Faces In A Mirror Memoirs From Exile – Ashraf Pahlavi

Or one could choose from hundreds of shoes, clothing items, and labor-saving devices. America was like a huge bazaar that not even Aladdin’s genie could have conjured up. During my two weeks in New York I behaved like a typical tourist. I saw my first rodeo in Madison Square Garden and my first American parade. There was a con- vention of war veterans in the city at the time, and thou- sands of them marched on Fifth Avenue, cheered by the civilian crowds, who showered them with multicolored confetti.

I visited museums and art galleries, and I spent hours listening to radio programs which featured guests like Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, James Stewart, Abbott and Costello, and Laurel and Hardy—names I knew from movies I had seen. I’ve never been overly concerned with clothes, but before prices climbed so high, I used to buy a few new things each year from European designers like Lanvin or Dior (nowadays I patronize the boutiques that carry the pret h porter designs of these houses).

During my New York visit saw the first wave of the “New Look” in store windows and on the city’s fashionable women. I thought this heavily structured look, with all its pads and laces and yards of fabric was not especially flattering to American women, who had such naturally attractive figures. Since I was scheduled to meet President Truman after my New York trip, decided to buy a new dress—an American dress—for the occasion.

One of the women who had come to the United States with me told me she had heard about a fashion show at Saks Fifth Avenue, conducted by Sophie Gimbel, and that is where I had my introduction to American style in clothes. After the experiences of my Russian visit, I found Wash- ington quite startling. The Kremlin was the seat of a Commu- nist government of a war-torn country, but everything there spoke of aristocracy, opulence, and formality. The White House, on the other hand, was the official residence of the President of the wealthiest capitalist country in the world, but it was simple, unpretentious, and relaxed.

President Truman and his wife Bess reinforced this feeling of honest simplicity, for they both had the easy informality of “people next door.” liked Harry Truman at once. Although the press occasionally poked fun at his bluntness and his supposed lack of polish, I found his decisive, straightforward manner very refreshing. Talking to him did not require any kind of diplomatic games, and he seemed very much aware of Iran’s most pressing problems.

PRENTICE-HALL, INC., Englewood Cliffs, N.J. Copyright ©1980 by H.I. H. Princess Ashraf Pahlavi All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher. Address inquiries to Prentice-Hall, Inc., Englewood Cliffs, N.J. 07632 Printed in the United States of America Prentice-Hall International, Inc., London Prentice-Hall of Australia, Pty. Ltd., Sydney Prentice-Hall of Canada, Ltd., Toronto Prentice-Hall of India Private Ltd., New Delhi Prentice-Hall of Japan, Inc., Tokyo Prentice-Hall of Southeast Asia Pte.

Ltd., Singapore Whitehall Books Limited, Wellington, New Zealand 10 987654321 Library of Congress Catalog Card No.: 80-13509 To my son Shahriar— and to those like him who fell in the name of Iran Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 http://www.archive.org/details/facesinmirrormemOOpahl CONTENTS INTRODUCTION • ix I • REZA KHAN • 1 II • FACES IN A MIRROR • 15 III • WEDDINGS • 29 IV • THE WAR YEARS • 39 V • THE BLACK PANTHER • 75 VI • MOHAMMED MOSSADEGH • 119 VII • “THE ITINERANT AMBASSADOR” • 149 VIII • THE BEGINNING OF THE END • 185 IX • EXILE • 209 APPENDIX • 223 INDEX • 233 INTRODUCTION I write these memoirs from exile—from New York where I have been in virtual seclusion since the “revolution” in Iran of February 1979.

The windows from where I write overlook the East River and have a clear view of the United Nations. I had worked there for 16 years: as one of the delegates from Iran, as a member of the Human Rights Commission, later as Chairman of the Human Rights Commission, and, for seven years, as head of the Iranian delegation. So, of course, I know the UN well, as a kind of “second home.” I cherished the countless hours spent there and came to believe that this forum, above most others, could be counted on to be honorable in its debate of the issues brought before it.

How hard it is for me then—and to be candid, how bitter it leaves me—to have to watch from the outside as those who were on record as my friends now sanction the formation of the UN Commission to hear the chorus of attacks against the Iran of the Pahlavis.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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