Back in the mid 1980’s there was a distinct racial hierarchy at the French school in Saudi Arabia.

It was most noticeable at lunchtime when the bell rang shrilly through the desert heat, liberating about 700 souls from under the austere stares of their French teachers.

Like a river from behind a collapsing dam, kids exploded onto the playground in waves of black, brown, and blond, rolling towards the delta of the huge blue tent. Under the long stretches of shade, they formed tight circles of belonging. And invariably, the same outcasts stared at the proud little backs from behind the tent poles.

There were the Africans from the old French colonies. Probably the most fortunate group in their obliviousness. Their circle was irregular, original, indifferent to the rest of the world. With their fancy braids, and the brightly patterned fabrics of their dresses, they seemed to be perpetually giggling or dancing without as much as a furtive glance wasted on envy or concern for the thoughts of other kids. Their laughter was occasionally accompanied by the sounds of their melodious names as they called each other in their games: Mammadou, Issiakka, Uhmu… They smelled of amber and flashed the blinding whiteness of their carefree smiles on lonely serfs and royalty alike. Genuine and inclusive, they sometimes tugged at the sleeves of random outcasts, inviting them in. But where the circles were not fenced by pigmentation, it was culture that drew the line. And so, the outcasts remained behind the bars of their phantom exile like atheists at a Gospel choir.

There were the Levantines and the Maghrébins, separate from each other but similar in their implicit slightly more rightful claim on our host country. They were not at home per say, but close enough. In hindsight, they should have represented the group that my skin tone allowed me to infiltrate most easily but their sense of identity was so much crisper than my own and I could never help but feel like an impostor. It would become painfully obvious every year in Arabic class when the teacher would ask "Mirza? Sally Mirza?", and I would answer: "No Madame, A-mirza".

-"Amirza, I've never heard that name. Where's your family from?"

- "It was Émerzian." I would mumble every year without answering the actual question...

- "Ah... Armenian".

Then there was the royal circle and its annexed courts spread out around it on thrones of multicolored lunchboxes. The French kids watched over their kingdom from behind their golden curls. Once their clear eyes had scanned the ground to make sure they were watched, admired and envied, they proceeded to the display of their belongings: Golden Dolls cold and beautiful, Little Pony’s of plastic with flowing hair and sparkling eyes. They moved them with an air of importance, brushing the nylon with intentional slowness. This was their school, we were all allowed to exist on their grounds thanks to the goodness of their heart. They had little care for anyone, their pretty little heads were always protected. So, patrolling between palace and court, were the guards of failing little boys whose accelerated growth had miraculously slowed their ability to read and write.

When the bell rang again, all the circles quickly dissolved like separate streams feeding one big canal that reunified everyone under the banner of French education. Lunchtime after lunchtime, year after year, the cycle looped over and over again, like a merry-go-round long since forgotten by an old and senile operator.

Then one day, silently and without preparation, one of the lonely wooden horses broke free and galloped away to the World Wide Web where I met me and began to live.

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