Farah Pahlavi became queen of Iran when she was just 21-years-old, but she could never have imagined that the Islamic revolution, would force her and her husband, the late Shah, to flee Iran and live in exile. Twenty-five years later Queen Farah is writing about her life in a new book, "Enduring Love: My Life With The Shah." Here’s an excerpt:

When I think of that morning in January 1979, I feel that heart-wrenching grief again in all its intensity. Tehran had been under savage attack for months, but now a tense silence had fallen over the city, as if our capital were suddenly holding its breath. It was 16 January and we were about to leave the country, for we thought that the temporary withdrawal of the king would help calm the insurrection.

And so we left. The decision had been made about ten days earlier. Officially we were flying overseas for a few weeks’ rest. That was the impression the king wished to convey. Did he really believe it himself? The deep distress I sometimes saw in his eyes makes me think that he did not. I fervently hoped that we were just going for a rest, but I was not entirely convinced of it either. Yet I could not believe that this man who had given thirty-seven years of service to his people would not regain their confidence someday soon. Under his reign Iran had made remarkable progress; once peace had been restored, everyone would surely acknowledge the fact. Yes, I was hopeful.

It had been snowing. The piercing wind sweeping down from the peaks of the Alborz made crystalline flakes swirl up in the dawn light. The night had been calm, strangely calm, and the king had been able to get a few hours’ sleep. Weakened by illness and worn down by the situation, he had lost a lot of weight during the past year. In addition, despite the declaration of martial law, every night protesters had managed to defy the soldiers and climb onto the roofs. We could even hear their shouts of hate in the palace:

“Allahu akbar, marg bar Shah — Allah is great, death to the Shah!” I would have given anything to protect the king from those insults.

From then on we were without the children. My little Leila’s impromptu visits, the look in Farahnaz’s eyes, timid but full of love for her father, Ali-Reza’s unrestrained laughing and joking so affectionately tolerated by my husband, all that had now gone from the palace. I had put their departure off until the last minute, sensing that it would no doubt mean the end of a family life that had given us so much happiness for almost twenty years. Our elder son, Reza, was in the United States training as a fighter pilot. At that time he was seventeen, and he phoned us every day. The situation as it was reported on American TV worried him immensely. I tried to reassure him, to persuade him to stand firm and above all not to lose hope, even though I saw that the country was inevitably

sinking into chaos. Work had stopped almost everywhere, the refineries had shut down, the state coffers were nearly empty.

Every day brought its wave of demonstrations, hate, provocation, and misinformation. The king chatted briefly with his eldest son, making sure, as I did, that none of his own anxiety could be heard in his conversation on the telephone. And yet there were people

fleeing all around us. Month after month, more and more business leaders, engineers, researchers, and managers were leaving the country. We would soon be the last “legitimate authorities” in this sinking ship that certain forces seemed determined to wreck.

Those last days before the children’s departure had been terrible. At only eight years old, Leila did not seem to be aware of the dreadful tension we were experiencing, but Farahnaz and Ali-Reza, aged fifteen and twelve, did not hide their uneasiness. I saw our

elder daughter stand for a long time behind the iron bars of the garden gate silently gazing at the empty streets, obviously surprised to no longer see the happy groups of children with whom she sometimes used to talk. Where had all the young people gone?

During this same period, there was an endless stream of generals, politicians, university professors, and a few clerics coming to the palace to offer their suggestions to my husband. Some advocated a peaceful, political solution. Others begged him to allow the army to open fire, to which the king invariably replied that a monarch cannot save his throne if the cost is the blood of his compatriots. “A dictator can, but not a monarch.” And then he would firmly turn them away. When it seemed to the king that the wisest solution was to leave, we made up our minds to send away the children. Farahnaz had already left a month earlier, in mid-December 1978, to join her elder brother in the United States. Leila and Ali-Reza also went off to America in the care of my mother. I remember that Ali-Reza insisted on taking the imperial flag and a military uniform that we had specially made for him. When would we see the children again? After initially offering to receive us, the United States had begun to equivocate: it became obvious that we were no longer welcome. Egypt was to be our first destination, but it was far from the children.

We had breakfast separately that morning, as the king had risen very early and had gone to his office just as he would on any normal day. Did he have any idea that these were the last hours he would spend in the country he loved so much? Did he have any idea that he would never return there in his lifetime? Thinking about it today still breaks my heart.

I had the morning to put a few things together. I had been thinking during the night of the children’s photos and the family albums and was dreadfully upset at the thought of leaving them behind. Quick! Get the albums! All the memories of our past happiness

were contained in those pages. What else should I take? I was in such a state that I remember suddenly focusing my attention on a pair of boots that I liked wearing in the country. From now on we would have all the time in the world to walk, and walking was essential if we were to keep a balanced outlook and not lose heart. Yes, these boots were going to be my closest allies. In a strange way their presence calmed my mind. When I discovered them at the bottom of a suitcase a few days later, I gave a bitter laugh, “For heaven’s sake!

Why didn’t it ever cross my mind that shoes like those can be found anywhere in the world?” What kind of cold, sparsely populated land of exile did I imagine was awaiting us? Then, walking through the library, I selected some of my favorite books from the shelves. A member of the palace staff had come up to help me. We were in my office.

“These things are yours, Your Majesty. Take them.” I remember looking at the man very sadly. “No. Of course not. Everything must stay here.”

I was, of course, torn between the hope that perhaps we would come back and the horrifying, humiliating scene already forming in my mind of furious demonstrators entering the palace and opening our drawers and cupboards. I did not want to give them any reason to think that we had left taking our possessions with us. No, we were leaving with heads held high, sure of having worked ceaselessly for the benefit of the country. And if we had made mistakes, at least we had never thought of anything but the general good. The previous day I had asked the curators of our museums to come and take some precious objects that had been given to us by various sovereigns and heads of state, as well as some personal possessions. They at least would never be stolen. I had no interest in keeping such valuable objects for myself. I wanted all the rest — pictures, personal belongings, carpets, everything — to stay where they were, even my Iranian clothes, which I deliberately left, as one leaves a part of one’s soul behind. To forestall pillaging

or malevolence, I had invited the television studio to come and film the interior of the palace. I had also invited Iranian and foreign journalists. At that time our lives were a part of Iran’s destiny, and I feel proud that our personal possessions have never left our country.

The last hours went by quickly, too quickly, between periods of feverish activity and long moments when I just gazed at the trees in the garden, the harsh light of Tehran in winter, and those warm private places where we had lived so intensely. I remember having called Farahnaz in the United States while I was in this second mood, suddenly realizing that the poor child had left a month earlier in the belief that she would come back to her bedroom

and all her teenage joys. How could she have suspected that she would not see Iran again, right up to the present day?

What did she want me to take to her? “Now think carefully, Nanaz joune (my life). Tell me, is there anything that you’re particularly fond of?” I was surprised to hear her ask for the poster of a singer, Sattar, already a great favorite in Iran, who had pride of place in her room. That was the only thing she really wanted. I think that, like me with my pair of boots, she was reassured by the promise this poster held for her. It hid the extent of the misfortune to come, which she no doubt suspected.

As for Reza, he had lived in a separate house on the palace grounds. The shutters had remained closed since his departure a few months earlier. The clothes he had worn as a child, which I had lovingly kept, the cassettes of his first words and first steps, his photo albums and all his memories were stored there. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to call him. I left everything.

How I would love so much to find these treasures again today. The morning drew to a close. The king was still in his office, but now the atmosphere inside the palace was becoming more somber by the minute. I could feel the distress in the men and women of our staff. The older ones among them had served Reza Shah, my husband’s father, and some had been present at our wedding twenty years before. Moving around the palace in unaccustomed silence, they all seemed stunned at the prospect of our departure. I realized that their wordlessness meant that they felt no hope. “We cannot go like this,” I thought. “We must not lose faith.” They came in a group to bid us farewell. I explained to them that we were undoubtedly about to experience another of those sad times that have come and gone throughout the long history of Iran, but that spring would come again and we would meet again to rejoice in the king’s return. Who could have imagined that our country would be engulfed in such a nightmare?

We held back our tears, some even finding the strength to smile, and I then gave each of them a memento or some money, as one usually does before a long separation, to strengthen the bonds between us.

The king appeared at last. Everyone began to weep when they saw him. He was a man who normally had firm control over his emotions, but now he seemed to be struggling to hide his feelings. He had a word for each one of them. Many of them sobbed as they begged him to stay and not abandon them.

When we were informed that the two helicopters which were to take us to Mehrabad airport were ready for takeoff, the palace staff spontaneously gathered on the palace steps. This time we were really leaving. Our bags had already been taken on board.

Hands were stretched out to us and I still can see faces twisted with emotion. The king gave them all a last wave; I kissed the women who were closest to me. With the sound of the whirring rotors in my ears, I soon saw the palace disappear behind the buildings of Tehran.

Excerpted from "Enduring Love: My Life With The Shah" by Farah Pahlavi. Copyright © 2004 by Farah Pahlavi. Published by Miramax Books, a division of Hyperion Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt can be used without permission of the publisher.

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