A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  Faten Hamama was like the Elizabeth Taylor of the Arab world but somewhat less outspoken. She didn’t need to speak from podiums, because she could move mountains with the look in her eye or with a faint twist of her upper lip. She didn’t go out of the house much, because she’d be mobbed. She was almost a prisoner of her fame. Mostly, our driver, Mohammed, took me out to the Gezira Sporting Club, the Cairo Zoo, the pyramids, or simply to rent videos. On a rare excursion, Grandmother Faten took me to a wedding in Egypt, and we watched the mother of the bride walk serenely down the aisle wearing the largest dress imaginable. When the mother reached the front, the bride jumped out from underneath. I didn’t know why but assumed that it symbolized rebirth or becoming a woman. It was so absurd that I wanted to burst out laughing, but Faten elbowed me just as I began chuckling and said, “No, no. Be proper,” and then patted my knee in her unique way of scolding me.

  The affluent in Egypt did everything that way, and on holidays I lived in that world. The parties were always extravagant with tray-passed hors d’oeuvres, champagne, and other alcohol. They paid attention to the smallest details, making the parties ones to talk about. In Egypt, all ages and generations go to nightclubs or an event at someone’s home together. It’s not uncommon to see grandparents partying with their children and grandchildren. But because of Egypt’s hierarchical society, the friends of my parents and grandparents wanted their daughters and granddaughters to date Omar and Faten’s grandson. I was seen as eligible—even though I knew I wasn’t.

  In elementary school, the bullying began and followed me like a fiery trail of hate. It’s odd that the kids in school suspected something I didn’t even know for sure yet. The way some of the teachers looked at me made me feel that I was different, that I wasn’t normal, and, ultimately, the kids confirmed that I wasn’t. I suppose I always thought that I was someone other than whom I appeared to be, but the incessant comments, which turned into persistent bullying, made me acknowledge it to myself. I finally conceded that I wasn’t like the other boys, and once I did, society quickly shoved me into a cardboard box, slapped a large label on it, and left me to figure out what to do with myself. Over time, the horrible names I was called—faggot, queer, and homo, among others—ceased to bother me because I could only entertain so much pain.

  There were occasions when a few of the teachers looked like they felt bad, but not enough to get involved, until the day one of the kids who regularly called me names pushed me to the ground. Before the fifth grade, no one had physically laid a hand on me or shoved me into a locker, but that afternoon, I knew that if I didn’t strike back, the other kids might follow suit and try to beat me up, too. So I stood, balled up my fist, and punched him. It quickly turned into an all-out brawl. Teachers rushed into the schoolyard to break up the fight, pulling us apart. As if that weren’t enough, I faced my biggest fear: my parents would be called, told what had happened, and then given the reason I was fighting. I felt sick when the announcement came from the principal, Rabbi Hammerman, calling me into his office along with the other boy. The boy and I sat next to each other in front of Rabbi Hammerman’s desk. I didn’t know how he was feeling, but my heart thumped against my chest and I clutched the arms of the chair to keep from hurling all over the floor. Being in the principal’s office felt horrible because I never wanted to bother anyone. I had taken the verbal abuse day after day, year after year, but I wasn’t going to let anyone lay a hand on me. When Rabbi Hammerman came in and shut the door, I prepared for the worst while holding back tears. He sat down, studying both of us and deliberating in silence. He released a heavy sigh and then slowly leaned forward, peering sternly at the other boy.

  “Omar is one of the finest and best students I’ve ever known,” he stated firmly. “And if I hear of you calling him a name again, that will be the last of you in this school.”

  I couldn’t believe what I’d heard, and the boy didn’t utter a single word in defense. When we were dismissed, I turned to Rabbi Hammerman and said, “Thank you.” Even though I was equally at fault, I didn’t get into trouble, and he didn’t call our parents. He knew I’d been bullied for all of those years in that school, but this time, I think he was proud of me for finally standing up for myself—even if it meant I had to fight.

  My childhood was complicated, but it was all I’d ever known, and I lived in and loved both worlds equally. Distant and dissimilar, the only time they ever touched was between my twelfth and thirteenth birthdays.

  Between twelve and fifteen is when Muslim boys reach adulthood, or become baaligh, and have full responsibility under Islamic law. On the Jewish side, we have a bar mitzvah on our thirteenth birthday to indicate that we have all the rights and obligations of a Jewish adult, including the observation of religious precepts. To celebrate both the Muslim and Jewish traditions of becoming a man, my parents came together and threw me a big party because I belonged to both worlds and taught myself to respect them equally.

  Initially, a party wasn’t something that I wanted, because Mom told me I should invite all of my friends—and I didn’t know where to find any. I knew I didn’t have enough for a party, so I started asking random classmates just to make my parents think the other students liked me. I’m sure their parents made them come because of my last name. Grandfather Omar, Dad, his new wife, Shahira—who was pregnant with my baby sister—along with family and friends flew in from Egypt and celebrated with my entire Canadian family. It was so amazing to be surrounded by that much love at one time. There were over two hundred and fifty people laughing, dancing, and telling stories as they enjoyed good food and wine together. On that day, my two worlds were one.

  By thirteen my identity was set, and because I was attracted to boys, I wasn’t like any of the other boys I knew. Of course, I wasn’t attracted to anyone in high school, because I was too busy envying them. I wanted to be them. I wanted to be popular and cool, too. I didn’t want to be gay and unpopular, or to have my parents find out. I already believed that there was something wrong with me—that I wasn’t normal. When Mom spoke with her friends, she called gay people abnormal. When we were walking down the street and she saw someone transgender or someone who dressed alternatively, she’d snicker and call them freaks. The hurt I felt made me want to cower in the shadows and stay there. I didn’t know anyone in school who was out, but if anyone was gay, they stayed in the shadows after seeing the way I was bullied.

  The only thing I could do was stay muted and withdrawn from people. I was ashamed, and keeping my secret was slowly beginning to kill me. Swallowing the same treatment five consecutive days a week became increasingly challenging. There were days I walked to school instead of taking the bus or carpooling. I needed that time to figure out how I’d make it through the day and who I’d have to avoid, and to convince myself I could deal with the hateful comments, malicious looks, and toxic environment for one more day.

  The school bell at the end of the day brought an escape from the students but not from my reality. I’d hurry through the doors, only to be greeted by my mind cruelly recapping the day’s events. The residue—and knowing that I had to return for more the next day—left me anxious. A two-day weekend wasn’t long enough to recover. I walked through the school halls looking over my shoulder, worried people were talking about me. I hated gym class, even though I was just as good as the other kids. If I missed one catch, kick, or basket, the name-calling started. “Look at him. The little fag can’t even catch a ball.” If I didn’t defend myself, it looked like they were right. If I spoke up, it could turn into something bigger. So I pretended not to hear them, even though I did—every time.

  The more popular kids usually left me alone, while the lesser-known kids tried to make a name for themselves, seeking power over me with repetitive teasing and name-calling. I tried to justify it—telling myself that they might be neglected at home and took it out on me. Maybe they were bullied by their own parents or one parent bullied the other, and they mirrored what they saw. Whatever the re
asons, it was difficult for me to walk through the corridors without random teenagers asking, “Why aren’t you more of a man?” or “Why are you such a woman?” I continued to walk away from confrontation, appearing to be what they said, because I always tried to consider the bigger picture. I had cousins in the same high school, and I worried that they would hear what their friends or other kids were saying about me and tell my aunt, and then Mom would find out.

  One cousin had heard the rumors and asked me if I was dating anyone. Just to stop the inquiry from going any further, I replied, “Yes, I went out with Rachel the other night.” The next day, Rachel saw me heading into class and dashed in front of me, blocking the doorway.

  “Why would you tell people we were dating?”

  When I didn’t answer her, she half-smiled, as if she already knew the truth, and walked away. Why is the scariest question for a gay boy in the closet because most of the time the honest answer is, I’m gay.

  The few times I lied to evade such questions or situations, the lies came back to haunt me, so I always felt guilty about defending myself that way. But still, I lied to everyone I loved. It’s amazing how one lie turns into two lies, and then into three, becoming a habit or even a lifestyle.

  I thought it was best if I stopped saying anything and let people continue to believe whatever they wanted. I ate my feelings, curled up into a fetal position, and tried to sleep as much as I could, immersing myself in cable news or, when alone, Will & Grace to avoid thinking about going back to school. I stepped back, deeper into the closet, surrendered to the internal pain, and shut myself out of the life I didn’t fit into. Being gay was just too much to bear. My world turned pitch black.

  The first time I walked home from school with suicidal thoughts, I’d already written my eulogy in my head. I approached our yellowish-brown apartment building, which was situated diagonally to the Cavendish Mall, the place most of the cool kids hung out. That day, I slowed down until I stood on the sidewalk and stared up toward my ninth-floor apartment. I imagined myself perched on the balcony banister, then releasing my grip and fearlessly plunging to my death. That was one way out of this world. The saddest part of all is that I wasn’t scared; I was ready. I drew in the deepest breath I could manage, steadily exhaled, and collected myself. Like every other day, I walked into the building, took the elevator up to our apartment, and went through the daily motions, pretending to be happy and normal while combing through mental pictures of my suicide. Sometimes when I traveled, I hopefully envisioned my plane crashing and imagined Mom running to the crash site, screaming and crying. My suicidal visions were detailed and occupied my thoughts more than they should have. The only reason I didn’t kill myself was that I didn’t want the people who loved me—as beautifully as both sides of my family did—to suffer. I was afraid of disappointing my parents. As an only child, if I were to die, the Sharif name would not live on.

  Most of my formative relationships were from Mom’s side of the family. My aunts, uncles, and cousins all had siblings, and I recognized their close bond. I was jealous of those who had siblings because I had none. For years I dreamed of having a sibling of my own—a best friend. When I was fourteen, I was blessed with a baby sister.

  I was in Egypt for summer vacation when Fatima was born. It was my stepmother Shahira’s first child. I recall the day I went to the hospital to see Fatima for the first time. Dad, Omar, Faten, and other family members and friends were there to welcome her. My sister was incredibly cute. She had pudgy thighs and the most adorable dimples—and I was unbelievably happy. The day Dad and Shahira left the hospital, I went home with them, buzzing with excitement to have a little sister. I knew Shahira would be a great mother because of the way she loved me—as if I were her own son.

  The entire time I was with them, I used an old camera to photograph Fatima so I could take her everywhere I went. I’d snap one picture after another, even though she couldn’t do anything but lie there and look adorable in whatever little outfit they’d dressed her in. After summer vacation, I went back to Montreal for school and Dad regularly sent me photos of her smiling and laughing. I couldn’t wait until she was old enough to be right by my side. From then on, I had something more to look forward to during the summer and holidays.

  I was sitting at my desk one morning in Montreal when a teacher pulled me out of class. My father had called to tell me that he was boarding a private plane from Cairo to Paris. At just four and a half months old, my sister had contracted an unknown virus and became critically ill. The doctors had done everything they could in Egypt, but she wasn’t responding to treatment, so they had no recourse but to find another way: a children’s hospital in Paris.

  When they landed, they rushed Fatima to Necker for surgery. The virus had attacked her organs. Fatima needed a liver transplant, so Dad was donating a piece of his liver—Fatima’s only hope to survive. They shaved his stomach, prepped him for surgery, and were about to begin when the doctor canceled the operation; it was too late for Fatima. Dad got out of his hospital bed and went into the room with his wife and infant daughter to find Fatima in an incubator. When he told me the story, his stoic demeanor broke, and he sobbed, unexpectedly, “There were a thousand tubes coming out of her.” Fatima passed moments later.

  I flew to Paris that same evening to be with family. When I arrived, Catherine picked me up as usual. After dropping off my bags at Le Royal Monceau, where Grandfather Omar was living, we went directly to Dad’s flat. The moment I arrived, Dad lifted his shirt to show me where they had shaved his stomach in preparation for surgery. I thought it was odd at the time, but I suppose he wanted me to see that he’d done everything he could to save his daughter. When I went into the bedroom to see Shahira, I found her curled up in bed with the curtains drawn together, balled-up tissue everywhere. The room smelled of sadness and despair. Shahira’s pain was indescribable. I closed the doors and let her rest because the right words to comfort her about the loss of her child didn’t exist. I would never want my parents to feel that way about me. I owe my life today to the fact that my sister, my guardian angel, died then.

  In the eleventh grade, our all-Jewish high school offered the opportunity to take a trip to Poland and Israel. When I learned that the trip would take us to the concentration camps and death camps, I felt compelled to go. To be considered for the trip, students were required to write an essay and complete an interview. I was grateful when my application was accepted, but I wasn’t convinced the trip would be a good one. The curiosity to connect to our family history had been inside me for as long as I could remember. The suffering in Bubbie and Zadie’s eyes never left them, and this was my opportunity to have a stronger connection to their world and be closer to my history, as horrifying and unsettling as it might be.

  When we arrived in Poland, I was conscious of every detail of what we saw. In some of the camps and in the former ghettos, I saw the places Bubbie had vividly described. Majdanek, where Bubbie was separated from her sister and niece, still existed as a preserved landmark and could be restored and made fully operational in a matter of days. I even saw the bunks that my grandmother slept in. Just a glimpse of her world was unnerving. We walked through the death camp and entered rooms with the discarded shoes, hair that had been shaved off, and canisters of Zyklon B gas, used to murder victims. In the back of the camp, under a dome, they kept the ashes of the Jews they had burned in crematoriums. It was bigger than an Olympic-sized pool—like a giant ashtray filled with bodies and bones. As I stared into it, I was covered in perspiration, and my stomach clenched. The bandages were ripped off my memories of the Nazis; with raised eyelids, I shook with horror. Bubbie’s sister and her niece were in there.

  Bubbie told me that when they were on the train out of the Warsaw Ghetto and heading to the camp, her young niece had nothing to drink and was lying, listless, against her mother—dehydrated and half-dead. They had nothing to offer her, so they spat in a bottle to give her something to drink. When my eyes locked on a
bottle sticking out of the ashes in the dome, it made everything all too real. I had a breakdown. I couldn’t walk, move, or speak. The teachers didn’t think I’d make it through the rest of the trip and contemplated sending me home. I had lost my faith in humanity; Bubbie’s eternal light of optimism had extinguished within me. How could people be so cruel? As we took the bus to the next city, Gill, a popular girl in my grade, who I always assumed made fun of me like everyone else, came and sat next to me. She placed my head on her lap and held me for the next four hours as I cried. An unlikely friendship was born that reignited my faith in the goodness of others.

  After spending time in Poland, visiting sites where death and devastation took place, we flew to Israel for a week to celebrate vibrant, modern Jewish life. I was moved by the energy and spirituality in the air, and I felt my own healing taking place. Regardless of what religion I subscribed to, the land felt sacred, like it belonged to the world—to everyone. We went to the Old City of Jerusalem, where I saw the four sections, the Christian Quarter, Jewish Quarter, Muslim Quarter, and Armenian Quarter, each of which celebrated their differences and uniqueness while united by circumstance and geography. It was a beautiful mosaic of how the world could be and of how I saw myself. That trip left me hopeful that I would see rebirth after devastation. Despite challenges and political upheaval, spring always follows winter, the light comes after the darkness, and hate can turn to hope. It was clear to me that people can overcome anything. Maybe this, too, is what Omar always meant when he said, “Put your losses behind you; tomorrow we win!” Omar and Bubbie were optimists, and I was learning how to be one, too.