A Tale of Two Omars

by Omar Sharif

  While I was with GLAAD, Guido Barilla, the chairman of the Barilla Group, engendered controversy in the LGBTQ community during an interview with an Italian radio program, prompting calls for boycotts of the company. At the time, we didn’t have a permanent president at GLAAD, so I welcomed Guido Barilla to our offices and sat with him. We spoke about our differences and misunderstandings, and the Barilla Group has since evolved into a progressive company that supports the LGBTQ movement worldwide. They started a diversity and inclusion board to establish goals and practical strategies for the improvement of internal policies and external engagement. I stayed involved and worked closely with their team to help identify the right people for their board, including a mentor of mine—David Mixner. As a result, Barilla implemented some of the most progressive employment benefits for the LGBTQ community, even before marriage equality became a landmark ruling.

  The initial calls to boycott Barilla were helpful and lent urgency to the situation, but sitting at the table to talk and better understand one another made the most impact. By sitting together, progress can be made, lessons taught, and change implemented. Some people aren’t willing to sit down together, and they don’t want to change, but the power of dialogue should never be underestimated. Around that same time, I reached out to the Duck Dynasty cast after an interview was published that included incredibly hurtful comments about the LGBTQ community. They refused to sit down and have a conversation, and that unwillingness to have dialogue was damaging both to them and to the greater good. Freedom of speech does not necessarily correlate to freedom from consequences. It’s sad when people can’t see their own misconceptions or mistakes. I, for one, appreciate my mistakes; teachable moments come when you can accept that there is something left to learn. This type of education can only happen when we share our stories and understand each other on a human level.

  From these experiences with GLAAD, I realized that if I was going to be successful in the activist arena, I would likely accomplish more by sharing my story, showing people who I am, and creating empathy by demonstrating all that we have in common. That became my modus operandi. If I’m honest, even with GLAAD I always felt hesitant calling myself an activist, because to me an activist is someone who actively works to change policies or laws. I think of myself, in contrast, as someone who lives his life and makes waves, leaving it up to others to decide how they’ll swim in them. By the time I left GLAAD, I had found my own voice and understood my true purpose. I realized that I wanted to actively work to change the minds of people around me and to create understanding and acceptance. It was with that in mind that I sought a grant with ARCUS on the day Grandfather died. ARCUS believes that people can live in harmony with one another, and so do I. Their grant would allow me to use my voice, my way. I knew that acceptance in the Arab world would take a specific initiative—something I couldn’t accomplish fully with GLAAD or more traditional activist methods. Activists wouldn’t necessarily succeed where there wasn’t a rule of law or constitution they could try to change. The fight in Egypt wasn’t yet about equality, because equality is a legal concept. The fight was still for acceptance, which is moral and ethical. The activist methods that were being used in courts and legislatures in the United States weren’t going to work back home. In the Middle East, I was up against religious interpretation and cultural attitudes.

  I acquired the grant from ARCUS so that I could participate in the Oslo Freedom Forum, an event held annually by the Human Rights Foundation. The forum has become a leading platform for the voices of activists and freedom fighters worldwide and has been referred to as the “Davos for dissidents.” Using personal stories of survival, strength, and sacrifice, these freedom fighters take on tyranny and oppression by appealing to hearts and minds. With that goal, I wrote a speech and traveled to Oslo. I reintroduced myself, but not as someone calling for changed laws or inclusion, as I had in my letter in The Advocate. Instead, I wanted to show people who I was on the inside—a son, a grandson, and someone who just wants to be loved and accepted, like everyone else. It was no longer about laws or rights; it was about acceptance and understanding. My message finally resonated.

  As people began to show increased interest in my message, I was invited to continue sharing it. I became an ambassador for the Human Rights Foundation and the Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation, I spoke to parliaments and legislatures around the world, I addressed the issue of LGBTQ refugees at the United Nations, and I discussed LGBTQ acceptance and called for the end of HIV stigma in front of audiences in four continents and dozens of countries. I was honored to be selected as one of several Africans who have upheld Nelson Mandela’s legacy on the centennial celebration of his birth, during which I delivered a speech in Johannesburg. I was named grand marshal of several Pride Parades. Prague held one of the largest parades in Central Europe in August of 2016, and news outlets reported that over forty thousand people attended. As an LGBTQ Arab exile, the role of grand marshal of the parade, which took place in the midst of the Syrian refugee crisis in Europe, allowed me to speak on behalf of one of the most marginalized groups at the time. Many people aren’t aware that Omar Sharif was of Syrian and Lebanese descent, which means that I am, too. When people think of Syria, they think of ISIS, not of families fleeing warfare or of the threats faced by LGBTQ people. Refugee is a blanket term that lumps together so many—I suppose that I, too, am a refugee of sorts, even with my means and my family name.

  As a contribution, I wanted to facilitate understanding. Even when I was angry, while people were calling me names, continuing to take away my rights, and banning me from my home in Egypt, I remained calm and in control of my emotions. I always tried to maintain the higher ground, just as my grandmothers had. Faten was always poised and dignified, even when speaking about or demanding women’s rights. Bubbie taught me to forgive people the moment they said something and to try and understand the root of their misunderstanding instead of taking an accusatory stance. If someone makes the choice to hate me, it is because they don’t understand me. Misunderstanding is an opportunity for renewed understanding. Initially, I deleted all the negative and hateful comments on my social media pages, but I now leave them for the world to see. Erasing hate does not eradicate it. I learned a great deal from my family, and I’ve tried to use it in my capacity to help others.

  After everything that I’d gone through, I sought to turn hopelessness into hope, torment into testaments of strength, and to let my lesions morph into lessons. I started converting all the negatives I experienced into positives and took my message anywhere it could be heard. I traveled the world to encourage people—not to impose or to intimidate, but to be heard and to be hopeful. Those who opposed my message could disagree with me, but while I was sitting with them, we could often work through our differences and find some common ground. I was no longer trying to do the job of an activist, but rather acting as a mediator.

  Even though I’ve been through decades of bullying, suicidal thoughts, and rape, and faced vilification by a country, exile, and more threats of violence and death than I can count, I’ve opted to remain optimistic. At first, I was offended when someone called me privileged, as those who did so were basing the concept of privilege entirely on supposed net worth or socioeconomic status. However, with time, experience, and accomplishments, I realized that they were right. I have been privileged—privileged to inherit the legacy of the Sharif name and privileged to inherit a platform for social change from my grandparents.

  Grandfather Omar was privileged, too. He embraced and appreciated the incredibly diverse roles he was given, in such films as Lawrence of Arabia, Funny Girl, Doctor Zhivago, Hidalgo, Che!, Monsieur Ibrahim, and others. But he was also somewhat disappointed when he was the only person of color cast to play a Russian physician and poet, a Jew from Brooklyn, a Nazi officer, a Turkish immigrant, a Cuban revolutionary, a Spanish priest, an Austrian prince, an Armenian refugee, a Mongolian emperor, or a Yugoslav patriot. It wasn’t that Grandfather didn’t w
ant a particular role or appreciate the money he made from them—Grandfather wanted to see more diversity in Hollywood. He told me that he’d ask his agent, the director, or even the producer why they didn’t get a Russian actor or Mongolian and so forth, but the response was that there weren’t many trained actors at the time. Casting Grandfather in Hollywood films opened the doors to discussions about casting racialized peoples in significant or leading roles. The Hollywood executives saw Omar Sharif as an actor who had the exotic look and languages to fit into the category of Other. Had they made any of his films in the present-day, they’d have had a broader range of actors to play many of his roles. By the time Grandfather reached the pinnacle of his film career, the lack of inclusion and diversity remained, but he continued to be conscious of the need for it. Grandfather was a symptom of Hollywood’s problem and also a breakthrough for the end of a foreign person of color playing all other racialized peoples. There are too many barriers in acting, just as there were for Grandfather, but he used his platform to break those barriers and open doors for others. If one more person can slip through the doors that Grandfather helped to open, it’s worth it—art and storytelling are privileges.

  Looking at the photos and reflecting on my family history and my own reminded me of what I’d overcome and accomplished and of how much more there was still to do. Photos are just stories locked in time. In those stories are people, relationships, and lessons to impart. There is so much to learn when you look at someone’s face.

  When I was in Oslo, I finally told my story to the world and shared everything that had happened since I had come out. People were familiar with my letter, but they still didn’t really know me. Members of the LGBTQ community are not an issue; they are not facts, figures, statistics, or moral or ethical debates. Members of the LGBTQ community are people. Through media advocacy, I’d given the movement in Egypt a face—my face. They now had pictures of my childhood, photos of me with my grandparents, and my stories of growing up in Egypt. Sharing my story and helping to elevate the stories of others continues to be the best way I know to move the hearts and minds of people before we can even think of moving legislatures. It’s harder to hate someone you know.

  In Oslo, after giving my address to the Freedom Forum, I was invited along with two other activists to a meeting with a high-ranking politician in the Norwegian parliament. I remember sitting in his office as the three of us discussed ways the international community could help play a role advocating for change in our home countries. After the meeting, the politician took us on a tour of the building, and at one point while guiding me into place for an official photograph, he placed his hand on my buttocks. After everything I had been through, I was still shocked; here I was at a conference to talk about human rights abuses, and a closeted politician had the audacity to grope me. I was so shocked that I didn’t say anything. When we left the parliament, one of the other activists, a woman from Iran who had endured torture and imprisonment, turned to me and said, “What the hell just happened in there?” I didn’t know anyone else had seen it. I replied, “Let’s just get out of here.” The only people I told about the incident were the organizers of the conference—so that they would never again put another person in that position. Today when I look at that photograph, it, too, tells a story.

  The following day, still in Oslo, a journalist from Süddeutsche Zeitung in Germany asked to interview me. I agreed. After telling him my story, he asked me several questions, which I answered, and he concluded the interview by asking, “If you had one question that you wanted to ask a religious head in Egypt, what would it be?”

  I replied, “Should I really be hurt or harmed for being myself?”

  I thought the question was appropriate, as I was still receiving threats of violence and death. A few months after my interview, the same magazine interviewed the highest religious authority for Muslims in Egypt, the Grand Mufti. He was asked about the treatment and murder of gay people after the mass shooting in Orlando. His reply was, “It is religiously not allowed and not an accepted practice in Islam, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to hurt homosexual people or to take the law into their own hands.” In my view, that statement remains one of the most significant moments in Egyptian LGBTQ history. The government was still persecuting people, but for a religious leader to take away the individual ability to execute judgment or punishment increases acceptance and safety for our community—even if it is only moving the needle just a little bit. So many activists want things changed all at once, but if my story has in any way influenced the thinking of the religious head of Egyptian Muslims—that is real progress. He didn’t imply that we should live freely and be celebrated or have pride parades at the pyramids and marriage equality. But it was still a significant step.

  I learned to be patient and pragmatic in my approach; I learned that tiny victories are still victories. Changing a single heart or mind is a victory. If one person comes out to their family and just one member of their family accepts them, that’s another victory. Even gaining allies one at a time will help the movement spread.

  I didn’t always heed my own advice and stay levelheaded, and there were some moments when I let my own frustration get the better of me. One example was in 2019 when the sultan of Brunei issued a law to subject LGBTQ people to stoning. In a fit of rage and haste, I tweeted that I volunteer myself second to be executed under Brunei’s new anti-LGBTQ law on the condition that the sultan’s son would be first, effectively outing Prince Azim, and that the sultan himself cast the first and last stones. After international backlash, the sultan backtracked on enforcing the law, but I never found any joy in the outcome or its aftermath. After long moments of introspection, I had to accept that I might have put Prince Azim’s life in danger—and I deeply regret that. I could never have known or understood the prince’s predicament, and it was not for me to judge his actions or lack thereof, nor to offer him as a sacrificial lamb. The tweet made international headlines, and I still feel a certain shame about it today. In fact, as I write this final chapter, I am saddened to learn of Prince Azim’s untimely death at the age of thirty-eight. We were told he passed after battling a long illness, but in my heart I will always question the true cause of his death.

  I am also somewhat dismayed that many people are still calling for the boycott of the Dorchester Collection hotels, which are owned by the sultan of Brunei, and publicly shaming patrons. While it is up to every individual to choose how and where they spend their disposable income, boycotts lose their effectiveness as tools when we don’t end them after achieving the outcomes we demanded. I’ve since held many conversations with LGBTQ employees of Dorchester Collection hotels, all of whom have expressed what welcoming environments they have always been, while touting the company’s long history of progressive internal policies. At some point, our intention to do good with a continued boycott of the sultan begins to hurt fellow LGBTQ brothers and sisters, and can bring renewed harm to others.

  When Mom finally came around and bought me my watch, it was her way of saying she understood and accepted me—and that was all I had ever wanted from her. It took time, but she has become one of my most ardent supporters. She took to the initiative and has become an advocate for LGBTQ rights. Oftentimes, those who put up the biggest fight become our fiercest protectors. It’s heartening when Mom receives messages from parents whose children have come out. Sometimes she even meets with them over a cup of coffee or tea to encourage them to embrace acceptance. She tells them the truth about the way she handled my coming out, admitting that it wasn’t easy. Her initial focus had been on what it meant for her, which included her reputation and her future. She advises parents not to make the same mistake of refusing to understand their child. From her experience, Mom tells them not to be closed-minded about what they want from or for their children. If they are not open, they won’t see their child struggling and suffering. It was difficult for Mom to have a gay son, but she came to understand how hard it was for her son to
be gay. Often, we are blind to others and only think about ourselves, but that can change, just as it did for my mom.

  My experiences are what prepared me to better handle my life today. The bullies never went away, but what changed was my response to bullying. I was bullied in elementary and high school, in Beirut, and by the media, Egyptians, and political and religious authorities—and it hasn’t stopped. But once I learned to have self-acceptance and self-love—the bullying no longer hurt. It was futile, weak, and desperate. People who bully others and spread hate are the weak ones.