Farewell Shiraz

Cyrus Kadivar

Description

A poignant memoir of pre-1979 Iran and the human drama behind the fall of the last shah
In October 1999 during a trip to Cairo, Cyrus Kadivar, an exiled Iranian living in London, visited the tomb of the last shah and opened a Pandora's box. Haunted by nostalgia for a bygone era, he recalled a protected and idyllic childhood in the fabled city of Shiraz and his coming of age during the 1979 Iranian revolution. Back in London, he reflected on what had happened to him and his family after their uprooting and decided to conduct his own investigation into why he lost his country. He spent the next ten years seeking out witnesses who would shed light on the last days of Pahlavi rule. Among those he met were a former empress, ex-courtiers, disaffected revolutionaries, and the bereaved relatives of those who perished in the cataclysm.
In Farewell Shiraz, Kadivar tells the story of his family and childhood against the tumultuous backdrop of twentieth-century Iran, from the 1905-1907 Constitutional Revolution to the fall of Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, before presenting accounts of his meetings with key witnesses to the Shah's fall and the rise of Khomeini. Each of the people interviewed provides a richly detailed picture of the momentous events that took place and the human drama behind them.
Combining exquisite vignettes with rare testimonials and first-hand interviews, Farewell Shiraz draws us into a sweeping yet often intimate account of a vanished world and offers a compelling investigation into a political earthquake whose reverberations still live with us today.

Sujets

• Political
• Lettres et linguistique
• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: The American University in Cairo Press
• Date de parution: 16 juin 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781617977954
• Langue: English

Extrait

This electronic edition published in 2017 by
The American University in Cairo Press
113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt
420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018
www.aucpress.com

Copyright © 2017 by Cyrus Kadivar

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978 977 416 826 0
eISBN 978 1 61797 795 4

Version 1
For my father (1930–2005)

CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chronology
Part 1: Of Things Past
1. Roses and Nightingales
2. Land of Fars
3. Dream City
4. A New World
5. Love and Politics
6. Homecoming
7. Age of Innocence
8. Spellbound
9. Our House
10. A False Stability
11. Gathering Storm
12. Uneasy Summer
13. Writing on the Wall
14. End of an Era
15. Revolution!
16. Farewell Youth
Part 2: Exile
17. Displaced
18. Café de la Paix
19. After Khomeini
20. Reunion
21. The Shah’s Ghost
Part 3: Witnesses and Survivors
22. Past Errors
23. Whirlwind
24. Night of the Generals
25. Sentimental Journey
26. Father and Son
27. Soraya
28. Persepolis Revisited
29. Ex-Ambassador
30. No Regrets
31. Palace Witnesses
32. Master of Ceremonies
33. Security of the Realm
34. The Diplomat
35. The General’s Widow
36. Khosrowdad
37. Blue Eyes
38. Hoveyda’s End
39. The Last Empress

Epilogue
Sources and Bibliography
Photographic Credits
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
W riting this book has been one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. However, seeing it published leaves me indebted to so many people who made it possible. I am eternally thankful to Nadia Naqib, my editor at the American University in Cairo (AUC) Press. Her sharp eye, patience and sensitivity, loving support, and disciplined approach played a vital part in transforming my manuscript into the final version of this book, putting my story out into the world. My great thanks are also extended to Neil Hewison, Tarek El-Elaimy, Katie Holland, and Ingrid Wassmann at the AUC Press and to Ælfwine Mischler. It was a joy to work with them during the process of editing, proofreading, indexing, designing, publishing, and marketing Farewell Shiraz .
Although my book draws heavily on my family history and recollections of my childhood and adolescent years during pre-1979 Iran, it is also part of a much larger, epoch-changing story—of a lost world, of nation building and rebellion, and of my quest from the vantage point of exile to comprehend and make sense of the events that led to the end of twenty-five centuries of monarchy in Iran and the founding of an Islamic republic. Not everybody will agree with my interpretation of the past, but I do believe that each generation has a responsibility to the following one: to pass on an authentic account of what they witnessed, experienced, and felt, particularly during times of great national upheaval. In my search for answers I was ultimately drawn into another realm; that of many witnesses and survivors among the émigrés within the Persian diaspora who, like me, left Iran in the wake of the popular revolution that overthrew the last shah of Iran in 1979.
Thus, I owe a special debt of gratitude to all those who generously agreed to share their, sometimes painful, memories of their lives and experiences during the Pahlavi era, the final years of the shah’s rule, and the convulsion that violently transformed their country politically, economically, socially, and culturally. They not only offered me their hospitality but tirelessly answered my many questions, provided me with useful introductions, and shared poignant photographs from treasured family albums. They became my personal eyewitnesses to pivotal moments, and their expertise, reminiscences, and frank insights were invaluable in enabling me to expand my own understanding of a colossal tragedy.
Many of their names appear throughout the text and are listed at the end of the book as primary and informed sources. No matter how great or small their contribution, they all helped me to shape my narrative. I have a profound appreciation for the published accounts and impressions of travelers, archaeologists, historians, scholars, journalists, and writers, and Iranian sources I often consulted to fill the gaps in my knowledge and to gather inspiration. Thanks are also due to the wonderful people I met in Egypt: friendly hotel managers, taxi drivers, tourist guides, and ordinary folk, and, especially, the old and young attendants at the Grand Rifa‘i Mosque in Cairo.
Around the globe, a network of friends read and re-read my initial drafts, and provided much-welcomed critiques and constructive feedback. Because of the delicate political situation in Iran they have preferred to remain anonymous and I have respected that wish. They all know who they are and have my love and heartfelt thanks. One person I will name is my lifelong friend Karim. He played a major role in reminding me to view the past as objectively as possible. Over many hours and cups of coffee together we relived the good old days of our youth in Iran, indulging in memorable anecdotes as well as engaging in more serious discussions about what happened to our country and missing the lives we left behind. He and others know how much this book means to our generation.
Non-Iranian friends, neighbors, and colleagues who have heard me talk about Iran and my past for as long as they have known me will perhaps understand my reasons for wanting to publish this book. They will, I hope, enjoy reading it.
Prior to submission, editor and writer Karl French helped me tidy up my grammar and turned an often unwieldy manuscript into a readable piece of work. He has my thankful respect and undying friendship.
I cannot thank enough my wife and soulmate, Shuhub, for putting up with my long absences, particularly when I had to travel for my research or locked myself away in my study to type or use the telephone. To her credit she never stopped believing in this book. Her sound advice, humor, and unwavering support and encouragement made it possible for me to persevere. I love her even more for seeing my dream become reality.
Finally, I would like to express my everlasting love to my paternal and maternal grandparents, my mother, Jeanne, and my late father, Dr. Kayomars R. Kadivar, my brother Darius and sister Sylvie, my cousin Sabina for rescuing my precious diaries, Mitra for introducing me to Hafez, the great Persian poet for all times, and other relatives scattered across the world, teachers, and former classmates at the Shiraz International Community School (SICS), and my beloved hometown of Shiraz, without which this story would not have come to life. My sincere hope is that whoever reads this book will come away with a better understanding of, and appreciation for Iran, its recent history, its rich heritage, and above all, its people.
PROLOGUE
Cairo, October 1999
The taxi smelled of dust, petrol, and stale tobacco, a jumble of aromas to match the confused sounds issuing from the car’s radio, the rhythm of Arabic music barely discernible above the static. Driving me was Sayed, a middle-aged Egyptian with frizzy gray hair and dark eyes. For a moment he studied me in the rearview mirror. “You Inglisi?” he asked. “I am half-Persian and half-French but was born in America,” I replied. The driver looked surprised.
“So you are Irani?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. My height and European features did not strike him as typically Iranian. “You could say that I am an exile,” I said, grinning. My driver frowned, confused but rather satisfied, when he learned that I lived in London and was here on a short visit. “Where do you want to go?” he asked, lighting a cigarette. “To a mosque,” I said, absentmindedly unfolding my map. “We have many beautiful ones. . . . Which one do you want to see?” Sayed asked, exhaling smoke.
I leaned forward, coughing. “Do you know the Rifa‘i Mosque, next to the Sultan Hassan?” The driver’s eyes lit up. He turned the radio off and said, “Of course I know! Shah is there. . . . I take you now?” I nodded pensively. “Yes . . . yes, please,” I whispered. My jubilant taxi driver took to the wheel and off we went. There was an admirable and terrifying quality in the way he navigated his ramshackle vehicle through the potholed streets. Through the intense brightness I observed the lively crowds in the spice and fruit markets, the laughing children, the old men playing backgammon or smoking their hookahs. Even in autumn the sun could be hot. I rolled down the side window to let in some air.
Everything, even the smells, was disarmingly foreign yet oddly familiar, enough to remind me of my childhood in pre-revolutionary Iran, a time when life had seemed simple and blissful. During the bumpy ride I kept thinking of what had led me to this, the dust and the traffic, all the chaos of eternal Cairo. Ostensibly I had come to write an article for an émigré newspaper on the Rifa‘i Mosque, where the last emperor of Iran lay buried. In reality I had a sentimental reason to visit this place. Since leaving my homeland at the age of sixteen in the wake of the 1979 Iranian Revolution I had traveled the world, but now, aged thirty-six, here I was in a strange land, coming full circle to face the past.
The taxi sped along the Nile Corniche and entered the crowded labyri