This evening I had a bout of nostalgia for my old horses, so I went looking for pictures of Dahess, the desert-bred stallion my father and I bought from a racing stable in Beirut in 1993. I was 15. One afternoon, as I was just coming back from school, my father told me that he had been contacted by the secretariat of the organization managing the Beirut racetrack about two Arabian stallions that had recently been imported from Qatar, one of them a Syrian horse of desert lines. They were being housed at one of the racing stables on the road to the airport. Both were for sale. I pressed to drive down to the racetrack to see them at once. Half an hour later, we were standing in front of two stallions, an exquisitely balanced grey with a milky white coat, 14.3 hands, and a much taller, loosely built cherry bay. The grey we were told was “Syrian” and the bay “Russian”. Both were a bit thin. My father nudged me from his elbow, and started praising the bay horse, while deliberately turning his back to the grey one. The groom fell for the trick and hinted that the…