Ibtisam Barakat on her new memoir, Tasting the Sky: A Palestinian Childhood

When the Six-Day War started in 1967, you were three years old and living in the West Bank. In your memoir, you describe fleeing from the Israeli attack—when suddenly, in the middle of the night, you became separated from your family. What do you remember about that experience?

The image is of a child alone against the canvas of the night. I felt fear for my life. I cannot describe the level of that fear—it's so deep. And I continue to try to go into it to understand and repair it. I think that fear is a rupture in the relationship of trust.

How did you feel the following day, when you were reunited with your family?

The reuniting was really just physical. That big night had come between us. It wasn't just a night—it was a night filled with horror and filled with war.

How were you able to describe your childhood so vividly?

I did a huge amount of research, first of the facts of what happened, like reading about the Six-Day War, what was happening before that, the United Nations reports, the number of people, the kinds of weapons that were used—I mean, everything. I did a lot of research just like a historian to find the most basic layer. Then after that, I listened to people. I, of course, bugged my mother for information. Sometimes she answered some questions, but often she didn't. It was painful for her to go into that.

You were 12 or 13 when you began exchanging letters with pen pals worldwide. How did that change your life?

It opened up a door to my world, and I knew that life might seem closed, but it's never closed. I needed to know there were people who were free on the planet, or a lot freer than me. I needed that reassurance. I felt answered and cared about and befriended by all the people who wrote to me and found value in my life—and I really struggled with the value of my life at that time. In the face of destructive thoughts and the stereotypes that accompany political strife, human kindness really goes very far.

The most remarkable thing about your story is that you've been hungry and homeless, experienced life-and-death situations, and lived in a refugee camp, yet you still believe in the innate kindness of people. You don't seem to have any resentment or anger toward your former enemies.

I don't believe in the word enemy. I feel that all of us are wounded. We're wounded by our own societies or families or circumstances or our own misunderstandings or big forces. And people carry those wounds from generation to generation. The Jewish people are wounded by their own history and the Holocaust. The Palestinians are wounded by our own history, which really is very entwined with the history of the Jewish people. When that wounding comes together, people are unable to think rationally about each other. If people are unable to extend the skin of their lives to include others, that doesn't mean they're enemies.

What does it mean?

It means we haven't healed sufficiently to see the value of connecting with another human being that is different than us. So far, we haven't figured out sufficient skills to solve conflicts between groups and also between individuals, as well as family members. I think the Israelis and the Palestinians are family members—and not just biblically. There's research that shows we have a lot in common genetically. We're closer to each other than some people would like to believe.

As an adult, you've worked with the United Nations and other groups to put an end to war and oppression. What keeps you going?

One word can really turn the whole thing around. If somebody says, "Speak to me"; "I'll listen to you"; "I'm sorry"; "I understand"; "I realize this or that"—the whole situation can change in a minute.