THE BUILDER NOVEMBER 1925
Palmyra and the Palmyraines

By BRO. MAJOR JOHN W. SHUMAN, M. D., California

THIS is an exceedingly interesting account, the chief defect of
which is its brevity, of a visit to "Tadmor in the Wilderness." The
author was formerly (1922-23) Professor of Medicine in the American
University of Beirut, Syria, known for short as A.U.B.


IN February, 1923, Captain Douglas C. Cruickshank, then the
Professor of Pathology, American University of Beirut, late of the
Canadian Army Medical Corps and a Mason, inveigled the writer into
taking advantage of the Medical School's five-day-mid-year vacation
and visit the ruins of Palmyra. (This is the French name; in Arabic
it is Tudmor.) He insisted that we should look over at close range
what remained of that wonderful city "in the wilderness" (Note 1),
built hundreds of years ago by King Solomon the Great Builder and
successfully sacked by the Romans long afterwards. As a
sight-seeing place of Asia Minor it easily ranks third, with
Jerusalem and Petri rivals for first place; although to the Mason
Jerusalem stands first, for here Solomon, the wise one, built the
first Temple and many other things.

From Beirut to Damascus, the most ancient thriving city in the
world, across the two Lebanon mountain ranges, with the Wady Broca
between, is seventy-five miles; we made it by auto without mishap
and spent the night at the Victoria Hotel, famous as General
Allenby's headquarters during his late campaign against the Turks.
On such a journey as we were undertaking one usually goes armed on
account of possible encounter with Cheeties (brigands); in a
country whose chief product for centuries has been war, and whose
by-products have been reported as massacre, rapine and pillage, we
expected to meet trouble; but in this we were disappointed, we met
only kind and courteous treatment.

From Damascus to Palmyra is about one hundred and sixty-five miles
on the Mediterranean--Bagdad Camel-Automobile route; and there are
no gas stations! So we loaded in the necessary amount of petrol to
motor us there and back. There are two roads, the high, a bit
longer, and the low, a bit shorter, leading to Karratyne, a village
situated about half way between Palmyra and Damascus. And thereby
hangs a tale.

A party of Beiruters had preceded us to Palmyra by the high road.
We took the low one and arrived at Karratyne at a little before
eleven o'clock, when we called to pay a visit at the Sheikh's house
(which is the custom) and were made most welcome. He was a
Christian and had a son in the Collegiate Department of the A.U.B.
(American University of Beirut). Our interpreter Zarhan, first year
medical student, knew this lad, and made father and mother
delighted with "news". A bounteous repast was soon spread, to which
we did full justice as only hungry, healthy men would do when
"called from labor to refreshment."

The kind old man offered a letter to the Mohammedan Sheikh of
Palmyra, stating "there is no hotel in that place," and we could do
nothing but graciously accept. That sealed letter was surely
"the-magic-password." Thirty minutes after we had driven the car
into the courtyard where Sheikh Mohammed stood, a freshly killed,
dressed, and cooked sheep was served in the guestroom, through the
door at his back in the accompanying illustration (Cut 1). He said:
"Gentlemen, I beseech you to partake of our meagre repast; if you
have wine bring it forth, for although we Moslems are forbidden to
use it, that is no reason for our Christian guests to abstain."
Just compare that with the hospitality of a U. S. prohibitionist!

Here it may be stated that if your digestion and sleep are
disturbed by coffee and smoking tobacco do not go visiting in Asia
Minor. For no business is transacted, no social or official call is
complete and no meeting, however casual, is ever entered into or
terminated without coffee and tobacco. The coffee in Beirut is like
the Turkish, thick, black and sweet. As we went on into the
interior of Syria the coffee seemed to get more bitter. In Palmyra
it is the typical Arabic coffee, served hot as the hinges of Hades,
an ounce at a time in the bottom of a big cup and quite bitter.
After five or ten of these drinks you will understand why the
Moslems don't have to drink alcohol! An ancient hubble-bubble
(narghieh) was put at my disposal; and a large iron key to our room
was given us, which I promptly threw on the ground. We felt that we
were among brethren and our trust was not misplaced for all the
time we were there not a thing of ours was molested; we ate, slept,
moved, and had our being in this one-story mud (adobe) walled room
of the Sheikh's when not on the hike; strangers in every sense of
the word except for that bond of fellowship which binds mankind--
brotherhood.

To the right of his father stands Sheikh Abdullah (Cut 2) detailed
by his father to show us around and comfort us. It was just about
this time (6:00 P. M.) that the two automobile loads of Beirut
folks arrived, the acting President of A.U.B. in charge, accusing
us of having eaten up their luncheon in Karratyne, and wanting to
know where we intended to sleep. We replied, "Ask the Sheikh."
Sheikh Mohammed, like the Karratyne Sheikh, had mistaken us for the
"President" and his party (the letter said so) and he did not
change his mind. I suppose our old army uniforms had more prestige
than "white collars". At any rate we slept much warmer than we
would have under a tent.

The ruins of the Great Temple of the Sun at Palmyra, with many bits
of ornate sculpture about it, cornices, capitals, and curved
ceilings, stand as majestic symbols of great craftsmen and things
that were in the ages of long ago. What remains stands there still
fighting for existence against the elements, to welcome the
modernist and make him marvel. One column which still remains bears
an inscription with the name of Queen Zenobia, who once ruled from
Egypt to Babylon, and later graced the Roman Triumph of the Emperor
Aurelian.

The illustrations numbered 2 and 3 show the Sheikh and four of his
sons, and his guests. He was then sixty six years of age and looked
after 2,500 souls, the "modern Palmyraines." They are the desert
Bedouins, speak the pure Arabic language, and raise sheep and
camels. Palmyra is now but an oasis in the wilderness. Water is
secured from subterranean channels, which were cut there aeons ago
by the hand of man. The aqueduct system flourished in that country
many years ago and when a besieging army cut off the water supply
of the forces they were attacking, it was not long before the flag
of truce was flying. No. 3 shows the official photographer (Doctor
C.), the "short soldier," third from the left. The French Arabian
soldier is from the French garrison, located in Palmyra (the French
mandate Syria now, the Turks used to) who had come to invite the
Bogus-President and his party to the Commandant's mess that
evening. He said that he would send an escort for us and the
Sheikh. We waited until 7:30 P.M. and then escorted ourselves over
to find that the real President and his crowd had "beaten us to
it," so the tables were turned! We returned to our house. The
Sheikh was indignant. He had prepared for us a real banquet which
we were enjoying immensely when the Commandant with his aides burst
in upon us with beaucoup apologies, a quart of Scotch, and-- that
was that ! (Note 2.)

It will be noted that there are hints of foreign (Frangi)
civilization out there in the manner of dress. Note that top coat,
also the two overcoats worn instead of the native Abba. The
smallest son was the songster, and sang for us many songs in Arabic
in the usual nasal falsetto key, which sounded nothing like the
"sweet songs of Araby," or "I'm the Sheikh," yet they were far more
pleasant to the ear than "Yes, We Have No Bananas," "No One Can
Love Me Like My Old Tomato Can," etc.

Another touch of the foreign was noted in the Sheikh's own bedroom;
an idle, iron bedstead, which brought forth the story that when he
was much younger and less wise, a young woman, the daughter of a
prominent and wealthy French family, visited Palmyra, fell in love
with the Sheikh, married him and took him to Paris to live. After
four months the sands of the desert called him and she went back
with him. They shipped that iron bed to Palmyra from Marsailles.
But Palmyra as a steady diet for her was too tame; the bright
lights of "Gay Paree" called her, and she went back home alone.

The Sheikh's father had one hundred descendants; our host had
fourteen sons, the youngest a husky infant in arms. Three of his
four young wives expected soon to present him with sons, for
daughters don't count for much in the Orient. His eldest son was
missing. He was in South America, I was told, to be married to a
lady there, which grieved his father greatly for she was not of
"the Faith." But, then, "like father, like son."

Abdullah was quite anxious to show us everything there was to be
seen, more especially the Crusader Castle (see cuts 4, 5 and 6),
which is a story in itself. I marveled how that Order of Knights
Templar several centuries ago set out to conquer the world
(especially Christianity's fountain Syria and Palestine) with the
sword--and failed--just as Emperor William failed!

It was on a Friday, the Moslem Sunday, that Abdullah asked us if we
wanted to swim. I said, "Yes, where is the tin cup ?" for I had no
idea that there was anything bigger to take a bath in. He took us
for a swim in a subterranean warm sulphur river, artificial, a part
of the aqueduct system, where we frolicked for two hours, having
for companions the Cadi (judge) and Sheikh Beni Khallid, owner of
3,000 camels, the same number that Job had. Before going into the
water I gave Abdullah my wrist watch to hold, and when I got out I
noticed that it was on his wrist. I said, "Keep it for a souvenir,
[ carried it through America's part in the World War in France and
am really tired of it, and I am just looking for a chance to get
rid of it." He accepted. It is difficult to tip these folks; in
fact, it is taken as an insult unless adroitly managed. That
evening in the dark he slipped into my hand a bit of paper with a
hard object in it, saying, "Just a little souvenir, but very old."
After he was gone, and by the light of a tallow dip I discovered
myself to be the possessor of an exquisite cameo of Zenobia's
Dynasty.

The young men of the village love to play football of the European
style. The ball they had was flat and the only thing they requested
from us was "send us a bladder from Shem (Damascus)." We sent them
one by the French Air-Post.

The Sheikh's second son had only two wives. He said he was "not
rich enough to afford more as yet." He did ask, "Doctor, why does
a big man like you only have one wife?" I answered, "Effendi, you
have never seen my wife." I crushed him, however, when I remarked,
"I have three children and you have only two !" They have no doctor
in Palmyra and disease cuts them down young. Infant mortality is
great there. A walk through the modern graveyard tells the story;
the numerous little tombstones marking graves of babies. "On the
square," the Sheikh would welcome a good, conscientious,
well-trained, practical medical man. That man might not become rich
in money but he would live and give and in the years to come he
would have happy memories. We held a clinic while there, thereby
attempting to return, in a measure, the kindness we had received.

All were interested in our telling, through our interpreter, of the
A.U.B. and its work, and the Sheikh promised that before long
Palmyra would be represented at the University. Last year, so Dr.
Cruickshank writes, the Sheikh's second son visited Beirut and was
quite chagrined at not being able to visit the "Pseudo-President."
On this trip we had endured some discomforts, and hard ships, met
with extremes of heat and cold, a snow blizzard, equal to any I
ever experienced in northwest Iowa, when crossing over the
Lebanons, and had been mired in the mud; but we had been received
kindly, were not allowed to go hungry, and had slept in warm beds.
A broken front spring and a ruptured tire were all the scars we
could claim.

NOTES

Note 1. I Kings, Chap. 9, verse 18, "and he built, . . . Tadmor in
the wilderness in the land."
II Chronicles, Chap. 8, verse 4, "and he built Tadmor in the
wilderness."
Note 2. D. C. just forwarded these photos to me, March 1, 1925. In
Syria, "time doesn't really matter." One of their proverbs out
there is "Tomorrow, Effendi, is also a day."

