Tony briefed me on the situation. Not only was he on good personal terms with the Shah himself: he had a vast detailed knowledge of what was happening throughout the country. At this time the accepted wisdom was that the main threat to the Shah’s strongly pro-Western regime came from the communist-backed opposition, the Tudeh. Judging from his public pronouncements, even the Shah himself seemed to believe this. But Tony Parsons had perceived that the Mullahs and their supporters were also a threat. That turned out to be all too true. Tony is, however, candid enough to admit in his own account that he thought the army would be capable of holding the situation. That turned out to be all too false. But none of us foresaw how quickly the Shah’s position would crumble.
On Saturday morning I was received at the palace by the Minister of the Court, Amir Abbas Hoveyda. Hoveyda was an urbane and distinguished man, who was later executed by the Ayatollah’s regime after a show trial which I saw on television.
When I met the Shah he began by expressing concern about the recent communist-backed coup in Afghanistan: he said he had expected one eventually, but that it had occurred ten years earlier than he envisaged. He talked repeatedly of Iran as being in the front line against communism. He gave no hint of resentment against his wavering Western backers, though he had reason to feel it. Not only was there the uncertainty about the Americans’ commitment to him, but the Iranians also maintained that the Persian-language BBC World Service reports consisted largely of propaganda against the Government. I went away impressed by his grasp of world affairs. But, of course, no amount of such wisdom is proof against the kind of subversion which he was facing at home.
The Shah was a handsome man, with somewhat gaunt features which I later understood were the early signs of the cancer that would kill him. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he believed that time was running out. It was ominous perhaps that when he went to inspect his troops he travelled by helicopter: I was told that nowadays he always travelled that way rather than through the streets because of the threat of attack. I also noticed that on my visit to Isfahan, to see the ancient mosques, my personal security was particularly tight.
On reflection, my impressions of Iran seem to have something of the quality of those paintings in which the French nobility on the eve of the Revolution disport themselves amid contrived pastoral scenes. Within a year, the Shah would have fled the country, the Ayatollah Khomeini would have returned, an Islamic Republic would have been proclaimed, and bloodshed and terror would prevail. Yet here I was, invited to admire the glorious trappings of the Peacock Throne, to wonder at the spectacular crown jewels, to be enthralled by the illuminated grandeur of the ruins of Persepolis.
Could the Shah have been saved? If the Americans had been more robust, if the French had insisted that the Ayatollah refrain from political activity in Iran as a condition of asylum in Paris, if the Shah had appeased moderate Islamic opinion, perhaps things could have turned out differently. As it is, the forces unleashed by the Iranian revolution are still unchecked and represent one of the greatest threats to international peace and stability.
ASIA AND THE FAR EAST
Between the autumn of 1976 and the spring of 1977 I visited no fewer than eight states in Asia and the Far East. This provided me with a range of contacts and a fund of experience which would prove useful when I was Prime Minister. Inevitably, though, since so many countries were fitted into such a short time — among them Pakistan, India, Singapore, New Zealand, Australia and China — I received only a series of political snapshots which would have to be supplemented by wider reading and discussion.
As I reflected later on what I had learned, however, it seemed to me that two general themes stood out. First, in varying degrees and from different standpoints, countries throughout the region were becoming more alert to the extension of Soviet power and influence: this would be sharply reinforced in 1979 by the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. Secondly, it was still an open question as to how China, Japan and possibly India would arrange a new Asian balance of power. In each case, the rise to dominance was distracted at least as much by self-created obstacles as by external circumstances. The years 1976–77, therefore, were ones full of interest for an apprentice Western statesman. And, in spite of criticisms in the British press for spending too much time away from home, I never regretted making these visits.
On Sunday 5 September 1976, very early in the morning, I arrived in Pakistan at Rawalpindi. The following evening I was entertained by Prime Minister Bhutto. He was the best kind of host, never allowing his left-wing views to get in the way of a first-class dinner and serious but amusing conversation. Gordon Reece accompanied me and Mr Bhutto’s daughter, Benazir, and some of her friends were present too. Prime Minister Bhutto and I had both been to Oxford and had trained as barristers at Lincoln’s Inn.
Mr Bhutto had been an indifferent Prime Minister in difficult circumstances. He helped Pakistan achieve some self-respect after the previous military regime had lost Bangladesh in its disastrous war with India; Pakistan’s relations with its powerful neighbour were now on a better footing. But he failed to tackle seriously the country’s deeply rooted economic difficulties. Like many other Third World socialist leaders of the period, he tried to escape from domestic economic problems by calling for a ‘just’ new international economic order, which was shorthand for larger transfers of foreign aid from the West. Indeed, he had backed a Third World initiative for this purpose.
Though I expressed my views politely, I was known to be a critic of this kind of international socialism. It was somewhat to the surprise of his civil servants, therefore, that we immediately struck up a rapport. I even found him remarkably understanding — in private at least — about the need to curb Pakistani immigration into Britain.
Mr Bhutto’s ideas of a new international economic order eventually foundered in the 1980s, when the Third World began to understand that free-market economics were the key to prosperity. Long before then, however, he had been overthrown by a military coup. Perhaps, like the Shah, he had become too detached from the religious and cultural values of his own people.
No one may ever know the whole truth about his overthrow, trial and subsequent execution. As Prime Minister I intervened in vain with his successor to spare his life. But the military was determined. So it was a strange feeling when I subsequently met President Zia-Ul-Haq at Tito’s funeral in 1980. He was much more pro-Western than his predecessor, but I had also expected to meet a cold, even brutal, figure. Instead, I found him polished and he made every effort to be friendly. When my son Mark was lost for days in the North African desert in January 1982, General Zia was one of the first to telephone personally to express his concern. And under his rule Pakistan was to prove exceptionally generous to the millions of Afghan refugees driven out by the Soviet occupation.
At the time of my visit, however, Pakistan was enjoying better relations with its neighbours, including India. Indeed, by now the Indian Prime Minister, Mrs Indira Gandhi, and her Government were almost exclusively concerned with domestic problems. The first half of 1975 had seen a massive campaign of opposition against her, leading to the proclamation in June of a State of Emergency, the banning of some political parties, the suspension of fundamental human rights, severe censorship and the arrest of thousands of opponents, including some thirty Indian MPs. At the time I arrived there was a kind of eerie calm. The economy was doing quite well after several bad years, though there were disagreements about whether this was as a result of government policy or of good harvests. But it was not, of course, possible to know the real conditions of the country without a free press; even parliamentary speeches were subject to censorship.