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.

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.