53: Chapter 50 The Worker and the Prince

August 27, 1978, Ahvaz Governors Mansion.

When Hemmati arrived, Ghazali was with him; the two had come in the same car. This was something Reza had not anticipated—he had originally intended to speak with them separately, Hemmati first, then Ghazali, as speaking separately would allow him to sound them out individually. With them together, he would have to take a different approach.

But it did not really matter. Their arriving together indicated that they trusted each other and had confirmed their ideas before coming to visit, which in itself was a signal—they were not here just for tea; they were here to negotiate terms.

People who can negotiate are easy to deal with.

Reza had them shown to his study, avoiding the main drawing room, which was too formal and would make the atmosphere stiff. The study had two old leather chairs, a sofa, and bookshelves against the wall filled with a row of Persian texts and a few engineering manuals. The tea was ordinary black tea, and no refreshments had been prepared.

The first thing Hemmati did upon entering was scan the bookshelves, and Reza noticed his gaze linger on the technical manuals for a second.

Having started as a foreman, he had an instinctive affinity for technical books.

"Please, sit," Reza said. "It was a long journey; you must be tired."

Hemmati sat in the leather chair without leaning back fully, his back straight, hands resting on his knees—a posture of someone unaccustomed to such grand settings but trying hard not to show intimidation. He was forty-three, the lines on his face deeper than his actual age, his palms broad and thick, with calluses at the base of his index fingers and thumbs from years of gripping tools.

Ghazali was more relaxed than him. After sitting down, he spoke directly: "Your Highness, we discussed this before coming. You called us here to discuss compensation, and we want to discuss it too, but let's be clear first—we do not represent the Workers Union. The Union has not given us any authorization; we are just here to hear your thoughts."

This statement distanced himself quite cleanly, meaning: if the negotiations fell through, the two of them would bear the consequences, and the Workers Union would not be involved; if things went well, the Workers Union could follow up.

It was an opening characteristic of Ghazali, possessing the clarity that only an educated person would have.

"I understand," Reza said. "I called you two here today not to represent the provincial government, nor to represent Tehran. I am simply myself, the Governor of Khuzestan, and also a Persian. Watching four hundred Persians die in a fire—I have things I want to say."

Hemmati looked up, meeting Reza's eyes directly for the first time.

"The supplies Your Highness sent," he said, his voice low, as if squeezed out from somewhere very deep, "we received them." He paused. "On behalf of the families who received the grain, thank you, Your Highness."

"No need to thank me," Reza said. "That was the right thing to do. But I am here to ask you—the things the province and Tehran should have done, have they been done?"

Silence.

Hemmati lowered his head, his hands clenching on his knees.

"No," Ghazali answered for him. "Three days after the incident, a deputy director came from the provincial government, issued a two-hundred-word statement saying they were investigating, and that was it. We contacted the Provincial Department of Civil Affairs to ask about the compensation plan for the victims' families, and no one answered the phone."

Reza nodded, showing no indignation and making no attempt to defend himself; he simply listened, letting them finish.

This silence itself was a gesture—he had not rushed to absolve his side of the blame, which, in the experience these two had with officials, was likely extremely rare.

"What is the mood in the Workers Union right now?" Reza asked.

Ghazali and Hemmati exchanged a glance.

"The voices calling for a strike are growing louder," Hemmati began. "I can keep a lid on it, but not for long. Jalali and those young people are holding meetings in the Workers Union warehouse every night. It is not that I do not know; I am just not exposing it for now."

"Why not expose it?"

"Because their anger is real," Hemmati said, his words carrying a weight. "I have no right to tell someone who has lost a brother that their anger must wait."

Reza remained silent for a moment, then said: "Master Hemmati, I will ask you a direct question—if there is a strike, what do you think the outcome will be?"

Hemmati gave a bitter smile, a smile tempered by twenty years of factory experience: "The government will first agree to a few inconsequential terms to stabilize things for two weeks, then settle scores later, arresting the leaders, firing the activists, and filling the gaps with newly recruited workers."

"Then why do people still want to strike?"

"Because if we don't strike, nothing will change," Ghazali took over. "It is a dead end. Strike and lose, don't strike and still lose. The young people choose to strike because, at least, they have made a decision for themselves."

Reza set down his teacup with a slow movement, drawing both of their attentions.

"I do not agree that this is a dead end," he said, his tone calm but weighty. "You see things at the level of the province and Tehran, but what is happening in this country right now is not just a fire in Abadan. There are demonstrations in Tehran, demonstrations in Tabriz. Students, intellectuals, clergy—everyone is in motion. This fire is a match thrown into a room already filled with gunpowder—the real question is not whether to strike, but rather, after this room explodes, where will the workers of Abadan stand, and who will they follow?"

Hemmati stared at him, and something new appeared in his eyes—not wariness, but re-evaluation.

"Your Highness means..."

"What I mean," Reza said, "is that what is most valuable right now is not a strike, but organizational capability. A workforce that can stop when told to stop and leave when told to leave is worth a hundred times more than a disorganized strike. You have this capability in your hands right now; this is your bargaining chip. Do not spend it prematurely on a gamble that is destined to lose."

Ghazali leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the armrest: "Your Highness speaks well, but a bargaining chip needs someone to accept it before it can be exchanged for something. Is Your Highness willing to accept this chip?"

Direct.

Reza liked talking to direct people because neither side had to waste time digging for hidden intentions in their words.

"I am willing," Reza said, equally direct. "But what I can give you now is not a promise, but facts. The first fact: The oil of Khuzestan Province feeds the country's treasury, but the houses Khuzestan's workers live in, the water they drink, and the schools their children attend have nothing to do with those petrodollars. You know this fact better than I do. The second fact: This situation will change, not because Tehran has a sudden change of heart, but because it can no longer hold on. The third fact: After it can no longer hold on, whoever takes over will call the shots, and whoever calls the shots will determine what kind of life the workers of Abadan lead."

The study was silent for nearly a minute.

Hemmati stood up, walked to the bookshelves, looked at that row of technical manuals, and with his back to Reza, said one sentence: