Staring at the Carpet Patterns

A serious alarm has sounded across Iran regarding public livelihood—most acutely among civil servants, the operational backbone of the state apparatus. While murmurs of distress remain largely confined to bureaucratic hallways and ministry corridors for now, there is deep concern that these internal whispers will soon swell into widespread public outcry, paralyzing the machinery of government.

In this column, titled Masoudnameh, we draw upon historical wisdom to hold up a mirror of current realities before President Masoud Pezeshkian. Having previously referenced the Qabusnameh and Nizam al-Mulk’s Siyasatnama, we turn this time not to ancient manuscripts, but to modern Iranian history and the memoirs of sociologist Ehsan Naraghi in From the Palace to Evin Prison. Naraghi recounts an audience with Mohammad Reza Pahlavi where, attempting to illustrate the economic distress of ordinary citizens, he confronted the monarch with his chauffeur’s paystub:

“My driver, an employee of the Ministry of Higher Education who drove me to the palace, said to me: ‘Do you think His Majesty knows that after twenty years of service, my salary is a mere 1,500 tomans? Please, show him my payslip.’
I rose and extended the slip toward the Shah. He was visibly hesitant to take it. I pressed it into his hands and returned to my seat, watching his reaction closely. He appeared visibly discomfited. It was obvious he had never seen a payslip before, and the concept of living on 1,500 tomans was entirely alien to him. To ease his embarrassment, I added:
‘With this amount, one cannot even rent two modest rooms in southern Tehran... hundreds of thousands of state employees endure extreme hardship.’
The Shah fell completely silent. Visibly shaken, he fixed his gaze upon the intricate floral patterns of the grand Persian carpet covering the floor. I tried to explain the root causes of the growing unrest outside, reminding him: ‘As the old proverb says, even injustice, if distributed equitably, feels like a form of justice.’”

That 1,500-toman payslip was a stark symbol of the chasm separating rulers’ perceptions from citizens’ daily realities. Today, the emaciated payslips of civil servants, teachers, nurses, and municipal workers—dwarfed by galloping inflation and exorbitant living costs—serve as an identical warning to the present government. Can our policymakers hear these employees, upon whose shoulders the actual execution of state policies rests? How can a civil servant consumed by overdue rent, healthcare expenses, or tuition fees perform duties with focus and dedication? How can a nation expect efficiency from an administrative apparatus whose personnel are locked in an exhausting daily struggle for basic survival?

What Naraghi imparted to the Shah remains an undeniable truth: society may endure shared hardships if the burden is seen to be distributed fairly and leaders share in the sacrifice—or at least demonstrate genuine comprehension and resolve. But when citizens feel unheard while witnessing privileged factions profiting from economic chaos, social patience invariably snaps.

Mr. Pezeshkian, that payslip shown to the Shah was not merely a piece of paper; it was the silent cry of a population feeling unseen. Today, every depleted payslip and every strained household budget is an urgent warning to your administration. Heed these signals before desperation turns to fury—before silent resentment among state workers erupts into a wave that paralyzes governance and renders your foundational goal of "National Consensus" impossible. Urgent solutions are needed before you, too, find yourself staring helplessly at the carpet patterns.