A Homecoming Crown: The Queen Regent and the Last Exile of the Islamic Republic

It is one of those curious quirks of history that occasionally presents itself with the grandeur of myth. That a monarchy, toppled by zealotry and chased into exile, might one day find its footing again—not in the ruined halls of Persepolis or the marble galleries of Sa’adabad, but in a villa nestled beneath the brilliant sun of Tel Aviv, purchased decades ago by a monarch with foresight, or perhaps nostalgia.

That monarch was Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the last Shah of Iran. And it is his widow, Her Imperial Majesty Farah Pahlavi—the Queen Regent in both spirit and lineage—who now stands at the crossroads of history and legacy. For in the growing cacophony of protest, repression, drone warfare and despair that defines the Islamic Republic’s waning days, a new opportunity has emerged: to proclaim a Government in Exile of a Free Iran. And to do so from the very land where her late husband, in a moment of uncertain exile, planted a quiet seed of continuity.

There is a land in central Tel Aviv, unremarkable at first glance, but it bears a provenance that few recall and fewer still could have predicted would rise in importance. Purchased by the Shah in the twilight years of his reign, it became a quiet property of the Pahlavi family—a relic of lost power, a silent footprint on democratic soil.

How exquisite, then, how deliciously poetic it would be, were that house to become the seat of a reborn Iran in exile. Not as a political gimmick or diplomatic experiment, but as a declaration. The Islamic Republic, a regime that has reduced Persian heritage to dust, could find itself confronted with its greatest adversary: the enduring idea of Iran.

Let us not be naïve—governments in exile are not created by nostalgia alone. They are forged through symbolism, political clarity, and moral leadership. But surely, we can admit that the time for clarity has come. With the IRGC now officially described as a transnational threat, with its proxies hurling rockets at Israel, and its leaders entangled in corruption, war crimes, and the brutal suppression of women, Kurds, students and thinkers—it is hard to imagine a more justifiable moment.

Enter the Queen Regent. A figure of dignity, restraint, and impossible grace. She has never sought power for herself, nor spoken rashly. But were she to lend her voice—gently but unmistakably—to the cause of a Free Iran, and were she to do so not from Paris or Washington, but from Tel Aviv, she would unlock a moment of breathtaking resonance.

For there, from the very soil of Israel—a nation reviled and scapegoated by the Islamic Republic with obsessive fervour—could rise the voice of another Iran. An Iran that remembers Cyrus and not Khamenei. Ferdowsi, not Rafsanjani. An Iran that seeks friendship over fanaticism, and restoration over ruin.

Such a gesture would also serve to place the West before an overdue moral reckoning. For decades, Western capitals have attempted to dance with both the arsonist and the fire brigade—flirting with reformists one day, sanctioning hardliners the next. A Government in Exile, with the Crown Prince recognised as heir to the throne, would force the issue. To whom do you extend legitimacy? To a regime that funds terrorism, murders its brightest minds, and gasses protesters in underground prisons? Or to a movement rooted in law, culture, and memory?

The implications would be immediate. Diplomatic missions would face the question of recognition. Human rights organisations would be compelled to abandon the fiction of reformist promise. And most crucially, Iranians themselves—inside and outside the country—would know that their dignity has a voice, and that their future has a form.

As for Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi, let us not dress him in robes he does not seek. He has never demanded a throne, only a referendum. But tradition, even when it is ornamental, carries profound meaning. A symbolic coronation—done in the spirit of cultural continuity, not authoritarian revival—could galvanise a generation that has so far only known the clerical boot and the security wall. The symbolism of passing the torch, in exile but not in defeat, would echo far beyond Tel Aviv.

Let us remember that the Islamic Republic itself was born in exile—broadcast from a rented house outside Paris, where Ayatollah Khomeini sermonised with the fluency of a demagogue and the patience of a strategist. It would be rather fitting, would it not, for the downfall of that theocracy to begin from another foreign villa—this time, lit not by hatred, but by hope.

This is not a call to arms, but a call to clarity. To invite the world to choose: do you stand with the dream of a free, pluralistic Iran? Or do you continue to indulge the fantasy that the Islamic Republic can be nudged into moderation, all while it drags a great civilisation through the mire?

Queen Farah need only declare what history has already whispered: that the story of Iran is not over. That its soul was never handed to the ayatollahs, and its people never surrendered their birthright.

And what finer setting for such a declaration than the quiet, sunlit corner of Tel Aviv, where exile may at last give way to renaissance.