A Handful of Pennies, by Afaf Musallam 
 

This Palestinian Christian Arab woman’s long journey searching for identity and peace works on several levels

 

A Handful of Pennies: a refugee’s long journey searching for identity and peace 
By Afaf Musallam 
Onwards & Upwards
Reviewed by Terry Young

In the ‘50s, when my mom went to Lebanon as a young missionary, her language teacher was a displaced Palestinian Christian whom I always knew as Sit Wadia (with the accent on the ‘di’). When she eventually made it to the UK, her English friends called her Wadia (with the accent waddling along on the ‘Wad’). I think Sit was a title of respect.

Under lockdown, I alluded to this remarkable widow in The Baptist Times (God and the Nations, see here) as an example of God’s safekeeping of the powerless during tumultuous events. Afaf is the third of Sit Wadia’s four daughters and, now a pensioner herself, she tells us her story.

She was five when she left Haifa in a hurry. The family didn’t end up in a refugee camp because a network of churches and mission organisations kicked in and they found themselves in a Christian school in Lebanon. Independently and more recently, I’ve been told that Middle Eastern Christians cannot use the official refugee channels, because they are not safe for Christians, who must make separate arrangements.

As a nurse, Sit Wadia was offered the job of school matron, with her three older girls among her charges (to whom the matron showed no special favours). From those precarious roots sprang a series of remarkable stories, of which Afaf’s is related here.

Departures are always harassed. At 6:20 this morning, I was waiting outside my eldest son’s house until, 15 minutes later, he dashed out, back in again, in and out, and finally, with his passport, cash and phone, we set off for the bus, which I watched him board enroute to Heathrow.

In a more hazardous exit, Afaf left Haifa in such a rush that Sit Wadia forgot their birth certificates, which were thrown into the street by the new occupants, retrieved by her grandmother and restored to the family a few years later. The knock-on effects (including Afaf’s birth being recorded in two different years on different official documents) can be imagined.

Afaf’s book is a catalogue of disasters and serendipities told honestly, directly and in good humour. First, it’s a story of family, not just her immediate family who made the journey. There were maternal uncles and aunts who aided and abetted, looking after the baby for a couple of years while Sit Wadia got settled in the school, and sorting out accommodation after life in the dorm came to an end. There was also the uncle who became a member of the Knesset, the one who resigned to write a modern classic. Afaf was in the audience to see him shake hands with Prime Minister Shamir as he received the Israel Prize for Arabic literature.

It’s also about immediate family, the mother who finally made it safely to the UK, the sister with whom she bought a house and the nephew who bought her upstairs flat years later so she could have her own place, not to mention the brothers-in-law, one of whom made the commute into London with her for many years, and another who bought her first car for her (a Morris Minor).

And it’s about being single in the wide, wild, world.

It's about the complicated nature of living in the Middle East as Afaf watches Lebanon descending into chaos. A bit like my son, she was in and out a few times before settling in the UK and then she went to work in Israel with the Anglican communion. For my money, her analysis of the way the pressure built in the ‘70s and the madness that ensued and set neighbour against neighbour is both dispassionate and clear-eyed as any witness can be. Obviously, she’s had interactions she disliked intensely – the airport grillings, for instance. You know Afaf’s political take, but it’s the personal that holds centre stage. Afaf has been making her peace with the past and with the politics.

An amusing airport episode (and a great example) was when she and her mother travelled to Haifa to see that house where they once lived. After lengthy grilling, Sit Wadia had had enough: she got up, blessed the boy and wandered out through the door. They met the new homeowner and Sit Wadia was able to show her daughter what had been where, way back when.

It’s a book about God’s provision, with interesting stories about money – wads of it! When my wife babysits our grandsons, in moments of mild peril, the elder one stands in front of Nana while he watches the TV and grabs her hands to cover his eyes when it all becomes too much. It occurred to me that there might have been a moment or two of mild peril for the family on first read-through, hands over eyes as they wondered what was coming next. The rest of us can just enjoy the ride.

My memory is hazy, but I’ve bumped into Afaf on and off since I was a kid. As I recall, I thought of her as the daring one, the one who didn’t marry, the carefree, fun one. Reading this, and at a distance, there’s a little more heartache to her story than I’d picked up and I suspect she’s even more spirited than I imagined. And good on her!

As the title suggests, it’s a story about a journey, but it’s not a story about exits. As her faith matures, Afaf has discovered that she is in very safe hands: in the end, this is a story about coming home.

Buy it! Read it! Reflect! 
 

Terry Young is a missionary kid who read science and engineering. After a PhD in lasers, he worked in R&D before becoming a professor, when he taught project management, information systems and e-business, while leading research in healthcare.

He set up Datchet Consulting to have fun with both faith and work and worshipped at Baptist churches in Slough for 19 years before moving to the New Forest