From Tasting the Sky Father turned to Mother. "We must leave now," he said. His voice was sharp like a knife. My brothers were ready. They held each other's hands tightly. Mother had secured my baby sister between her arms. My father strained to see the road from behind the mound of clothes and blankets he carried. But in spite of my desperate attempts to obey my parents' commands, my three-and-a-half-year-old hands were unable to lace up the one shoe I had put on. My right foot was still shoeless. "Yamma, Yaba! Help me!" I cried in a hushed voice, lest I attract attention and we all die. But no one answered. At that moment, a new wave of fleeing villagers rushed by. As they disappeared, everything faded into stillness. And my family was gone. Had they just walked into the crowd and left me behind? Fear dug a hole in my heart. I could not grasp what had happened. I wanted to cry aloud, hurl their names across the darkness, but dread stifled my voice. I knew that the only hope for me was to instantly run in the same direction, leaving my shoe behind. As I moved, sounds of distant gunshots and screeching swelled and then subsided. I kept running. When I looked behind, I could no longer see the giant shadow of our home. The world within and around me seemed to fade into the unknown. The gravel grated sharply into my skin. Once again, I commanded myself not to feel. Excerpted from Tasting the Sky: A Palestinian Childhood by Ibtisam Barakat All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
