different languages, politics, diplomacy, and how to engage with people was just the beginning. I welcomed it because it was my life—in that world. In contrast, my Egyptian world taught me that being a perfect host or dinner guest meant being charming, gracious, and able to navigate or blend into any situation effortlessly. I was educated to avoid uncomforta
ble conversations by focusing on socially acceptable topics.

  Dinner with Grandfather, whether in Cairo, Deauville, Madrid, London, Beverly Hills, or any other work location, exposed me to a majestic world inhabited by film directors, celebrities, royalty, and nobility who would come to his hotel just to dine with him. At first, I didn’t know how accomplished his friends were, because I was just a kid. It was from their stories that I began to understand the magnitude of those relationships and the scope of Grandfather’s influence and network around the world. If we didn’t go to a restaurant, Pepita, who often traveled with us, would prepare a grand, full-course dinner that took hours to finish. The stories and conversations shared around the table weren’t in magazines or newspapers; they were private and captivating. At times, Grandfather would show me extravagant gifts, given to him by royal figures, but he liked the modest rather than ostentatious, and usually gave those items away. On occasion, he would hand me a heavy gold watch or an ornate piece of diamond-encrusted jewelry and say, “Give this to your mother.” I didn’t really know why, but I didn’t ask him, either. I understood that his and my grandmother’s world was not the world. It was one of privilege and sometimes excess. It felt as if there was a competition among their friends to see who had the most beautiful villa with the biggest swimming pool and who played the best golf course or drove the nicest car. People were always waiting to see who could throw the most elaborate event or party to outdo the last. My grandparents didn’t subscribe to this world, but they inhabited it.