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Crown of lilies June 25, 2001 On that Saturday afternoon in June, shortly before the funeral, a crowd of some two thousand mourners had lined up at the cemetery of Passy near the old northern walls of Paris, south and southwest of Trocadéro. Behind the grey vaults was a small graveyard, sheltered by a bower of chestnut trees, where many well-known souls -- artists and dignitaries -- have been laid to rest. By the end of the day they were joined by a Persian princess.
Dressed in a white Muslim shroud the princess had been laid in a coffin draped in the old imperial flag. Blinded by tears, people walked up one side, looked in at her sleeping pale face through a small glass cover, kissed it and wept. She was so beautiful, so young, so small. Last year during my trip to Cairo on the 20th anniversary of the Shah's death, I had met Princess Leila and been struck by her piercing brown eyes, long hair, melancholic smile and gentle handshake. A petite woman, she had seemed happy to mingle with her compatriots, often asking questions about Iran and hearing their stories. During the slow journey to RAF Northolt Air Base, my thoughts had gone out to her grief-stricken mother and family in Paris. Shortly before the white, chartered aircraft had been loaded up with its precious cargo, a young woman had run up to me and handed me a crown of lilies which I dutifully ensured would accompany the princess on her sad journey across the English Channel. And when the plane took off, many of us sad mourners had shuddered at the thought of our own mortality. We had even prayed to see the little princess buried one day in her own sweet homeland.
The British press were speculating and offering many theories from the plausible to the absurd. Was the photo of the late Shah found under her silk pillow by Scotland Yard detectives (the rumours are to be believed) a clue? These thoughts and many other unanswered questions had haunted me long after I had left the hotel and begun walking in the pouring rain. The death of a lonely, unmarried, Persian princess in a London hotel at the age of 31 did not go unnoticed. Instead it had opened a Pandora's box and stirred many emotions among Iranian exiles all over the globe. Even inside Iran, a few sympathisers, mostly young children born after the monarchy's overthrow and their mothers who had heard the former empress's moving communiqué, had under the very noses of the revolutionary guards, held a candle-lit vigil outside the former Niavaran palace in north Tehran chanting Leila's name.
By chance, seated in the next first class train compartment was a smartly dressed Iranian lady in complete black looking impeccable with her pearls and splendid coiffed silver hair and thick, designer sunglasses. You can imagine our surprise when she turned out to be Leila's great-aunt. "I feel so sorry for the empress," she told us. "It is a great family tragedy." Her son, a successful banker whom I had befriended at the London chapel a few days ago, spoke fondly of the young princess's love of Hafez and Rumi and Persian art, her sensitivity and troubled life.
During the early years of exile, she had shared in her family's arduous struggle to find a safe haven. The death of her beloved father, whom she adored greatly, had been a traumatic event, which had adversely affected her in subsequent years. "Whenever I look in the mirror, I see him," she once told a friend. By the time we reached the Champs-Elysees every newsstand carried the latest magazine editions with glossy photos of the former empress and her daughter on the front covers. "La douleur de Farah," cried one of the headlines.
The funeral began shortly after three o'clock when a black automobile carrying the flower-laden coffin of Princess Leila drove up the cobbled path where rows and rows of admirers had lined up to salute her. Despite her obvious grief, the former empress, was determined to maintain her dignity, as she walked behind her daughter's hearse, accompanied by her immediate children and family members. As the procession made its slow, painful journey through the trees, a party of birds trilled their approval. Among the mourners that day were members of European royalty, notably ex-King Constantine of Greece, international dignitaries, journalists, and a few colourful jet set types who had abandoned their Manhattan apartments or shiny yachts along the French Riviera, their skin deliciously brown from the sun.
From a safe distance away, I watched the simple ceremony from behind the nameless heads gathered in the cemetery. It was a moving sight. I glimpsed at the broken-hearted former empress lost in thought as Princess Leila's governess wept on her coffin. Behind her I could barely see the faces of Princess Farahnaz and Prince Ali Reza as they struggled with their feelings. Ardeshir Zahedi, the late Shah's former son-in-law and ambassador to Washington, had flown from Switzerland to be there, as had Dr Lucy Pirnia, the royal children's doctor. Other members of the Pahlavi family including Princess Ashraf, and Princes Gholam Reza and Abdol Reza and their glamorous wives stood under the marquee as a molla read from the Koran. "Do not shed tears, but let us pray for the soul of the beloved Princess Leila who died for her country," said the molla. "We ask Allah to give her family, especially her dear mother, the Shahbanou, patience and strength. At a time of great mourning Islam forbids tears. Let us all pray."
And so it was that Princess Leila was laid to rest in Passy cemetery surrounded by flowers and loved ones. After the mourners had retired from the scene I walked up to the open grave and threw my white rose with the afterthought that in death, perhaps now she had found the profound serenity which she had yearned all her life in this ethereal and timeless place away from home. It was about 4:30p.m. when I offered my condolences to the former empress as she stood there at the far end of the cemetery listening patiently to the kind and heart-warming words of her compatriots with deep affection.
When it had stopped raining a small rainbow appeared between the clouds bringing a lightness to the sombre occasion. Later, we followed the mourners to an apartment belonging to Princess Leila's grandmother, Farideh Diba, who had passed away last December, and where the Shahbanou now held court. Never in my life had I seen such a crowd waiting to offer their sympathies. Over time, a close bond had been formed between politically diverse Iranians. "It's very busy in there," said one of the departing visitors with a smile. "But don't lose hope." It wasn't until half-past six that my fiancée and I were allowed in. We climbed the stairs leading to the royal apartment, passing Amir Taheri, an Iranian journalist and biographer of the late Shah. On the third floor near the entrance to the Shahbanou's apartment was a small man sitting on a chair beside a mountain of flowers talking to his wife on a mobile telephone. He smiled at me. I recognised him as the same person who had accompanied Kambiz Attabai, the empress's tireless and dedicated private secretary, on the princess's last flight from London to Paris. Inside the apartment a few white candles flickered in front of a portrait of Princess Leila alongside a turquoise statue and a rare, open copy of the Koran which lay on a heavy marble table.
Unable to linger on in this sad house which had become unbearable, my fiancée and I decided to slip out discreetly. At Paris's Gare du Nord we came across a distinguished Iranian gentleman who had missed his train. While his wife sorted out his tickets we talked about the funeral. "We were a bad generation," he lamented. "Had we shown moral courage twenty-two years ago maybe we wouldn't be here, stuck in history, not knowing which way to turn. Princess Leila belonged to that lost generation of Iranians who paid for their father's sins. She died innocent."
As a lovesick nightingale,
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