A Recollection by Ali Tahiri of a Military maneuver

Selected by Faezeh Sasanikhah
Translated by Kianoush Borzouei

2026-2-17

After completing various stages of military training and mastering a wide range of specialized skills, I served as a professional army officer and took part in numerous maneuvers and operations. Among these was an incident in 1961, when Engineer Malek-Abadi—then the first Minister of Reforms and a royal representative—was assassinated on the road from Shiraz to Firouzabad. In the aftermath of this event, the Shah ordered a large-scale military exercise in the region. A unit of paratroopers from the Tehran Army was dispatched to Shiraz for this purpose, and I was among those deployed. Upon our arrival in Shiraz, I was immediately instructed to report to the Officers’ Club, while the rest of the unit was to be stationed at the 28th Regiment. I objected, insisting that we all be accommodated together at the Officers’ Club. This request was rejected, and I was told that the order had come from a higher authority and was therefore non-negotiable. I persisted, emphasizing the importance of our unity, and eventually they conceded, instructing us all to proceed to the 28th Regiment—a facility that had previously functioned as a stable.

For ten to fifteen days, we trained intensively at the 28th Regiment in preparation for the maneuver until the Shah arrived and the exercise was carried out. During this operation, I conducted a fougasse explosion, an assignment directly related to my expertise in demolition and explosives. Given that most readers are likely unfamiliar with the concept of a fougasse, a brief explanation is in order. In such an operation, gasoline is placed in barrels and detonated to push flames skyward in vivid, multicolored rings—spectacular in appearance yet exceedingly perilous. Indeed, during this maneuver, my hand was injured, and part of my uniform sleeve was torn.

I vividly recall the day of the exercise, when a group of officers stood in formation for review by the Shah. First in line was Major General Khosrodad, who at the time held the rank of major. Second was Major General Ghaffari, also then a major. I stood third. The Shah, accompanied by General Ariyana—who had only recently been promoted to major general—and Brigadier General Hojjat Kashani, passed before us. When he reached me, he inquired about my injured hand. I replied that I had been wounded after striking a tree. He then asked about my role in the maneuver. I answered that the fougasse operation he had just witnessed, conducted for the first time in Iran, had been my responsibility. He smiled and remarked, “It was an excellent operation—truly well executed.” He then ordered his entourage to reward me with two American-made uniforms and two months’ full salary and benefits. At the time, I held the rank of lieutenant.

As the Shah moved away, he asked Brigadier General Hojjat Kashani about the quality of the food and accommodation provided for the paratroopers. Kashani falsely claimed that we were housed in officers’ quarters and were receiving excellent provisions, embellishing his response with excessive flattery. Unable to contain myself, I raised my hand and declared, “Your Majesty, you are being misinformed.”

The Shah turned back, visibly enraged, approached me, and placed his hand on my shoulder. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Has something displeased you?” I replied, “Your Majesty, they are not telling you the truth. We are quartered in the stables of the 28th Regiment and are being given only the standard soldiers’ rations, deprived of the officers’ provisions.”

The Shah became so enraged that he abruptly terminated the inspection and headed directly toward his aircraft to return to Tehran. At the precise moment he lifted his foot to ascend the stairs, I felt my utility belt—along with my sidearm—being removed. My shirt was stripped off, and four or five armed men escorted me, clad only in my undershirt, to Adelabad Prison in Shiraz, located 150 kilometers from the maneuver site. I was taken straight from a successful operation to prison, without any inquiry into the circumstances or an opportunity to explain.

I spent nearly three months in Adelabad Prison until, through the intercession of a relative who served as head of the conscription office, I was released and returned to Tehran. Remarkably, in the wake of this incident, a military directive was issued instructing all personnel, regardless of rank: “Should His Majesty address you, respond only with ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ or ‘No, Your Majesty.’ No further explanations are permitted.” In effect, it stated clearly that no one except the highest-ranking officer was authorized to speak or provide clarification to the Shah.

From my early adolescence, I was profoundly enamored of the military uniform, convinced that by donning this sacred attire I could serve my homeland, my faith, and my fellow citizens. That devotion has never entirely waned, and I continue to hold the same conviction. Although the years have now weighed upon me, my emotional and intellectual attachment to military service and to this vocation remains deeply ingrained.

Yet, the contrast between that era and the present is immeasurable—indeed, worlds apart. Even then, I regarded the military uniform as a blessed symbol, one that obliges its bearer to defend the dignity of a nation, the sanctity of the homeland, and the honor and integrity of its people. This belief remained firmly rooted in my conscience until the Shiraz maneuver and the Shah’s reaction irrevocably shattered it.

So profoundly did I value my service that, when the Shah inquired about the cause of my injury, I stopped myself from disclosing the true reason—namely, the damage sustained while handling explosive materials. Instead, I claimed to have fallen from a tree. Even the royal reward of two months’ full salary and benefits, accompanied by two American-made uniforms, held no significance for me. I had undertaken my duties solely in service to my country and its people. It is worth noting, however, that this reward was of considerable importance to the Shah himself. He articulated the word American with such exaggerated emphasis and pride that it seemed he regarded the mere act of wearing American attire as an extraordinary honor.

The Shah possessed a peculiar disposition, utterly intolerant of criticism. Consequently, those around him habitually resorted to falsehood, secure in the knowledge that deception carried no penalty, whereas honesty did. When my revelation exposed the false claims made by General Ariyana regarding our accommodation and provisions, it was not the liar who was reprimanded, but the truth-teller who was cast into prison. As I have noted, the Shah was so furious by my candor that he abruptly terminated the inspection and departed immediately, without further ceremony.

To return to the main narrative: I was transported to prison in a military Dodge vehicle. Like any accused individual, I anticipated a formal charge and a fair opportunity to understand the nature of my alleged offense, to avail myself of due process, and to defend myself. Yet no explanation was offered, no accusation articulated, and no dialogue initiated. Throughout the entire 150-kilometer journey, silence reigned.

Upon arrival, I was neither tortured nor interrogated. Nevertheless, during the two months and several days of my imprisonment, not a single guard or interrogator uttered a word to me. It was as though I were an outcast, a leper from whom all recoiled. I was held in solitary confinement in a cramped three-by-four-meter cell. One day, when my patience had been utterly exhausted, I questioned a captain about this treatment: “Why does no one speak to me? Why am I not told what crime I have committed?” He hushed me repeatedly and asked, “Do you even realize what you have done?” I shook my head. He continued, “For every inmate, a charge is recorded— theft, assault, brawling, and so forth. On your file, it is written: disturbing the sacred disposition of His Imperial Majesty.”

This revelation struck me with overwhelming force. I was stunned beyond belief. I could not understand how His Majesty could be displeased merely because I had spoken the truth. I felt profoundly humiliated, acutely victimized. Yet, in retrospect, I thank Almighty God for this shock, for it became one of the greatest divine blessings of my life. It compelled me to confront myself and ask: “Why did you enter the army? What was your purpose? Does the path you now tread align with your original ideals and aspirations?”

The answer that echoed within me was an unequivocal no. From that moment, my attachment to the uniform I wore began to erode. I no longer perceived it as sacred. I came to understand that a military uniform acquires sanctity only when it serves God, divine justice, and the people—not when it becomes an instrument in the service of a dictator unwilling to confront reality.

As previously mentioned, I was ultimately released through the mediation of a maternal relative who served as head of the conscription authority. Yet upon my return to the army, many remarked with regret: “You have ruined your own future, son. You will never even dream of attaining high command.” I would simply smile and reply, “It does not matter to me.” On occasion, when I felt more at ease, I would add: “I expected the monarch to commend my courage in speaking the truth, not to imprison me for criticism. Why should a king remain so indifferent to reality? I expected him to seek clarification, to pursue the matter, to care.”^[1]