When Crowds Decide 

When Crowds Decide   -   in Persian    وقتی توده‌ها تصمیم می‌گیرند 

By: John Kazerooni

Once upon a time, in a vibrant town, a lively evening unfolded, filled with music, laughter, and the easy warmth of people gathered together. Conversations drifted through the room, and for a moment, the world felt light and harmless. Then a man stepped forward. His name was Mr. Nobody. He was not famous, influential, or powerful—just an ordinary man holding a newspaper, with a voice gentle enough to ask for attention.

“Please pay attention,” he said. Out of courtesy more than curiosity, the room grew quiet. He unfolded the paper and began to read.

“Governor Thomas Hale was seen arguing loudly with factory workers—”

“He’s attacking workers!” someone shouted.

Mr. Nobody raised his voice. “…trying to prevent the factory from closing—”

But the crowd had already reacted. He took a breath. “Please, let me read the whole statement,” he said, and continued. “Senator Daniel Brooks was caught insulting a crowd during a town hall—”

“How dare he!”

“Shame!”

“…testing which public concerns needed attention—” But the noise swallowed his words.

“President Arthur Bennett was seen refusing to leave a meeting—”

“He’s arrogant!”

“…until every citizen’s question had been answered.”

No one was listening anymore. Not because they were distracted, not because they didn’t care. They had already decided not to listen. Their minds were set, their ears were closed, and their eyes were shut. Each time he spoke, the second sentence—the part that carried the meaning—was cut off. Truth waited quietly at the edge of his words, unheard. Emotion replaced understanding. Judgment replaced listening. And then the crowd rushed him.

When silence finally returned, Mr. Nobody lay still. The newspaper rested beside him. No one had allowed him to finish. After a long moment, someone picked up the paper and began to read—this time without interruption:

“Governor Thomas Hale was seen arguing loudly with factory workers, trying to prevent the factory from closing and save their jobs. Senator Daniel Brooks was caught insulting a crowd during a town hall, testing which concerns needed attention before writing a new policy. President Arthur Bennett refused to leave a meeting until every citizen’s question had been answered.”

The room fell silent. Faces lowered. The meaning was clear. But the silence had come too late.

Not far away, in another gathering, another man stood. His name was Mr. Somebody. He was respected, influential, and powerful. He understood something more valuable than truth: power does not come from truth. Power comes from crowds. He held the same newspaper and had read every word, but he chose to read only the first lines:

“Governor Hale argued with factory workers. Senator Brooks insulted a crowd. President Bennett refused to leave a meeting.”

Then he folded the paper and hid the rest. He knew the story was incomplete, but he also knew that the crowd was not listening for understanding—they were watching him. They cheered, applauded, and lifted him high. “Long live Mr. Somebody!” No one asked for the rest. They agreed not because it was true, but because others were agreeing, and their minds were already made up. In that moment, the crowd gave him something far more dangerous than admiration—they gave him the power to say anything and still be believed.

Yet not far from there, in a smaller hall, another man stood. His name was Mr. Second Nobody. He was as ordinary as the first, with no title, no influence, and no power. Only a voice—and the courage to try again. This time, the crowd waited. They listened to both sentences. They asked questions and reflected. The applause came slowly—not from excitement, but from understanding. Here, the second sentence mattered. Here, context was not an interruption. Here, truth was allowed to arrive. And because they listened, no harm was done.

———————

First Mr. Nobody was destroyed when people chose not to listen. Mr. Somebody rose when people chose to follow blindly. But truth survived when a crowd chose to wait.  The difference was never the message. It was never the speaker. It was the mind of the crowd. The crowd does not interrupt because it is loud—it interrupts because it has already decided. The moment the first words are heard, minds rush ahead, finish the story, and choose a side. After that, listening feels unnecessary. The interruption is not in the room; it happens in the mind.

Not all crowds are the same. There are crowds that react, and there are crowds that reflect. The reactive crowd moves quickly. It listens only long enough to feel something. Emotion becomes judgment. Certainty arrives before understanding. The reflective crowd is slower. It allows doubt to exist. It asks questions. It waits for the whole story. The difference between them is not intelligence alone. It is discipline—the discipline to pause, the discipline to question emotion, the discipline to let the second sentence arrive.

And so we are left to wonder: how often do we stop listening before the second sentence arrives? How many truths die quietly because we think we already know? Are we shaping our own understanding—or simply echoing the crowd? Can a mind trained to rush ever learn patience? And if a crowd refuses to wait, what becomes of wisdom, of justice, of understanding?

Every day, these questions are asked—not by crowds, not by leaders, but by each one of us. And the answers shape the world far more than any speech, any newspaper, any rally. Truth waits patiently. It waits not for applause, not for agreement, not for power. It waits for the mind that is willing to listen fully. And sometimes, that is enough. 

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