A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  I looked at him and shook my head.

  “They’re coming. Go down,” he insisted sternly in Arabic, trying to corral me into the hole and down the ladder. I didn’t hear the sheikh coming, nor did I know what to expect. My mind raced. The heavy beating inside my chest made me feel like I might pass out. I tried to rationalize what was happening, but it was impossible. I didn’t know if he was going to lock me down there or put a bullet in me and leave me to die, because I hadn’t paid the boy, because Sami had gotten hurt, or maybe because I was no longer of any use. Maybe it was just to get rid of me, the evidence, after that night at the farm. I began to sweat and shake.

  I jumped when I felt the young man’s hand on my back, nudging me down into the darkness. I was terrified, and my body was taut. I was in a warehouse, in the middle of the night—in Syria. My family and friends—no one knew I was even here. I didn’t know what to do, so I stepped onto the ladder, gripping it with my sweaty palms. I took deep breaths, exhaling slowly, as I lowered myself into the hole, waiting for the gunshot. I prayed that it was just my mind overdramatizing the reality. When my feet touched the uneven ground, the young man followed me into the hole and, with a few steps, reached over my head to turn on a light hanging from a ceiling covered in cobwebs. My eyes widened and my mouth fell agape. There was nowhere for me to move; I was surrounded by troves of treasure and antiquities. Apparently, the sheikh had brought me late-night, black-market antiquity shopping. The underground area resembled the storeroom of a small museum filled with numerous artifacts, some priceless. When I heard heavy footsteps, I turned around to find the sheikh carefully climbing down the ladder, the young man’s father following behind.

  The sheikh pointed at something and said, “Omar, wouldn’t that make a lovely coffee table?”

  I looked at the item he was pointing toward and saw an Egyptian sarcophagus. It was the type I’d seen in Egypt when traveling with Grandfather on the Nile.

  “I don’t think that would make a good coffee table,” I replied. “There used to be a dead person inside of it. I don’t think we should be desecrating someone’s tomb.”

  I didn’t know where it came from, but it didn’t matter—the sheikh bought it anyway. He left the warehouse, delighted with his purchase, and I was just pleased to still be alive. We spent the next two days visiting his friends and traveling around Syria, which remains among the most beautiful countries I’ve ever visited. Especially after that scare, everything I experienced that week seemed more wonderful given the alternative.

  We returned to the GCC, but I never saw the sarcophagus delivered to the sheikh’s estate. I couldn’t imagine it being in his living room as a coffee table. It belonged in a museum.

  The next trip came just a few days later; we flew to New York. The sheikh had an elegant townhome on the Upper East Side, with well-known celebrity neighbors. The shopping, food, galleries, and museums attracted him to that area. He had an affection for art. His friend, a respected artist, promised to show him some extraordinary pieces while in town. Upon meeting the artist, something immediately made me extremely uncomfortable, so I made myself scarce during his visit.

  Regardless of where we traveled, each day began the same as every other, and the sheikh never took a break from exercising, either. He was definitive about what he wanted to do and where he wanted to go; in New York, Central Park was one such place. He enjoyed riding his bike, but as much as he loved going out to exercise, he didn’t like pedaling his bike uphill. Whenever there was an incline or slight elevation, he’d whistle, and the two bodyguards riding along each side of him moved in closer. He’d place a hand on each of their shoulders while they pulled him up the incline and then he’d go back to riding by himself. Everyone around him knew precisely what he wanted at every moment; even a simple whistle called for a specific action.

  The sheikh continued his compulsive shopping in New York. We went into a record store with his security detail, and they walked down the aisles beside him with a few shopping carts while the sheikh stretched out his arms and knocked random items into the carts. When we began loading everything at the checkout, the cashier looked at us in disbelief, as if it were a joke. When we returned to his townhome, he told me that my job for the next few weeks was to upload all the CDs to his iTunes library. The tasks the sheikh assigned me no longer involved banking or gave cause for me to use any of my professional skills. He’d transitioned my role to menial labor, working to intentionally fracture my mental state and to remind me that he was the sheikh. In response, I began to drink more. In retrospect, I had totally lost my sense of self-worth—I was broken down, full of shame and misplaced guilt. I didn’t leave because I actually didn’t believe I deserved better.

  After a week in New York, we boarded his plane and took off for his U.S. cottage in the mountains for a few weeks. The only thing I thought about was being home in Egypt and Canada. I had never imagined that I could miss my family as much as I did, even though I’d always appreciated how special it was being with them. If I had been given time off, I would have been able to keep to my work routine, just as the sheikh did, but he wasn’t offering.

  We were taking trips more often, and flying with the sheikh wasn’t easy. The problem wasn’t wearing the required suit, tie, and dress shoes but that, occasionally, the staff had to take turns using the seats and stand for part of the flight, which was uncomfortable. When the sheikh was tired, he’d have the butler fold the leather sofa into a bed, so he could put on his pajamas and sleep during long flights. The sofa happened to be the seats that we should have been seated in, so we would stand for hours on end.

  The flight from New York to the mountains was somewhat choppy that morning due to rough winds, but with just five minutes to landing, the sheikh said, “Omar, go make me some tea.”

  “The seatbelt sign is on and we’re about to land,” I reminded him.

  “Don’t worry, I own this plane—and the pilot. You don’t have to follow the rules. No one’s going to yell at you but me. Go make my tea!”

  As the landing gear was deployed, I unbuckled my seatbelt and hurried to the galley to make his tea so I could hand it to him before we touched down. Typically, one of the chefs or butlers served him, and a butler was on the plane. I didn’t mind making it, but before then, he’d never asked me. When I reached out to hand it to him, he pointed for me to place it in the cup holder. As we touched down, I stumbled backwards, spilling the tea and burning myself—and he erupted with laughter. The sheikh hadn’t wanted tea at all but had asked me to make it as a joke or to amuse himself in some perverted way. He’d wanted to see if I’d burn myself carrying it while the plane landed.

  Part of the job description entailed being able to ski, and we did that the next afternoon, which was a reprieve. The fresh snow and crisp air temporarily removed some of the uneasiness I carried, providing much-needed time to recalibrate. When we returned to the cottage, the sheikh’s head of security asked to speak with him. He told the sheikh that Baqil, the Lebanese assistant who had climbed into bed with us that night, had been stealing watches from the sheikh’s collection and sending them back to his family in Lebanon. The sheikh gave me a dismissive glance and said sternly to his security guard, “Follow me.” They went into his office just a few feet away and closed the doors.

  I was in my room completing the onerous task of uploading the sheikh’s CDs one at a time when I heard loud groaning from the next room. Seconds later, there was a thump. I jumped out of my chair and ran into the adjoining bedroom to find Baqil violently convulsing on the floor with foam oozing out of his mouth. The same security guard from earlier was standing over him. He pulled out his phone and dialed the paramedics while I dropped to the floor, scooped Baqil into my lap, and pulled him up against my chest. Attempting to stop his shaking, I wrapped my arms and legs around his convulsing body, but it didn’t help. His teeth chattered as if he had just been pulled from a frozen lake. By the time the paramedics arrived and took Baqil away, he was s
till alive but unresponsive.

  The next morning, I asked to visit Baqil, but I was told that the small local hospital wasn’t equipped to handle his condition and that he had been taken to a larger facility nearby. Someone explained that Baqil had a pulmonary embolism in his lung and that he was being treated. I was taken aback by what happened, but no one else seemed to be; everyone who worked for the sheikh minimized the seriousness of what happened to Baqil. None of them would dare cross that invisible line and jeopardize their job or life.

  The artist from New York came to visit the sheikh’s lodge the following Friday. While we were having dinner, the sheikh began his graphic commentary, lying about the sexual things he did to me. Although he didn’t say it, I felt as though he was selling me at auction or driving up my price for the artist. Just as I had before, I sat at the dinner table with my head down, barely picking at the food on my plate. I listened to each disgusting detail, wondering if his friend actually believed him. When I briefly made eye contact with the artist, I found him gawking at me as though he was hoping everything the sheikh described was true. This time, warning alarms went off in my mind immediately. It felt reminiscent of what had happened at the farm.

  The sheikh poured vodka, one drink after another, expecting me to take it each time, and I did. But I’d get up and go to the bathroom, pour it down the drain, and refill my glass with water. I could tell the sheikh was assessing my behavior when he asked me to belly dance for them with Titou. I couldn’t think of a way out. Even though Titou complied with the request, he was despondent, as if he were trapped, and I was no different. This was becoming my reality—my life. Trying to keep the evening light and fun, Titou put on some lively music and zills. We danced as instructed, but my mind was occupied with what had happened to Baqil—to Titou—and to the others before me. I couldn’t erase from my mind the look of terror on Baqil’s face or the feeling of how awful it was to see him in that state, especially because I still didn’t know whether he had survived.

  Thirty minutes later, the sheikh nodded to his friend as he got up. He came over to Titou and me and said, “I’m going to bed now.” Then he leaned closer to me and said firmly, “Remember, it’s part of your job description to entertain my friends, too.” He left the living room and went to his bedroom. The imminent feeling that I’d been placed in a dangerous situation shot through my body. The middle-aged artist was smiling flirtatiously as he twisted the edge of his reddish-blond mustache, under the assumption that I’d drunk enough to be quite intoxicated and vulnerable to his advances—or to whatever he might soon suggest. As he positioned himself between Titou and me, I politely got up and excused myself.

  Instead of going to my bedroom, where the artist might follow, I went downstairs and locked myself in the bathroom near the staff quarters. I stared at my frightened reflection in the mirror, contemplating what I’d gotten myself into. After what had happened to Baqil, I was determined to call someone in case I didn’t make it out of there this time. If I didn’t sleep with the artist, I believed that I would be the next to die or disappear. Sick with fear and anxiety, the only person I could think of to call was Raph. Since I couldn’t tell my family, I needed someone who cared about me to know I was no longer safe. By the second ring, Raph answered, and before he could say anything, I went off on a steady rant until I got everything I needed to say out.

  “I got myself into a bad situation, Raph. I’m in the United States and—and I’m going to make a run for it tonight because I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”

  “Slow down and start from the beginning. What situation?”

  “I don’t have time to go into the details. It’s not safe.”

  “Do you need me to call anyone—or do anything?”

  “No—don’t do anything. This guy has diplomatic immunity. I could end up in even more trouble. I think it’s best if I just disappear. They normally keep hold of my passport when I’m in the GCC, but since we’re traveling I have it. I just wanted you to know if anything happens to me—I was trying to leave.”

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll come and get you!”

  “I’m in the mountains. I’ll try to call you if I get out.”

  I hung up, leaving Raph at a loss because I hadn’t told him or anyone else what was going on until then. All anyone knew was that I was the chief of staff for a wealthy businessman who inherited his fortune from his royal family and that the opportunity appeared fantastic. I was too afraid and embarrassed to tell anyone that none of it was real. I got the job because of my looks and my age. I took it because I told myself it was a real business opportunity. I stayed because I wanted to prove myself to my family, or at least not make them feel any more shame. The sheikh and I both knew the real reason he hired me and why I stayed.

  I waited for what felt like a couple of hours until the cottage was completely quiet. When I thought everyone was asleep, I went up to my room and put on my boots, grabbed my heaviest coat, wallet, and passport, and left through the service entrance. Determined to make it to safety, I walked a couple of miles from his cottage down to the base of the mountain, using my phone as a flashlight. When I hit the main road, I hitchhiked my way to the nearest airport, where I bought a ticket on the first flight out that morning. When I boarded the plane, I sat in my seat, carefully constructing my resignation letter by email. But when I finished, I didn’t press send. Fear was filling my chest, and it must have been plain on my face, because the woman next to me to ask if I was okay. I feigned a smile and nodded my head before turning to stare blindly out the window. Compared to all that time spent on the sheikh’s private plane, this budget commercial airliner felt like complete luxury.

  When the plane landed in New York City, I rented a car and headed home to Canada. I called Raph while I was driving and told him I had escaped and that I was safe, although I didn’t tell him everything. He knew something terrible had happened, and that I didn’t sound the same as I had before I’d left, but that was all. I spent hours brooding over the way I’d explain my random return home to Mom and the rest of my family. I didn’t know what to tell them, and I didn’t want to put them in danger or involve Dad or Grandfather. I definitely wanted to avoid an international fiasco. The only thing that made sense was to say I lost my job.

  By now, it was late morning in the mountains, and I knew the sheikh or a member of his staff would be looking for me. I didn’t want him to wake up and wonder where I was; instead, I wanted there to be an answer—closure. I pulled over to fill the gas tank, and before getting back on the road, with my hands trembling, I sent the resignation letter, in which I attempted to justify why I’d left in the middle of the night. Careful with my communication, I thanked him for the amazing opportunity, for introducing me to new people and experiences, and for showing me different places and things. I told him that I had been too embarrassed to tell him in person that I didn’t think I was meant to be his chief of staff. I shared that my real passion was acting, and that I was too selfish to dedicate myself to him in the way he required. I explained that I intended to pursue acting once more and that I’d make him proud of me. Overall, my resignation was designed to defuse any tension or blame; it was meant to be thoughtful and kind, so I could leave unafraid and on good terms. In a matter of minutes, I received a reply, but I knew it was Hani because the sheikh rarely messaged anyone himself; he had us do it. Uncertain of his reaction, I pulled over to the side of the road to read the reply. It said, “Omar, good for you. If you want to be an actor, I recommend you go to acting school and take it seriously.” Just reading his words made me cringe. This man was so powerful, raised like a god, that I truly believed he did not know the pain and hurt he caused. It was merely beyond his comprehension to think of the impact he had on others.

  When I arrived home, I stuck to a narrative that would end all questions, and it worked. I told Mom that the lifestyle was too fast and dangerous for me, and that I was afraid. I didn’t tell anyone the truth about being raped. I didn�
��t tell them that another assistant had gotten into a car accident and died on one of the sheikh’s properties. If I had mentioned Baqil, I would have broken down and confessed everything, and I refused to worry them. I felt my time there had come to an end, and if I hadn’t left that night, I might not have had another opportunity to escape.

  After the mountains, we were scheduled to spend all summer on the sheikh’s superyacht. I was afraid that things could become worse while we were in the middle of the Mediterranean and knew that my backstroke might not be strong enough to get me to shore. On land, as long as there was a door, I could walk through it—and finally, I had.

  I had made a lot of foolish choices that were dangerous and risky, but I came to understand that I made them because I didn’t respect myself. Sure, the sheikh lacked empathy, but so did I—for myself. And moving forward, every decision I made needed to come from a place of self-respect. Until that point, I had been insecure; therefore, I had put myself in situations that were not secure.

  9

  Rock the Casbah

  I’d done everything my family wanted. I’d gone to school, obtained my degrees, and had enough money to fall back on. I did everything they ever asked of me, always afraid of not making them proud, and in return, I had been wronged and raped and had repeatedly feared for my life. But here’s the thing about being dehumanized—being reduced to nothing, feeling hopeless and helpless—I lost my fear. That’s the difference between desperate and destitute; to have nothing left means you have nothing left to lose. I mean, what’s left to fear when you’ve already experienced the worst, when your soul is already crushed and buried? There’s no place to go but up—things can only get better. “Put your losses in the past; tomorrow you win,” Grandfather always said.