by Omar Sharif
I was still looking for jobs in my field of study while Dad was going through yet another divorce, making it uncomfortable to remain in Cairo. I returned to London in 2009 to continue my job search. Natasha told me that she had a spare bedroom and that I could live with her, so I accepted. It wasn’t long before I discovered there were things about her that I didn’t know. I was watching television late one night when I heard Natasha’s voice in one of the advertisements. When I asked her about it, she told me that before working at a hedge fund she was a glamor model—doing late-night commercials. She was a pro at using her sexuality to advance her career. Living with Natasha taught me that I, too, could use my sexuality and charisma to get ahead and to possibly find that perfect job. When I thought about it, almost everyone I knew did this on some level. I didn’t think it was a big deal and considered it harmless—what could possibly go wrong?
Like Natasha, Raph, and my other friends, I was finally ready to become independent, and I could do that if I found a job in the banking sector. Opportunities in London were still limited; I continued searching online, but I kept coming up short. As part of my morning routine, I went to the gym, which kept me in great shape and helped to relieve stress. But one day, an impetuous decision changed my life.
The rain was hammering down that morning when I darted through the revolving door of the luxury building where my fitness center was located. As I removed my hat, drenched, I bumped into one of two well-dressed gentlemen standing in the lobby.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said politely.
“Good morning. Are you here for the job interview?” one of the men asked, suggesting I was the individual they were waiting for.
“Excuse me. The interview?” I repeated.
“Yes,” the same gentleman replied, handing me a white handkerchief to dry my face. “For the chief of staff position.”
I glanced down at the informal workout attire I was wearing and then back up to the gentleman. “Yes?” I told him, because I was desperate for an opportunity.
“Do we have your résumé?” he continued.
“Uh—I forgot it at home.”
“Well, we’re running late. This way,” he said. I followed them up to an office, as the gentleman who had greeted me explained the opportunity. “You seem to be what the sheikh is looking for, but you must know that he’s a fairly quirky member of the royal family and . . . rather eccentric.” Out the corner of my eye, I noticed the other gentleman nodding in agreement. “Some of your job responsibilities would require you to ski and be able to live on a yacht for extended periods without suffering seasickness.” I looked at him as if I’d landed in the middle of a prank. But if this really was the job description, I had literally walked into an incredible opportunity. When we reached the office, I sat down, listened, and answered their questions about my educational background, work experience, and language skills. Afterward, he told me they didn’t have my name on the interview list, but that I was more than qualified.
“Are you interested?”
“It sounds like a dream job. I get to ski, live on a superyacht half the year, sail around the world, and work for a wealthy sheikh in the Gulf Cooperation Council—of course!”
At the end of the interview, he told me that our conversation was to be kept private and that I was to be discreet about the job if I was moved on to the next stage of interviews. The other gentleman, who hadn’t said a word, handed me a business card, while the one speaking asked me to send my résumé and said he’d be in touch.
“You will have it this afternoon,” I said.
“One more thing,” he added.
“What’s that?”
He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of me.
After leaving the interview, I called my parents and told them everything. They knew I was hoping to make it to the next round of interviews because the person I’d be working for owned several large companies and was heavily involved in the global financial system. I’d be able to utilize my degrees, languages, and vast experience with international travel to cultivate relationships with ultra-high-net-worth individuals and VIPs. Mom couldn’t be more excited that I’d live with a royal billionaire, travel the world privately, and spend time on a yacht. I had experienced that lifestyle with Grandfather and Grandmother, and she was happy that it could continue. However, Dad wasn’t impressed; he advised me to be cautious.
“You know we’ve worked a lot with people from the GCC. Be careful,” he said sternly. “The culture is different.”
“Don’t worry,” I replied confidently. “I can take care of myself.”
Two weeks went by, and I’d nearly forgotten about the job. I decided that the guy who was supposed to be interviewed had showed up and had gotten the position. But at the beginning of the third week, the interviewer called and told me I was moving on to the second stage.
“A private plane will be waiting to take you to the Gulf to interview with the sheikh. When you land, there will be a personal assistant who will take you to the estate.”
“When?”
“This evening.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“And, Mr. Sharif, he usually only hires British gentlemen to work in the capacity you are interviewing for. The sheikh prefers their traditional style of dress—British country clothing and tweed jackets. Wear a suit.”
I told him it wasn’t a problem and hung up the phone. Natasha was in the living room with me when I took the call. She heard part of the conversation and I filled her in on the rest, including the fact that I only had a few hours before catching a flight to the Gulf for an in-person interview. Excited for me, she dropped what she was working on and dove into my preparations, washing my clothes and helping me pack a small bag for the next two days while I completed a million other errands. Later that evening, I received a call that a car was downstairs to pick me up. The driver dropped me off at a private airfield near London, where I took a red-eye to an unspecified location in the Gulf to secure the job.
7
Omar of Gayrabia
The plane landed just before 5:00 a.m. in the GCC. An assistant, with jet black hair and heavy streaks of gray around his temples who was dressed in a neatly tailored dark-blue suit and a crisp white shirt, was waiting in a black SUV to transport me to the estate. He introduced himself as Hani and told me he’d worked for the sheikh for over thirty years. His hands were soft, like his voice, and his eyes were kind. Hani said, “When we arrive, we will wait outside his bedroom quarters until he wakes up. He’ll want to interview you right away. Afterward, you will join him for breakfast.”
“And what should I call him?” I asked courteously.
“The sheikh,” he replied.
When we arrived, I noticed not just the massive estate itself, but also the sound of exotic birds and a beautifully manicured lawn that surrounded an arboretum—a perfect sanctuary from the desert heat. When I entered the palace, everything was next-level ornate, with marble, brass, and gold everywhere the eye could see—it looked as though Louis XIV had furnished the place personally.
Hani caught sight of me adjusting my blue and silver Bulgari tie. He said, “You’ll get used to it. The air conditioning is on full blast, but it’s always this hot—unless you’re in the mountains or at the farm.” Then he reached for my bags and handed them to a young man who’d come up beside him. “Don’t worry about your bags. They’ll be taken to your room. We’re going to prepare for the sheikh to wake up so he can meet with you.”
I followed Hani down a long, intricately patterned marble hallway with opulent pieces of art displayed on cream-colored pillars that were spaced evenly along the way. We sat outside the sheikh’s private quarters on a decorative, velvet-tufted bench from 5:45 that morning until he rang a bell at 7:00, summoning Hani and a handful of young men. They hurried through the heavy, golden double doors and began tending to the sheikh—placing his coffee in front of him, lighting his pipe, and doing whatever else of what appeared t
o be a standard morning routine. I took mental notes as I watched through the doors that had been left slightly ajar. Ten minutes later, Hani returned and said, “Okay, the sheikh is ready to meet with you.”
I didn’t know what to expect when I entered the enormous bedroom, but the mild, sweet smell of oud and tobacco quickly greeted me. An extremely attractive young man, who seemed barely twenty, with blond hair and a lean physique, was pulling back the curtains around the room. Good Morning America was on the large projection screen, although it was not yet morning in the US. The sheikh lounged in a massive bed with a stack of mail beside him; I spotted my résumé lying on top of it. Using his pipe, he motioned for me to sit on the sofa alongside the bed, and then Hani seated himself next to me. The sheikh appeared to be in his mid-fifties and in relatively decent physical shape, with light, graying stubble shadowing his cheeks. He lowered his eyeglasses and peered over them while drawing a trail of smoke into his mouth.
“Is it true that you are Omar Sharif and Faten Hamama’s grandson?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, it is.”
“Your education is very good. The London School of Economics is impressive.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
I found it surreal that I was being interviewed while he—the sheikh—sat in his bed. He asked several in-depth questions about my background, the languages I spoke, and my fluency in each. Then he told Hani he had to go to the bathroom. Dressed in a traditional white gallabiya with gray stripes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge facing me, giving me a clear view up his nightgown. My expression didn’t change, but I remember thinking, I haven’t known the man for thirty minutes, and I’ve already accidentally seen his penis. He got out of bed, while Hani followed him to the bathroom. When he returned, he climbed back in bed and continued the interview. After the sheikh finished asking me questions, he announced that he was going to shower and get ready. He told Hani he’d meet us in the garden room.
There were stone sculptures placed around the garden room. Wild animals romped through tropical leaves and vines on the vibrant wallpaper, lending the room a rainforest vibe. We sat down to a delightful breakfast, prepared by the chefs, but I didn’t eat much. I continued to learn more about what he needed in a personal assistant and chief of staff. From what I could tell, Hani seemed quite qualified, but perhaps my education appealed to the sheikh for other reasons, or perhaps Hani just needed more support.
After breakfast, the sheikh told me to change into athletic wear because we were going for a bike ride. He wanted to show me around town, as it was possible I’d soon be living there. The problem was that I’d only packed enough clothing for two days. That didn’t matter; the sheikh insisted that I go with him, so Hani loaned me shorts and a pair of tennis shoes.
We went biking with one black SUV in front of us and another trailing behind. There were two guards on bikes flanking us as we casually took a path along the gulf’s coast. After a few miles and some light conversation, everything was going well, and we returned to his estate.
“Okay, we’re done our exercise. Put on a swimsuit; we’re going into the hot tub, steam room, and cold bath. It’s great for the heart.”
I thought it was weird for an interview, but it had been explained that part of my job description was to be wherever the sheikh was and to do whatever he wanted. I rationalized it until it made sense. Everything was fine, and the conversation continued. I spent most of the day with him doing activities and talking in between each.
“Okay,” he began, clapping his hands together. “This is going really well. But in order for you to take this job, you need to be here twenty-four seven,” he said, studying my reaction.
“That’s fine,” I replied eagerly.
“You don’t get any days off, or weekends, but you will be given a long break each year. I need to know that we really get along and that you fit into the culture here.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
“I’m sure. But as part of the interview process, I’d like you to extend your trip for a week.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but I only packed for two days. I don’t have what I need to stay longer—”
“You will have everything you need.”
Hani reached into his pocket and handed me a wad of money, and that afternoon, he took me shopping for clothing so I could extend my trip.
The following week, Hani provided a daily itinerary and left me to work more closely with the sheikh each morning. Hani intermittently returned, assessed my progress, and offered general direction. Afternoons were reserved for visits to some of the sheikh’s businesses and for shopping—where he’d spend thousands of dollars on a single trip. Afterward, he’d take out one of his extravagant cars and drive it recklessly, seeming to enjoy the thrill and the inherent risks.
During that week, I observed his entire staff working and communicating like one big family. Although I never asked why there weren’t any women working for him, the sheikh casually explained he liked to be around other men because he didn’t have any remaining immediate family. His parents, four brothers, and sister were deceased, leading me to believe that he considered those living and working with him his new family.
Three international chefs on staff prepared the sheikh’s favorite cuisines so he could eat whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. His employees and staff dined at the table with him, even when his friends came to visit. He had a handful of young assistants, but I never knew what their exact job descriptions were. They seemed to be, well, just there, and Sami, a nineteen-year-old, golden-blond, handsome Lebanese man with a tapered beard, was one of them. Other than Hani, Sami seemed to be the closest to the sheikh.
Not only was Hani well-versed on the sheikh’s schedule and routine, he also helped me quickly become acclimated to the staff, the city, and the sheikh’s corporate team. By the end of the week, I was comfortable within the position, and it was exactly what the recruiter had promised.
I returned to London, packed up the rest of my belongings, and moved to the Gulf. The sheikh was eccentric, but also welcoming, lonely, and kind. My official title was chief of staff, which made me feel that I was a valuable employee and that he would lean on me professionally. It appeared to be a dream job. Each morning, Hani and I alternated reading a hundred or so emails and organized them by importance. Then the sheikh would go through them. I made sure the cars were ready and the plane was prepared when he traveled. I went to the office with him, arranged his itinerary, scheduled meetings with consultants or lawyers, and attended each of them to take notes. I worked directly with his professional team, which allowed me to learn more about the global financial system and the banking industry in a practical manner, rather than the theoretical way my studies had offered. More importantly, I had a brilliant, powerful, and successful mentor. The sheikh was dealing with other royalty, heads of state, and CEOs around the world. I was his right hand and quickly became a sounding board. With his connections and relationships—and with that type of power—the sky was the limit.
The sheikh had a private plane and often seemed eager to take off somewhere. One week, a visiting friend of his recommended that we go to Beirut, as the sheikh had a home there. The friend thought it might be good for the sheikh, since he’d been narrowly focused on business during the economic downturn. The businesses had required all his attention to turn them around amid the global recession. The staff was happy to prepare for the trip, as many of them were Lebanese. It would be my first time traveling to Beirut, and frankly, after a few weeks in the Gulf, I was ready to go, too. The desert, dust, heat, and humidity became monotonous for everyone. I welcomed the change, and the staff told me Beirut promised good times and good food.
Despite the recent warfare—bullet holes in buildings and bomb markings on the walls—there was so much wonderful energy in Beirut. I could feel the positivity and love for life from people wherever we went. They had the most
vivacious spirit. I could still see evidence of why Beirut had once been called the Paris of the Middle East, and why my grandfather always spoke so highly of his time there while on break from filming Lawrence of Arabia.
At the sheikh’s luxurious Beirut property, we kept the same routine, except that in the early afternoon we’d take Hummers into the mountains, going from a temperate climate to snow in a half hour. One afternoon, we were caught in a snowstorm; it was difficult to see anything, even the end of the road. At one point we hit a snowbank, which fortunately stopped us from plunging off a cliff. Other vehicles had to come and retrieve us. But even with that event, the trip seemed to put the sheikh in a better mood. When we returned to his home that evening, he said, “I’m so happy we came here; my libido is starting to come back.”
Our time in Beirut marked my first month working for the sheikh and everything had gone well, especially with his businesses. It appeared that he was beginning to feel more confident in my professional abilities, but I wasn’t necessarily comfortable with all of his personal relationships. Some of the men who came to visit during the week in Beirut were different than I’d seen in the Gulf. They brought with them young men who they would then touch and grab at inappropriately. They were treated as property and forcefully handed one drink after another. Because the sheikh surrounded himself with men, I had begun to suspect that the sheikh was gay. He’d once asked me if I was gay, and I’d told him the truth. I didn’t want to lie, because I wanted the job and suspected he may have known anyway, but he never admitted to anything. He just nodded, acceptingly. I was happy to feel accepted and appreciated.
