Ashraf Omar: A glimpse into the life of an 'ordinary guy'

Ashraf Omar’s daily routine was predictable. Every morning at seven, he would wake up to make coffee for himself and his wife, Nada. They would drink it together while planning their tasks for the day, either translation or illustration, before they each retire to their respective desks at home.

They usually work until noon then reunite in their kitchen, which walls are covered with artworks, to prepare a late breakfast. Afterward, they would return to their tasks until 6 pm, at which point they stop working and spend the rest of the evening together.

Rarely did the young cartoonist deviate from this routine, even when his wife, a university professor, was away for work. The only disruption to this seemingly monotonous life came on the morning of Monday, July 22, when security forces raided their home and arrested Ashraf.

He disappeared for two days before reappearing at the State Security Prosecution office. There he faced the usual charges of joining a terrorist organization, spreading false news, and misusing social media—charges frequently levied against journalists and individuals with dissenting opinions.

That night, Ashraf had been alone at home, as Nada was sleeping over at her father’s place, Dr. Kamal Mougheeth, to finalize paperwork for purchasing a small family car.

The couple had been saving for a long time to afford the vehicle, however, when security forces raided their home, they confiscated the down payment. The police recorded 80,000 Egyptian pounds (/$1653) as confiscated funds, while Nada asserts that the actual amount taken was 339,000 pounds (/$6960).

Nada, a lecturer in Chinese language and literature at a public university, struggles to withhold tears whenever she has to recount the details of the arrest. She has spoken to foreign and independent local media that reached out to her.

“Everything was normal. We never expected something like this to happen, especially since the tone of his cartoons aren’t any different from the opinions everyone shares on Facebook and other platforms,” says Nada, sitting on a small couch in Ashraf’s home office.

As she gazes at his now-empty desk, my eyes are drawn to a small painting hanging on the wall. Its classical brushstrokes catch my attention so I study the signature.

My astonishment grows as Nada explains, “That's a painting by Ashraf’s grandfather, the visual artist Mohamed Sedky El-Gebakhangi.”

I can no longer contain my astonishment. Not only is this the first time I'm standing before a piece of one of Egypt’s most renowned contemporary art historians and professors, but he also happens to be Ashraf’s grandfather.

My visible enthusiasm, despite the difficult circumstances, seems to lift Nada’s spirits. She leads me on a tour of Ashraf’s family’s artistic heritage. The walls of their home are decorated with paintings by his uncles, visual artists Essam and Alaa El-Gebakhangi, alongside wooden installations crafted by Ashraf himself.

“Almost all the woodwork in our home is made by Ashraf” Nada says. “The desks, bookshelves, wall-mounted shelves, the coffee corner, and even the wooden frames for the artwork.”

I point to a stand holding six electric guitars, “What about the guitar stand?” She reaches out to one of them, “When we first met, he told me he played bass guitar. I told him it is noisy and unpleasant. He was surprised and asked where I'd heard it. I said, ‘Isn’t it the same as in the song "Enta Omri?"’ He laughed and explained the difference. Ever since, I’ve paid closer attention to the bass line in every song I hear.”

Nada recalls admiring Ashraf’s work long before she even met him or knew his name. She pulls a set of books from the shelf—"My Life: An Attempt at an Autobiography" by Leon Trotsky, translated into Arabic by Ashraf. The project was driven by his leftist inclinations and deep passion for translation, a craft he had mastered.

“I read his translation of Trotsky’s memoirs and was deeply impressed by the translator’s skill. I didn’t connect Ashraf to these books until much later when we were discussing our work and future translation projects.”

Ashraf has translated several important works, including Trotsky’s complete memoirs, published in two large volumes, as well as John Molyneux’s “Lenin in the 21st Century,” among others. Some of these books still sit on his empty desk, while others rest in his library alongside leftist literature, collections of Samir Amin’s works, and the comic book “The Sultan’s Idlers” by the late, great cartoonist Hegazi.

It wouldn’t take you long to scan the contents of his small home office, but a closer look reveals a life brimming with creativity—now confined to a prison cell less than four square meters in size outside Cairo, in the 10th of Ramadan Prison.

Two paintings hang above his desk; one by his grandfather, the other by his uncle. The latter is centered between two floating shelves, one of which holds an assortment of owl figurines, a creature mythologically associated with wisdom and dedication to serving others.

I share my thoughts with Nada and she responds, “That’s exactly like Ashraf. He never considers his own comfort, only the well-being of those around him. Ashraf is always soft-spoken. The only time I ever heard him raise his voice was when he was shouting from the police van as they took him away. He yelled at me "Baba (dad), Nada… take care of Baba.’”

Ashraf placed his guitar stand within arm’s reach of his desk. “After finishing work at around 6pm we'd prepare dinner together, sit and chat, then watch something. After that he always picks up a guitar and plays. He could spend all day drawing or translating, but there was always time for music.”

Despite studying pharmacy and briefly doing fieldwork, Ashraf ultimately chose to pursue his passions—translation and caricature. Yet, he is not just a music enthusiast; he is a skilled musician who plays bass guitar with the independent band Tafaqum.

Nada returns to me in his office space after a brief absence, carrying a small electric fan. “Sorry, there’s no AC,” she says. “Ashraf works in the heat without a fan or AC. I have no idea how he manages.” She pauses briefly before adding, “In a way, it’s a small relief given the current situation. At least I know he won’t suffer too much from heat in the prison cell.”

She sits back on the small couch, deliberately positioning the fan away from her, as if trying to share his discomfort. She picks up a notebook filled with scattered sketches; some finished cartoons he had never published while others feature rough drafts of characters and designs, seemingly meant for future projects.

"I was surprised by many of these sketches after Ashraf’s arrest. I had never seen them before," Nada says. "It’s clear they date back to before we got married—we’ve only been together for a year and a month."

"It's clear to me now that he has been working on refining his style. I knew he was dedicated to caricature, how deeply he believed in it, but it turns out it was an even bigger part of him than I realized,” she adds.

She takes me in her friend Mai El-Mahdi’s car as we set out to uncover Ashraf’s history with caricature. “Mai is our mutual friend,” Nada explains. “Ashraf and I met for the first time at a gathering at her place.” Together, we decide to dub Mai the “official sponsor” of their marriage. Nada laughs through her tears for the first time since our conversation started.

The key to Ashraf’s connection to caricature lies in his family home, roughly 30-minute drive from their apartment. On the road, Nada shares another detail about Ashraf—she repeats his name constantly.

She points to a bicycle parked at the entrance of their building. “That’s Ashraf’s bike. Sometimes he cycles to his family’s house. Cycling is one of his many hobbies.”

His family home mirrors theirs' in its celebration of art. The spacious living room walls are adorned with carefully arranged romantic and impressionist paintings. Ashraf’s sister, Dina, who is a year and a half older, explains the classic style of the paintings, “Our grandfather was more interested in teaching the history of art than producing it. Ashraf never met him nor had the chance to be influenced by him. But the elders in our family notice how much he resembles our grandfather the moment he starts speaking.”

Dina continues drawing parallels enthusiastically, “Ashraf is quiet and doesn’t talk much, but when he does, his charisma drives attention. People listen—he always has something important to say.” She pauses for a moment, waiting for her father to settle into a nearby chair—a gesture that, unintentionally, reflects the family's mindful traits.

The father, artist Omar Sedky, silently reviews a collection of papers he has kept since Ashraf and his sisters, Dina and Amira, were children. I do not interrupt his contemplative silence as he sifts through the pages.

Meanwhile, the two sisters are busy distracting a curious toddler, barely two years old, from snatching the papers. She repeatedly grabs at them, prompting gentle "No sweetheart, that’s Uncle Ashraf’s work."

At that moment, the father decides to speak “We noticed Ashraf’s talent very early on. His mother—may she rest in peace—and I, always encouraged him and his sisters.” 

He retrieves a collection of small sketches and places them side by side. “Here are his early attempts at perfecting profile drawings. He was working on these at the same time as those," pulling out a set of cartoons. At first glance, they look as though they were clipped from Al-Akhbar, where the late Mustafa Hussein’s cartoons were published.

“I used to work at Al-Akhbar newspaper,” the father recalls. “Every day when I came home, Ashraf would grab the newspaper and start copying Mustafa Hussein and Ahmed Ragab’s cartoons and tries to copy them."

"He was only 14 then, but we noticed his dedication—he did this daily.. He asked endless questions about cartoons and even asked me to arrange a meeting for him with Mustafa Hussein because he had so many questions. But that was around the time he had already stopped copying  and began developing his own style.”

He pauses briefly before adding, “For Ashraf, caricature was never just a side hobby—it was his purpose. Despite all the different things he does, he always knew exactly what he wanted. He took everything seriously—whether it was caricature, translation, or music.”

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by his granddaughter, making yet another attempt to snatch the papers. Tears well in his eyes as he murmurs an apology, letting them fall.

Faced with his grief, I found myself unable to continue with my questions. I thank Nada and the family as I leave, yet carrying so many unanswered questions about Ashraf. Contrary to my initial assumption, his personality holds an exceptional richness.

Earlier that day, while on my way to his distant home on the outskirts of Giza, I had wondered what could truly be written about Ashraf Omar, whose caricatures I had followed in Al Manassa. At first he seemed like an ordinary young guy—one whose life, perhaps, did not offer enough material for a profile.

However, after just two brief interviews, I was overwhelmed with the talent, intellect, dedication, and kindness of him and his family—qualities that the authorities decided belonged behind bars.