I was intrigued by the author's intercultural family situation and enjoyed the glimpses into different cultural experiences. I especially loved the detailed descriptions of moments like family meals and memories--which never lack variety when you grow up in Columbia as the child of a Jewish mother and a Palestinian Christian father. However, with all of the personal, family and international conflict happening in the book, the narrative seemed fragmented and choppy, and was sometimes hard for me to follow. Ultimately, there was just too much going on (in the world and in the author's life) to give the book a clear focus. This was a thought-provoking coming-of-age story about about mixed identity and things that families choose to leave unsaid, but the loosely written narrative made this a challenging read for me. I realize clarity and closure are not guaranteed in life, but still this book left me wanting more of both. 3 stars.

Thanks SparkPoint Studio and NetGalley for the ARC! I really appreciated this memoir. Sonia allows us to follow her story of growing up during an increasingly volatile time in Colombia, not just as a young girl, but also as a sister, a friend, granddaughter, and a daughter to an Arab Christian father and a Jewish mother. Sonia's parents do not define themselves by anything like culture or religion, so the question of "who am I?" is a recurring theme as Sonia is growing up around kids who celebrate Christmas and Easter. I loved the way the landscapes were described, I could picture myself on their big property in Cali, and in the car with them when they drive through town as the drug wars in Colombia were just starting and then escalating. Although there is a struggle to understand her identity as she comes of age, and the distance one creates with their parents as a teenager, I thought the relationship with her parents and also grandmothers was really beautiful. The emotional weaving that she allows us to experience was special. Specifically, toward the end as she's leaving to come to the USA for school, and her dad steps in to help with a situation at the airport. The book is very much about Sonia but the consistency of her parents throughout the book was touching, and the story of the lizard in the bedroom had me laughing out loud. The immigrant experience trickles down and out to children, cousins, friends, etc., of immigrants and hearing everyone's story is just so important. I loved the quote, "I learn the limits of my father's patience, which was forged by a methodical climb out of economic adversity but stops at entitled behavior."

Definitely read this memoir, I really enjoyed it!

Thank you to the publisher for the opportunity to read The Roots of the Guava Tree: Growing Up Jewish and Arab in Colombia by Sonia Daccarett. And thank you to the author, She Writes Press, and NetGalley for the gifted ARC. This isn’t my usual genre, so it took me a bit longer to finish, but I’m so glad I stuck with it. This memoir offers a layered, thoughtful, and deeply personal portrait of identity, family silence, and growing up amid both internal and national conflict. What starts as one girl’s attempt to understand her roots quietly unfolds into something much more profound—a meditation on how culture, trauma, and displacement shape not only individuals, but generations.

From the beginning, it’s clear that Sonia’s story doesn’t fit into any neat box. Her mother is Jewish, her father Christian Palestinian, and yet neither side wants to fully claim or explain those identities. Sonia, inquisitive and observant, keeps asking questions. What does it mean when your grandparents speak Hebrew and Arabic but your parents say your family is “nothing”? What does it mean to grow up with a legacy of exile from Bethlehem, Russia, and the Ottoman Empire, yet be told not to look too closely? The disconnect between what Sonia sees and what she’s told becomes the emotional engine of the book. There’s a quiet desperation in her need to understand who she is and where she comes from, and that longing is something I think many readers—especially those from mixed or immigrant backgrounds—will relate to deeply.

But this isn’t just a book about identity—it’s also about place, and Colombia plays a major role in Sonia’s story. Her descriptions of the natural world—the guava trees, the lush countryside outside Cali—are beautiful, but they’re never romanticized. The setting is constantly shifting underfoot as the rise of drug cartels, kidnappings, and political instability creeps into everyday life. One of the things I found most effective was how Daccarett contrasts the innocence of childhood with the brutal reality of the world around her. A school trip might be interrupted by a shooting. A family gathering could be overshadowed by news of another disappearance. There’s a subtle dread that builds, and it reflects the larger theme of instability—not just in her country, but in her own family.

Daccarett’s writing is quiet, deliberate, and often understated. There’s no flashiness or overexplanation here. Instead, she lets the reader sit with the confusion and discomfort that shaped her upbringing. The emotional impact sneaks up on you. One of the most powerful threads in the memoir is how events halfway across the world—like the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon—ripple into her home in Colombia, exposing old wounds and loyalties. Sonia begins to see how her parents’ silence isn’t just about avoiding the past; it’s about protecting themselves from the pain of it. There’s a scene where family tension boils over at the dinner table while the TV broadcasts news from the Middle East, and it captures in a few pages what entire books try to explain: how personal and political trauma are never separate.

Another thing I appreciated is how Daccarett doesn’t try to tie everything up with a bow. There’s no dramatic breakthrough, no big “aha” moment where she suddenly finds clarity. Instead, the book stays true to reality—messy, unresolved, but deeply human. Her choice to leave Colombia in search of answers isn’t framed as an escape, but as an act of survival and self-discovery. The ending felt both open and complete, which is a rare balance to strike in memoir.

This book is not a fast read, and it’s not always an easy one. But it’s honest, intimate, and beautifully observed. Daccarett gives voice to a type of experience that doesn’t often make it to the page: the hybrid child of multiple legacies, trying to make sense of conflicting truths in a country tearing itself apart. It asks readers to be patient, to pay attention, and to accept that sometimes the answers we want aren’t the ones we get.

If you’re someone who loves memoirs that grapple with identity, family complexity, cultural tension, and political backdrop, this one is absolutely worth your time. Even if you don’t normally read memoirs like this—like me—you might find yourself surprised by how much it resonates. The Roots of the Guava Tree doesn’t shout, but it stays with you. It’s a quiet triumph of storytelling.