When Participation Actually Works: Lessons from the Doiraj Plain

I was sitting at my desk, deep in the middle of drafting a report for Zist Ab Poraab Consulting Engineers, and frankly, I felt stuck. Aside from the participatory groundwater work we documented in Mojen (Shahroud), I was relentlessly searching for tangible, field-tested evidence—real-world models proving that genuine community-based water governance can survive and thrive in our country. I felt Mojen was well-articulated, but a single case study is never enough. Was there anything else out there that went beyond wishful thinking and paper committees?

Then, a friend and colleague, Mohsen Taravat, dropped a timely tip:  

Take a look at Mr. Rajabpour’s report on the agricultural water associations in the Doiraj Irrigation Network in Dehloran. It’s surface water, but it’s real.

I opened the slide deck expecting standard project rhetoric. Instead, as I dug through the slides, maps, and field logs, my relief turned into pure excitement. As someone who has spent years in the messy trenches of social facilitation, I could immediately tell: someone did the hard social groundwork here, and they did it right.

Here is what makes the Doiraj-1 network such an inspiring story of adaptive facilitation and institutional self-regulation.

1. A Landscape on the Edge: The Hydraulic Reality

The Dehloran plain in southern Ilam is a scorching, borderline arid landscape. For decades, the local aquifer had been pumped mercilessly. The Doiraj-1 project was designed around an ambitious premise: substitute overdrawn groundwater across nearly 4,000 hectares with slightly brackish surface water from the newly built Doiraj Dam reservoir, while safeguarding fragile smallholder livelihoods.

On paper, the hydraulic engineering was straightforward: diversion weir, primary and secondary canals built by the regional water authority, followed by gravity-fed low-pressure tertiary pipelines feeding 64 distinct farming units (averaging 52 hectares each). But as any experienced practitioner knows, water infrastructure never fails in the steel and concrete; it fails in the social interfaces between people and valves.

2. The Trap of "High-Tech" Hubris

What immediately caught my eye was an early, courageous design pivot. The initial engineering schematics called for delicate, gated polyethylene flumes (hydroflumes) right down to the quaternary farm ditches. 

Usually, modern engineering projects blindly push fragile high-tech gadgets onto farmers, which inevitably break, spark bitter arguments over repairs, and end up abandoned in drainage ditches. In Doiraj, the supervising consultants (Zistab) and the social/operation team involved, recognized the social reality in time: without mature local institutions, delicate on-farm gadgets are a recipe for disaster. 

They deliberately abandoned the fragile quaternary pipes in favor of traditional, repairable earthen ditches, focusing capital instead on bulletproof tertiary distribution pipes and building strong water-user groups around each intake basin. That is pragmatic engineering respecting social readiness.

3. Navigating Historic Scars and Tribal Fault Lines

The social landscape in Dehloran was a minefield of tribal rivalries and historic resentment:

Zone 1: 1,550 hectares farmed by the Kurdish Kaid Khordeh tribe (44 joint communal groups).

Zones 2 & 3: 2,300 hectares shared by two distinct Lur tribes from Mosian—the Kaid Abbasi and the Dinarvand.

Worse than the tribal divisions was the toxic legacy of broken promises. Back in 2005, the government had established three nominal "cooperatives" that existed only on official paper. They had collapsed, leaving behind deep tribal bad blood and zero trust in the state. 

When authorities announced that farmers with private wells would not receive surface water allocations, outrage peaked. Farmers formally petitioned to opt out of the scheme entirely, even blocking land-leveling machinery. The social fabric was deeply suspicious.

4. The Facilitation Blueprint: Listening in Mosques and Canals

Instead of rushing to register rubber-stamp cooperatives, the facilitation team set up a physical presence right in the area for a realistic four-year engagement. 

They skipped ceremonial workshops and rolled up their sleeves: conducting field cadastral mapping, understanding household livelihood pressures, and distinguishing between genuine traditional community elders and opportunistic political figures. Facilitators held dozens of candid, stormy community gatherings—including ten major assemblies in Dehloran and eighteen heated debates inside the Grand Mosque of Mosian. They listened, absorbed hostility, and worked through fears of water dispossession one farmer at a time.

5. Aligning Hydraulic Gates with Social Borders

The institutional design solved a riddle that ruins most water associations: How do you match hydraulic boundaries with ethnic identity?

Forcing three proud, rival tribes into a single administrative cooperative would have invited immediate paralysis. Imposing arbitrary borders would have sparked sabotage. 

The compromise was elegant:

1. Sepehr Dasht Akbar Cooperative was founded for the Kurdish Kaid Khordeh lands in Zone 1 (436 members across 26 intake units).

2. Negin Marzabad Cooperative was founded jointly for the Lur communities in Zones 2 and 3 (63 core representatives across 38 intake units).

Beneath these cooperatives, every single 52-hectare tertiary intake formed a tight-knit "co-irrigation group" (goruh-e ham-ab), electing their own accountable intake leader. This created a direct human line of communication between the turn of a valve and the cooperative's water master.

6. The Indispensable Backstop: Clear Government Backing

Even the most brilliant grassroots facilitation collapses if the government behaves inconsistently. In September 2017, the local water administration (Omour-e Ab) made a bold, clear move: No individual irrigation contracts would be signed with anyone. Water would be released exclusively through registered cooperatives holding an endorsement from the agricultural bureau.

This closed the back doors for influential water brokers and illegal extractors. It sent a clear message: collective organization was no longer an optional formality—it was the only legitimate mechanism for receiving water.

7. Transferring the Keys: Practical Competence Over Abstract Theory

Instead of classroom lectures on "sustainability," the team focused on hands-on craft. Local mirabs (water distributors) stood ankle-deep along the canals learning to read gauges, operate current meters, manage Neirpic gates, calculate crop irrigation water needs per hectare, and keep transparent field registers.

Crucially, the physical keys to the gate locks were handed over to the cooperatives. The water authority did not hover over every turn of a wheel; access was governed strictly by the cooperative’s intake roster.

8. A Tale of Two Networks: The Proof in the Drainage

The real test of institutional health is hydraulic discipline. Right next door to Doiraj lies the older Marzabad network, which lacked a social operating system. The contrast is stark:

The unorganized network: Chaotic individual contracts, widespread water theft upstream, completely dry fields at the tail ends, overflowing drainage sumps, and unpaid water tariffs.

Doiraj-1: Collective water agreements, strict crop rotations pre-matched to storage levels, equitable distribution cycles, negligible drainage waste, and a 100% advance collection rate on water fees.

9. Horizontal Peer Control: From Confrontation to Custodianship

The crowning moment of this social transition occurred in August 2023. In ordinary bureaucratic schemes, catching illegal night irrigators requires police patrols and perpetual hostility. 

In Doiraj, the managing director of the local cooperative sent a formal notice to the water affairs office: the cooperative itself had caught violators tampering with the canal at night and submitted their names for legal action. 

When a community begins policing its own commons against free-riders, you know the institutional shift has succeeded. The psychological transition from “the government’s water” to “our shared resource” was complete.

10. The Ripple Effect: Beyond Water

Over nearly a decade of continuous operation, contentious disputes landing on government desks plunged from over 1,000 cases a year to fewer than five. Downstream farmers who had once signed petitions demanding to be excluded from the project began petitioning to have the network expanded to their fields.

Today, these cooperatives have evolved into multi-functional agricultural hubs - supplying seeds, fertilizers, handling contract farming, and even maintaining their own technical welding and gate repairs.

A Note for Facilitators and Water Professionals

When we read about the water crisis in Iran, it is easy to succumb to fatalism. Yet Doiraj-1 proves that when social facilitation is patient, when technical design respects local capacity, and when institutional borders honor social realities, participatory water governance is not a fantasy. It is already here, running through the canals of Dehloran.

I am really thankful to Mr Sadegh Rajabpour for his comprehensive report, which, in fact, brought this inspiring story to light. 

Isothymia and Megalothymia in Participatory Workshops

Reading time: 4 minutes

Recently, I was reading a piece by Francis Fukuyama—a commentary critiquing Marco Rubio's views and Donald Trump's approach (dated October 12, 2026). Putting aside the day's political controversies in the US, what strongly caught my attention and drew my mind back to my experiences in dialogue and participatory workshops was Fukuyama's re-reading of the concept of thymos and its division into two terms: isothymia and megalothymia. Let me explain further.

Fukuyama, drawing on Plato and a re-reading of Hegel's and Alexandre Kojève’s dialectic, reminds us that the driving force behind a huge part of history and politics is humanity's insatiable desire for "recognition" and the preservation of dignity. He divides this desire into two branches:

One. Isothymia, meaning the aspiration for an individual to be seen and treated equally to others, with their status and dignity recognized. In Fukuyama's view, this is the very foundation upon which democratic societies and civil movements strive. When people's isothymia is suppressed or when they feel humiliated, resentment and anger are born.

Two. Megalothymia, meaning the burning desire to be superior to others; the urge to become a hero, to leave a mark, and to stand at the top. This is the very double-edged sword that can be the source of the greatest leadership, courage, innovations, and human progress, or conversely, can lead to autocracy, tyranny, fascism, and the destruction of others.

When reading these lines, the atmosphere of dialogue rooms, participatory circles, and local development workshops immediately came to mind. In workshops, I usually talk with participants from the perspective of transactional analysis (TA); that the constructive relationship between human beings should either be "Child-Child"—meaning based on intimacy, humor, and play free from judgment—or "Adult-Adult"—meaning based on reasoning, mutual understanding, and realism. The "Parent-Child" relationship is wrong due to its authoritarian nature (unless when danger threatens a child), and the "Parent-Parent" relationship does not work either, because it is the collision of two megalothymias, with both sides full of pretense and superiority-seeking.

Beyond this, in a participatory workshop, we face these exact two forces: On one hand, the primary mission of the facilitator is to respond to isothymia: creating a safe space so that the voiceless person—whether a farmer, a local youth, or a quiet woman—feels that their voice, opinion, and presence carry as much weight as that influential person or government official participating in the room. Their voice is recognized. But the main challenge lies elsewhere: What should be done with megalothymia?

Perhaps at first glance, it might cross our minds that it is better to crush any sign of superiority-seeking and ego in the bud so that everyone becomes completely uniform. But experience has taught me that suppressing megalothymia makes the workshop passive. People who possess a strong sense of megalothymia are full of energy, courage, risk-taking, and sometimes even help shift everyone's horizon of vision. If we extinguish this fire, perhaps no grand dream will be created for that community, or it won't emerge at the right time.

So, what is the remedy? Let megalothymia do its work sometimes, but with an important condition: megalothymia that helps others engage; megalothymia that does not create a battlefield, but instead shapes a playground where others can play too; megalothymia that sees others and defines roles for them, but not in a painful way. Without others, never.

In this playground, the urge of that passionate, leadership-oriented person for role-playing is satisfied (not by humiliating and marginalizing others), but by creating openings for the collective (most members of the group) and accepting the hardships of solving a complex problem. They play a central role, but a role that must also grant weight, agency, and validity to others. Constructive and honorable roles. And as a facilitator, I try to make this opening process—this very process of defining roles—proceed as collaboratively as possible, or gradually become more collaborative over time. Sometimes these local elites want everything to advance according to their own definition and perspective, and even want the entire process under their control. We must transform this totalizing tendency into a participatory and constructive process. In some cases, I have been completely successful, while in others, tension has occasionally arisen. Sometimes the megalothymia was so strong that I couldn't prevail. That is why we proceeded more slowly and gradually.

Let me put it this way: dialogue workshops sometimes truly turn into an arena for calibrating and polishing human dignity and pride. Our art in dialogue is to guarantee isothymia so that no soul is humiliated, and of course, to tame and make megalothymia generative so that instead of burning down the community, it becomes the driving force of social solidarity and the co-creation of a shared future. A difficult and delicate task, but immensely delightful and liberating.

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.