Mojen: A Resilient Model of Community-Based Water Governance in Iran

I have just returned from Bardsir (6 Oct., 2026) where I facilitated two very challenging local meetings—one in Bardsir city and the other in Negar. Our facilitator, Mehrnoush (a native of Kerman), had successfully organized two sessions with local farmers (representatives of agricultural wells). Our core objective is to explore whether it is possible to entrust the management of the Bardsir aquifer directly to the farmers themselves.

The discussions have been progressing well over this past month. However, during our recent meeting, when the farmers asked for a concrete example of successful self-governance, I shared the story of Mojen in Shahroud. I realized that this is a case study worth documenting in detail. While I mentioned it briefly during our participatory workshop in Bardsir, I have more space here to provide a thorough analysis. So, what is the story of Mojen?

Where is Mojen?

Let me first set the stage. The mountainous town of Mojen is located 35 km northwest of Shahroud, in the eastern foothills of the Alborz mountain range. Surrounded by towering peaks like Shahvar (3,930 m), Chalouyi, and Shahzadeh Mohammad, it sits at an altitude of 2,350 meters above sea level. Shahroud is one of the most important counties in Semnan province. With an average annual temperature of 7.2°C and 284 mm of rainfall, the region supports cold-climate farming and horticulture for its 6,000 residents.

The hydrological regime of this basin is fed by seasonal and perennial rivers (such as "Pish-Deh" and "Pey-Hesar"), mountain springs (like Dareh-ye Khounyab and Farahzad), and a 20% share of the overflow from the Tash River. In recent decades, this supply has been bolstered by six newly excavated Qanats (ancient Persian underground aqueducts) and several deep wells owned collectively by the users (Zare & Hayati, 2015). The subsistence economy of Mojen, built on small-scale landholding, has redefined its survival through strict discipline in distributing water across this rugged, sloped, and mountainous geography.

The Anatomy of the Traditional "Block" System (Pre-1962) and Its Collapse

Before the institutional reforms of 1962 (the Iranian Land Reform era), Mojen's water distribution was governed by a customary structure known as the "Block System," with water rights officially registered as early as 1924.

In this structure, the river's water rotation cycle was defined as 10 days and nights, divided into 2,400 shares (known as "Shahi"). Each "block" was allocated one full 24-hour cycle (equivalent to 24 shares). The order of water access was determined annually by lottery. Internal management and water distribution for each block were overseen by a selected "Sar-bolouk" (Block Head) and his subordinates, the "Mirabs" (traditional water masters). Their wages were paid in cash or a share of the harvest.

However, over time—especially from the 1950s onward—frequent buying, selling, and fragmentation of land shattered the geographical cohesion of these blocks. Fields belonging to different blocks became intertwined. The result was chaotic: constant interruptions in flow, irregular water rotation, and catastrophic waste during transmission. Furthermore, the Sar-bolouks and influential individuals began to abuse their power, engaging in nepotism and favoritism. This led to deep distrust, violent conflicts, and total hydraulic deadlock by the early 1960s (Rajabpour & Mohebbi, 2015).

The 1962 Institutional Leap: Local Leadership and Collective Investment

In response to this structural crisis, local elites and elders—led by the initiative and courage of the then-village head (Kadkhoda), Haj Ishaq (Isa) Gharib—forged a new path. The turning point was the need for new water sources through the excavation of two new Qanats: "Nasra" and "Kharabian."

To cover the high costs of the Moqanni (well-diggers), a participatory plan was proposed to the water-rights holders to invest proportional to their share of the river. The elders went house-to-house, even visiting migrant laborers in Gorgan to secure public trust. Owners paid for 8 days of the 12-day Qanat cycle proportional to their shares, while the remaining 4 days were covered by other applicants. This effort increased the agricultural water flow by 30%.

Immediately following this financial solidarity, in 1962, 330 water-rights holders took a historic step. Breaking away from rigid traditional frameworks, they established the "Mojen Irrigation and Agricultural Joint Stock Company" (registered as No. 29). It was formed as a private joint-stock company with full legal independence under Commercial Law. Today, after 64 years of continuity, with over 2,200 members, this company holds all authority for the management, distribution, and utilization of water.

Technical and Hydraulic Transformation: From Block Timing to Linear Hourly Distribution

With the formal registration of the company, the architecture of water distribution underwent precise engineering surgery. The inefficient traditional block system was dismantled and replaced by a "Sequential Hourly Distribution System" from upstream to downstream.

In this new arrangement, while the historical water rights of landowners were fully preserved, they were all converted into precise units of "hours and minutes." Furthermore, to minimize physical water loss due to transmission through steep slopes and long channels, the rotation cycle was extended from 10 to 12 days. The extra 2 days were designated as a "hydraulic safety margin" to compensate for conveyance losses. Instead of water wandering between fragmented blocks, it flowed linearly from headwater to tail-end in main and secondary canals. This measure drastically increased conveyance efficiency, enabled irrigation of distant lands (up to 5–10 km away), and expanded the town's cultivated area by 100% (Rajabpour & Mohebbi, 2015).

The Institutional Masterpiece: Separating Water Ownership from Land

The most fundamental achievement of the Mojen Joint Stock Company, which has made it an unparalleled model in Iran's water economy, is the "Absolute Separation of Water Ownership from Land."

By issuing official water-share certificates, water was recognized as a legal asset independent of land. The management of land remains entirely with the farmer, while the management of water is exclusively in the hands of the company. The practical manifestation of this separation is the annual issuance of the "Irrigation Card" or, in the local dialect, the "Chak-e Ab" (Water Check).

These cards, published annually in four distinct colors corresponding to the type of water right, are the only official permits to receive water during the irrigation season (May to September). The Mirabs are sworn not to deliver a single drop of water without seeing and physically punching the "Water Check." In this framework, the size, type, and cropping pattern have no effect on the allocated quota; the farmer is autonomous in how they use their volume of water. A holder of a "Water Check" can have their share delivered anywhere in the network during a rotation, transfer it to another plot of land, or trade it with neighbors while maintaining their turn.

A Structured and Dynamic Water Market: Transparency and Competitive Pricing

The flexibility resulting from the independence of water has created a cohesive and transparent "Water Market" in Mojen. Transactions are conducted in three clearly defined and regulated ways:

1.  Rotational Exchange (Short-term): Rapid exchange or hourly transfer of water within a single rotation cycle between two farmers on the same canal route.

2.  Annual Lease: Leasing the water right for a full growing season by the elderly, migrants, or those without sufficient land to development-oriented farmers.

3.  Permanent Sale and Official Share Transfer: A strictly registered process where the buyer and seller appear at the company headquarters. The transaction is recorded in share ledgers, immediately deducted from the seller’s account and credited to the buyer, with a new *Mirab* card issued if necessary.

The Irrigation Company does not intervene in price discovery or set rates. The value of every hour of water depends solely on supply and demand, drought conditions, and the economic value of horticultural products. This has led to water being allocated to its highest economic value, preventing the abandonment of farmlands (Matinjou & Alizadeh, 2020).

A Self-Sustaining Financial Model: Freedom from Government Budgets

The Mojen system is built on "complete financial independence" and has not received a single Rial of government operational funding since its inception. The company’s sustainable income portfolio is secured from five intelligent sources:

1.  Water Distribution Fee: An annual charge based on actual costs of dredging, depreciation, and wages, collected from shareholders before the season.

2.  Sale of "Surplus" Water: Revenue from water saved through concrete-lining canals and reducing conveyance losses, which the company then sells.

3.  Sale of "Saran" Water: Revenue from selling flood flows and water exceeding the normal river regime in early spring.

4.  Transaction Commissions: A percentage charged for registering transfers and changing the names on "Water Checks."

5.  Revenues from Subsidiary Investments.

These robust financial resources not only cover the salaries of the Head Mirab, 13 seasonal Mirabs, Moqannis, accountants, and the CEO, but have also cleared bank debts and provided the capital necessary for infrastructure development.

Agile Organizational Structure and Accountable Hierarchy

The organizational chart of the Mojen Joint Stock Company is a clear example of a transparent hierarchy without bureaucratic bloat. The highest decision-making body is the "General Assembly of Water-Rights Holders," which elects the Board of Directors and auditors. The elected Board selects the "CEO" as the highest executive authority, who oversees both the administrative-financial department (secretary, accountant) and the operational department.

The company's executive arm in the field consists of a "Head Mirab" and 13 "Local Mirabs" responsible for distributing water along the canals and maintaining records. Alongside them are night-watchmen for the network and wells, Moqannis, and seasonal laborers. No government agency has the power to veto or intervene in the appointment or decision-making processes of this group; its legitimacy is rooted in the trust of the shareholders.

Internal Conflict Resolution and Quasi-Judicial Hierarchy

In the traditional judicial system, water disputes usually lead to police involvement, heavy criminal cases, and family feuds. In Mojen, there is a three-stage self-regulatory dispute resolution protocol:

1.  First, any inconsistency or delay of even a few minutes is resolved on-site by the canal Mirab and the Head Mirab in a mediation style.

2.  If the violation persists or there is tampering with headworks, the case is referred to an emergency meeting of the CEO and Board of Directors.

3.  The Board, relying on the company’s bylaws, condemns the violator to pay damages, fines, or lose their water turn in the next rotation. Because all members are committed to the bylaws, internal rulings have immediate executive force. Only if an individual acts destructively and refuses to accept the rulings does the company, as an independent legal entity, introduce the offender to the judiciary—a rare occurrence in the company's history due to social pressure from peers.

Capital Accumulation and Modernization

The institutional capacity of the Mojen company over six decades has translated into the accumulation of physical assets and infrastructure development. With its own resources and some partnership with executive agencies, the company has succeeded in:

• Modernizing and concrete-lining over 20 km of main water transmission routes and building two new diversion dams.
• Reviving and excavating 6 Qanats and digging 5 deep wells during the droughts of the 2000s to save the orchards.
• Successfully lobbying the Ministry of Energy for the construction of the "Mojen Regulating Dam," and now acting as the primary stakeholder in its participatory operation.
• Constructing a two-story modern office building and purchasing heavy machinery (backhoe tractors).
• Diversifying the water economy by establishing 11 hectares of company-owned orchards, fish farms, a bottled water factory, and implementing a pilot project for smart water distribution since 2018.

I hope I have been able to illustrate a successful model of participatory water management in my country, Iran.

References

Matinjou, M. H., & Alizadeh, H. (2020). Analysis of the Performance of the Informal Water Market in Comparison to a Formal Market Sample; Case Study of Mojen Region. Journal of Water Management in Agriculture, 7(1), 95-108.

Rajabpour, S., & Mohebbi, M. (2015). Water, Economy, and Development: Participatory Irrigation Management in Mojen Region (A Case Study of a Successful Model). Proceedings of the 1st National Congress of Irrigation and Drainage of Iran, Ferdowsi University of Mashhad.

Zare, S., & Hayati, D. (2015). A Successful Experience of Participatory Irrigation Management: A Case Study of the Mojen Irrigation and Agricultural Joint Stock Company - Shahroud. Journal of Water and Sustainable Development, 1(3), 83-88.

Abraham Wald’s Lesson for Facilitators: Listening to What Is Missing from the Room

A while ago, a dear friend introduced me to Todd Rose’s book, The End of Average (translated into Persian by Maryam Jafari). We spent time discussing how deceptive statistical aggregates can be. That conversation triggered a memory of a famous World War II case study that has profoundly shaped my perspective as a practitioner working with human communities, landscapes, and fragile ecosystems.

During the Second World War, the US Air Force was facing an alarming rate of bomber casualties. Armor plating could not cover the entire aircraft without making it too heavy to maneuver and fly. The engineers needed to know: Where should we add armor?

They examined the bombers returning safely from missions, meticulously mapping the bullet holes. The data was unmistakable: bullet holes peppered the wings and the fuselage, while the engines and cockpits had remarkably few hits. The military engineers reached an intuitive conclusion: reinforce the wings and the fuselage because that is where the enemy fire hits most.

His reasoning was as brilliant as it was simple: enemy bullets do not avoid engines by choice; bullets hit randomly. The reason returning planes showed few bullet holes in their engines was that planes hit in those critical areas never made it back to the base to be examined. The recorded data told only the story of the survivors. The truth was written on the planes that were missing from the tarmac.

In data science, this is celebrated as Survivorship Bias. But for those of us who spend our lives on the ground—working alongside rural communities, indigenous populations, and vulnerable ecosystems—it carries an even deeper, urgent lesson.

The Trap of the "Present Data"

Over decades of working across Iran's landscapes—from facilitating water management in severely depleted arid plains to designing sustainable rural constellations; from living alongside traditional forest-dependent communities in the ancient Hyrcanian temperate rainforests to working for the conservation of endangered wildlife like the Asiatic cheetah—I have consistently encountered the same recurring blind spot.

When external planners, researchers, or hydrologists enter an area, what lands on the table?

Official statistics, satellite imagery, lists of active wells, piezometric groundwater curves, livestock counts, timber yields, or economic models. And when community meetings are convened, who sits around the room? Usually, the visible, active participants: farmers who still hold water quotas, influential local figures, or those whose livelihoods have managed to endure so far.

These tables, charts, and attendees are the bombers that made it back to the base. They represent only what has managed to survive until today. 

If we design policies, conservation frameworks, or participatory plans solely around these visible survivors, we are only treating symptoms while ignoring systemic collapse.

Three Questions Every Facilitator Must Ask

To avoid falling into the trap of neat paper reports, my field experience has taught me that we must step back and ask three fundamental questions at the very outset of any participatory process:

 1. What should be in this landscape that is no longer here?

When observing a landscape, we cannot measure only the remaining cubic meters of water, remaining forest canopy, or surviving herds. We must ask: What ancestral practices of living with the land have vanished? Where is the indigenous knowledge—such as traditional floodwater harvesting systems (Ab-bandans and seasonal diversion channels) that nourished whole catchments? 

In the Hyrcanian forests, where did the ancient cultural ties that protected the canopy give way to economic desperation? Across dry plains, what happened to the silent seasonal streams and natural vegetation that held the topsoil? These ecological memories do not appear on engineering balance sheets, yet their absence tells the real story.

2. Who had a rightful stake here, yet is absent from this room?

When we gather around a participatory table, who is not there? 

- Where are the families whose livelihoods collapsed five or ten years ago, forcing them to abandon their lands for informal urban settlements? 

- Where is the voice of the young generation who see no future in the countryside and migrated? 

- Where are the local women, whose intimate knowledge of food security, child welfare, and natural resource care rarely makes it to formal boardroom discussions? 

Those sitting in the room are the survivors who still have an active stake. But our decisions will shape the fate of those who were driven away, as well as generations not yet born.

3. What vital human realities cannot be translated into project indicators?

A rural livelihood is never just an economic equation where water, trees, or land are mere inputs to optimize. Agriculture and land-stewardship mean cultural roots, self-reliance, and the human dignity of feeding one’s family without depending on charity.

A pastoralist’s quiet dread, a farmer’s deep-seated mistrust born of unfulfilled promises, or the emotional grief of seeing a native river diverted elsewhere—none of these fit into hydrological formulas, economic optimization charts, or wildlife density metrics. Yet, it is precisely these unmeasured human realities that determine whether any technical intervention will take root or fail miserably.

Whose Responsibility Are the Missing Data?

Navigating these unseen dimensions cannot fall on one pair of shoulders alone. It demands distinct roles from three key actors:

1. The Facilitator’s Duty: Reframing the Lens

   The facilitator is not expected to know all the answers or magically fill in every void. Our primary duty is to be the first to break out of the shell of survivorship bias. By opening our eyes to what is absent, we can redirect exhausted discussions away from trivial administrative disputes and towards what truly matters. Our role is to create a safe, compassionate space where untold grief and quiet wisdom can surface without fear.

2. The Local Community’s Role: Turning Scattered Pain into Shared Awareness

   Local communities know the missing data far better than any visiting expert; they have lived it in their bones. However, under daily survival pressures, people often get trapped in a tragic race to deplete what remains. Through honest facilitation, communities can bring their hidden pain and lived history into the open, connecting individual survival to a collective future.

3. The Policymaker’s Courage: Welcoming Realities Beyond the Spreadsheet

   Policymakers and donors are often the most captive to survivorship bias, constrained by rigid project cycles and quantifiable KPIs. Their critical task is to cultivate the humility to listen to what numbers cannot capture. A durable ecological corridor, a thriving rural constellation, or an aquifer restored back to health cannot be achieved through top-down mandates; it requires embracing the messy, qualitative truths of the land.

Epilogue

Abraham Wald taught us that looking at the bullet holes in front of our eyes is not enough; the profoundest wisdom lies in the silence of what fell from the sky. 

For community-based facilitators, local leaders, and stewards of the earth, our truest craft begins where the spreadsheets end: in honoring the missing voices, restoring forgotten knowledge, and making sure that those who fell off the radar are never forgotten in the blueprints of tomorrow.

Quiet Power in the Room: Why Community Facilitators and Coaches Need to Rethink Silence

As facilitators, trainers, and coaches, we often walk into a room with an unspoken bias: we tend to equate energetic, rapid verbal participation with “active engagement". In group dynamics, community workshops, and participatory planning sessions, the loudest voices easily capture the floor, while the quieter participants are frequently misjudged as passive, disengaged or shy. 

Reading Susan Cain’s landmark book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, offers a profound reality check for anyone working in community facilitation and transformative learning. 

Cain dissects what she calls “The Extrovert Ideal”—the pervasive cultural belief that the ideal self is bold, gregarious, and publicly dominant. For those of us dedicated to inclusive, participatory processes, this book provides essential insights to redesign how we hold space.

Here are four key takeaways from Quiet that directly transform facilitation, coaching, and group leadership:

1. Beyond the Myth of Classic Brainstorming In participatory workshops, facilitators frequently rely on spontaneous, open-floor brainstorming. Yet, drawing on decades of organizational psychology research, Cain demonstrates that traditional group brainstorming often stifles creativity rather than fostering it. It creates cognitive overload and allows extroverted styles to dominate the narrative. To build genuine inclusion, we need to shift toward techniques like “brainwriting” or individual reflection time—methods that give deep thinkers space to form ideas before they are asked to share them publicly. 

2. Designing “Restorative Niches” Cain discusses the concept of the “restorative niche”—a place or time where an introvert can return to their true self and recharge their energy. For community facilitators, this is a crucial design principle. If we structure our workshops or volunteer management agendas as high-stimulation, non-stop sessions, we essentially shut out our most reflective contributors. We must intentionally design pauses: moments of silence, individual writing time, or small-group breakouts that allow reflective participants to process without the pressure of constant performance. 

3. Reframing Silence as a Facilitation Tool Often, when a group falls silent, facilitators feel a subconscious urge to rush in and fill the void. However, silence is not necessarily the absence of participation; it is frequently a sign of depth, respect, or intense cognitive processing. By normalizing silence as a legitimate form of contribution, we foster a culture of respect rather than performative speech. A facilitator who is comfortable with silence creates a safer container for profound community dialogue.

4. The Power of “Free Trait” Agreements Cain introduces the concept of the “Free Trait Agreement” (developed by psychologist Brian Little). It suggests that introverts can adopt extroverted behaviors when the project is deeply meaningful to them. As coaches and trainers, we can use this to empower our clients or volunteers. We shouldn’t just ask them to “be more extroverted”; instead, we can help them identify which specific goals are worth that extra energy, while ensuring they have the personal space they need afterward to avoid burnout. 

As we strive to build stronger, more resilient communities, our capacity to listen matters as much as our capacity to lead. Whether you are managing volunteer initiatives or coaching individuals, learning the language of quiet power is not just helpful—it is indispensable.

How do you ensure quiet, reflective voices are heard in your facilitation practice or coaching sessions?

Volunteers Are Not 'Nuts and Bolts' to be Organized! (Reflections on Volunteer Facilitation)

Last Thursday, I was scheduled to lead the first part of a workshop on "Volunteer Management." Two weeks prior, I had been busy outlining the modules in my yellow-covered notebook when I suddenly stopped. The working title was "Organizing Volunteers," but the pen just wouldn't move. I asked myself: A volunteer isn't a mechanical object to be "organized" like parts in a machine. Right there, I crossed it out and wrote: "Self-Organization." This was a concept that had deeply resonated with me back in March 2026, while I was translating Elinor Ostrom’s Governing the Commons. (I hope to see it published soon.)

Why "Self-Organization"? I believe a volunteer in an organization is not "cheap" or "free" labor; they are a human being, with their own genuine concerns, anxieties, and dreams. When we talk about "organizing," it feels as if we are assembling machine parts. But when we talk about "self-organization," it means we are preparing the ground, creating the space for volunteers to find their own paths, while still operating within the organization's framework. It means helping them see themselves in the collective—to find and define their own place. Of course, in crises, command-and-control might be necessary, but in ordinary times, we must allow them to be themselves. This is the essence of facilitation in the process of volunteer self-organization.

This is where the role of the "Volunteer Manager" shifts. We are not bosses here; we are facilitators. A facilitator is someone who, upon seeing new volunteers lost or unsure of what to do, doesn’t dump a long list of "dos and don'ts" on them. Instead, they sit beside them, listen with patience and care, and help them discover their own potential—helping them identify exactly where they fit into this puzzle in a way that feels meaningful to them.

What should a facilitator do? I believe every facilitation technique helps: brainstorming with the group about the work ahead, breaking them into smaller clusters, and giving them the space to draw their own "mental maps" of the volunteer task. Even letting the group write their own ground rules.

Link to my article on Virgul about the journey from "suspension" to "belonging" in Persian

A volunteer entering an organization is often in a state of "suspension." They don't know where they stand, whether their voice will be heard, or if their presence makes any difference at all. They are, in a sense, hovering in the air, sometimes not even realizing what they are doing. If an organization’s leader adopts a facilitating perspective, they must prepare the ground for that "suspension" to transform into a sense of "belonging." Belonging means the volunteer feels this house is their own home. Not because of an organizational mandate or a top-down decision, but because of the deep spiritual bond they have formed with the people around them, and because they have grasped the deeper vision and purpose of the volunteer work. This is true self-organization.

Last Thursday, August 20th, 2026, we held the first session of the workshop on "Volunteer Self-Organization and Management." As the facilitator, I believe I gave the participants the opportunity to be the authors of their own experience. This coming Thursday, we will gather again to discuss this perspective. I believe if we learn to practice "creating the ground" for self-organization rather than simply "organizing" people, our organizations might find a new vitality—and the volunteers themselves will grow along the way.

P.S.: I wrote this on the train from Tehran to Kerman. I started early in the morning while the sunrise filtered through the compartment window, falling onto my face. Five others in the compartment were still asleep, and I didn't want to make a single move that might disturb their peace.

Trust in Facilitation Methods: The Invisibile Pillar of Local Participation

Trust in Facilitation Methods: The Invisible Pillar of Local Participation

A fellow facilitator once shared with me his frustration after returning from a village. He had visited five times and held several meetings, yet he still felt a wall between him and the community. He mentioned that at the end of the last session, he saw a few local group members standing in a corner, whispering to each other. He took this as a sign of distrust and felt like an outsider. He felt as though all his efforts to build trust had hit a dead end.

I told him that maybe his expectations for trust were too high. In the real world, especially in local communities that have often heard empty promises before, you cannot expect people to place full, absolute trust in an outsider right from the start. But is it really necessary for them to trust us as individuals? The most important step is for them to trust our tools and our participatory methods—the very methods that open up space for them to speak, to be heard, and to make decisions.

I asked him what happened when he laid out his tools on the ground and asked the people to prioritize the village’s problems using the cards. He confirmed that they had carefully moved the cards, discussed issues like water and access roads, and finally reached a collective agreement. Those whispered conversations at the end of the meeting weren't necessarily a sign of rejection; they were a sign that his methods were working and had engaged the villagers in talking about their real issues.

I told him not to worry; he had done his job correctly. He didn't need to stress about why the deep, total trust he imagined hadn't formed yet. The fact that the group members had accepted his methods and participated in the exercise meant he had already earned enough trust. Trusting the process is the first and most crucial step; the rest of the path is built bit by bit, over time, under the shadow of these transparent methods.

Finally, I reminded him that facilitation is not a popularity contest. The mere fact that they accepted his tools and used them to speak up means he succeeded in opening a path for them to address their own problems. Let this trust in his methods grow gradually and become the foundation for deeper cooperation. He should lift the heavy burden of "absolute trust" off his shoulders, because this level of trust in the process is enough—and even vital—to begin a great change.

The Facilitator’s Toolkit: When (and When Not) to Use Trial and Error

"Trial and Error" is one of the most fundamental yet widely applied problem-solving methods. It is a staple technique I teach in my workshops on problem analysis and resolution. The method is simple: an individual or group tests various solutions one by one, evaluates the results, and, if unsuccessful, moves on to the next option until they reach the desired outcome. It requires no deep prior knowledge or complex analysis; it is grounded entirely in "learning through experience." In my own local-level fieldwork, I have often used—or witnessed the use of—this method (for instance, the experimental plots used in the Hyrcanian Forest multi-purpose management project).

However, what prompted me to reflect deeply on the trial-and-error method is the realization that it cannot be applied in every situation. I have often heard locals say, "Are we lab rats?" Their frustration isn't necessarily directed at the facilitator or project manager; it stems from a valid concern: even for the sake of experimentation, local communities feel that constant testing isn't always the right approach. Therefore, we must understand the specific conditions under which this method is effective:

When to Use Trial and Error

1.  Lack of Available Information: When facing a completely new problem without prior knowledge or sufficient data for logical analysis. In such cases, trial and error allows the local group or community leaders to gather necessary information through step-by-step experimentation. An example: Learning how a new app works by tapping on various options.

2.  Simple and Low-Risk Problems: The cost of failure is low, and mistakes carry no serious consequences. An example: Finding the right key to open a simple lock—if the wrong key is tried, the lock just doesn't open, with no further damage.

3.  Limited Number of Options: The smaller the search space for solutions, the more efficient trial and error becomes. An example: Choosing the right path at a junction with only two or three turn-offs.

4.  Speed Over Precision: When a quick response is needed and there isn't enough time for deep analysis or modeling. An example: When the lights suddenly go out, quickly flipping a few switches to see if the problem is the fuse or the lightbulb.

5.  Lack of Established Patterns: For new or emerging problems that have no historical precedent. An example: Cooking with new ingredients and experimenting with unfamiliar flavor combinations.

Essential Conditions: The "Must-Checks"

In my local experience, there are two vital conditions that must be evaluated before deciding to use trial and error:

Condition 1: No Human Harm (Zero Negative Side Effects; No Human Collateral Damage): This is non-negotiable. Trial and error should never be used where a mistake could lead to loss of life, physical injury, or psychological trauma. This is why we don't use this method in medicine, structural engineering, or aviation—a single error can be fatal. A surgeon cannot learn by trial and error which artery to tie off, nor can a building engineer say, "Let’s remove this pillar and see what happens!"

Condition 2: Low Cost of Failure: The cost of an error must be minimal, not substantial. If we stand to "lose a lot" in the event of a failure, trial and error is not an appropriate option. A positive example: Testing a new recipe by starting with a small batch—if it fails, you've only lost a few eggs and some flour. A negative example: Trying to understand the effects of a new medication through trial and error; the risk to the patient's health or life is far too high.

How to Facilitate the Process

Before jumping into trial and error, consider these steps:

1.  Check for Existing Knowledge: Can we use analytical methods or past knowledge? The facilitator should work patiently with community members to explore this.

2.  Seek Expert Advice: If that's not enough, can we get help from experts or credible resources?

3.  Evaluate Context: If neither of the above is possible, and the conditions (low cost, no human harm) are met, then trial and error is a suitable path.

Remember, while trial and error is a simple, intuitive tool for complex problems, it does not guarantee finding the "optimal" solution. It is fast for small issues but unsuitable for high-stakes scenarios. It encourages creativity and exploration, but it can also lead to hasty decision-making.

Why Trial and Error Works in Community Facilitation

In community-based facilitation, this method can be highly effective if the principles above are respected:

1.  Unique Contexts: Every neighborhood and village is unique. A solution that worked in one place might fail in another. Facilitators and local leaders must find solutions tailored to their specific culture and context through trial and error.

2.  Ownership: When people test, fail, and correct solutions themselves, they gain "ownership" of both the problem and the solution. This active participation ensures the sustainability of the results.

3.  Manageable Costs: Community projects usually start with small, scalable experiments. A pilot project in a neighborhood can often be carried out without significant human or financial risk.

Practical Examples

A Local Loan Fund: A facilitator and a group of village women decide to set up a credit fund. They set initial rules via trial and error: for example, they start with a 50,000 Toman monthly contribution. After two months, they realize it's too low, so they increase it to 100,000. They also find that a one-month repayment period isn't enough and adjust it to two.

Improving Waste Collection: People suggest various solutions: large bins in a few spots, specific bags in front of every house, or a fixed collection day. They try each option for one week, review the results, and eventually choose a hybrid solution.

Launching a Neighborhood Library: A group of youth tries placing books in the local mosque, but participation is low. They move the location to the park, then experiment with changing opening hours and adding children’s storytelling sessions. Through continuous trial and error, they eventually find a successful model.

Final Thoughts: Key Best Practices

Start Small: Always begin with a small pilot to minimize the cost of failure.

Maximize Participation: Ensure all stakeholders are involved in decision-making and evaluation.

Document Everything: Results must be recorded by the involved parties so lessons learned can be applied later.

Collective Evaluation: After each cycle, evaluate results as a group and reach a consensus on the next step.

Transparency: Do not hide failures. In community work, mistakes are learning opportunities, and transparency builds collective trust.

Trial and error is a simple yet powerful tool, provided it is used in the right conditions—where there is no risk of human harm, the cost of failure is low, and no more effective analytical method is available. In community-based facilitation, due to its flexible, participatory, and experiential nature, it remains one of the most effective ways to empower people and solve local problems. When people experiment, make mistakes, and correct them on their own, their learning runs deeper, and the results are far more sustainable.

Why Every Community Facilitator Needs to Watch The Old Oak

A personal reflection on Ken Loach's final masterpiece — and what it taught me about food, community, and human connection.

I've watched Ken Loach's The Old Oak three times now. And it hits harder with every single viewing.

If you haven't heard of it yet, The Old Oak (2023) is the 28th and — as Ken Loach has announced — very likely the final feature film from the legendary British director. At 87 years old, the man widely regarded as the master of social realism has given us one last, unforgettable gift. The film premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in May 2023, where it received a standing ovation and widespread critical praise, before rolling out to theaters worldwide throughout 2024. It was written by Paul Laverty, Loach's longtime collaborator, and together they have crafted something deeply, achingly human.

The Story

The film is set in a former mining village in the northeast of England. The collieries have long shut down. Jobs have vanished. Young people have left for the cities. A heavy, quiet sense of abandonment hangs over the streets like the region's famous grey sky.

The only place still standing is a pub called The Old Oak, run by a gentle, quietly stubborn man named TJ. Dave Turner plays him with remarkable authenticity — a man who has seen his community fall apart and is doing his best to hold onto whatever is left.

Then one day, a bus pulls up.

It carries Syrian refugees — families who have fled war, destruction, and loss — and they are being resettled in the village. The community fractures immediately. Old prejudices surface. Fear and resentment simmer in conversations at the bar. But TJ finds himself drawn to help, especially after forming an unlikely friendship with Yara, a young Syrian woman who uses her camera to document everything she witnesses. What follows is a story about the painful, messy, beautiful process of strangers learning to recognize their shared humanity.

Why This Film Matters

I don't want to give away too much of the plot — the real magic of The Old Oak is in watching it unfold, sitting through its uncomfortable silences, and celebrating its small but profound victories. But here is what I will say: this is a film about dialogue. About community. About the radical, world-changing act of sharing a table.

Ken Loach has never been a director who preaches at his audience. Instead, he shows us real people — flawed, stubborn, scared, but also generous and capable of surprising kindness — and trusts us to draw our own conclusions. In an age where social media algorithms are designed to push us into echo chambers, where polarization seems to be the only thing growing, The Old Oak reminds us what it actually means to sit across from someone who is different from you and truly see them.

For facilitators — especially those of us who work in community-based settings — this film is nothing short of essential. It is a living, breathing case study in what it takes to bring divided people together.

The Line That Stopped Me Cold

There is one moment in the film that has stayed with me long after the credits rolled. A line so simple and so powerful that I had to pause the movie and just sit with it:

"If we eat together, we stick together."

This hit me like a thunderbolt.

Because this is something I have always done in my own workshops and facilitation work. A shared lunch. A collaborative, group meal. People from different backgrounds, different opinions, different walks of life — sitting together around the same table, passing the salt, reaching for the water pitcher, laughing at someone's questionable cooking, and discovering that the stranger across from them is not an enemy, not a threat, but just... a person. Just like them.

There is something profoundly disarming about breaking bread together. It lowers invisible walls that no argument or lecture could ever bring down. It builds bridges that no policy document could ever construct. It reminds us that before we are anything else — before we are political beings, religious beings, or ideological beings — we are human beings who need to eat, who find joy in a good meal, and who feel a quiet, deep warmth when someone offers us a seat at their table.

The Old Oak understands this truth better than almost any film I have ever encountered.

What Community Facilitators Can Take Away

For those of us working in community facilitation, this film offers a quiet masterclass in several things:

Patience. Building trust across deep divides does not happen overnight. TJ doesn't win anyone over with a grand speech or a single heroic act. He shows up, day after day, makes small gestures, withstands suspicion from both sides, and keeps the door of The Old Oak open — literally and figuratively. As facilitators, we often want quick results. The Old Oak reminds us that real change moves at the speed of trust, and trust moves slowly.

Dialogue over debate. The film is filled with conversations that go nowhere, arguments that flare up and fizzle out. But it's also filled with moments where people truly listen — where TJ sits with Yara and lets her tell her story without rushing to fix anything. This is the heart of facilitation: creating space for voices that are rarely heard, and holding that space steady even when it gets uncomfortable.

The power of shared experience. The most transformative moment in the film doesn't happen in a meeting room or through a formal program. It happens over a meal. When the Syrian women cook their traditional food and the locals hesitantly, suspiciously, begin to taste it — something shifts. Walls crack. Curiosity replaces fear. This is the very essence of community-building: not forcing people to agree, but giving them a reason to be together.

The facilitator as bridge, not savior. TJ never positions himself as the hero of the story. He stumbles, he has doubts, he questions whether he's doing the right thing. He is simply a person who refused to look away. For facilitators, this is a vital lesson: our role is not to solve people's problems for them, but to stand in the gap, to connect, and to trust the community to find its own way forward.

 

Final Invitation to watch

The Old Oak is not a comfortable film. It doesn't wrap up neatly. It doesn't offer easy answers. But it does offer something perhaps more valuable: hope. The kind of hope that is hard-won, grounded in real human connection, and worth fighting for.

If you work with communities — whether you're a facilitator, a social worker, a local leader, an educator, or just someone who believes that people can learn to live together despite their differences — I cannot recommend this film enough.

Watch it. Let it sink in. And then come back and tell me what you thought over a cup of tea — or better yet, over a shared meal.

Have you seen The Old Oak? What was your experience? Drop a comment below — I'd love to hear your thoughts.