Over the past three decades, Jordanian governments have followed a clear path of assigning leadership positions to experts and individuals with academic or technical backgrounds—commonly referred to as technocrats. This trend typically intensifies during times of crisis, particularly economic ones, under the belief that “technical competence” alone can save the state from its hardships.
A recent study published in a specialized academic journal shows that approximately 57% of ministers who held office in Jordanian governments between 1989 and 2020 came from academic or technical backgrounds. This significant number marks a shift in leadership from political figures to “experts.” While this transformation may sound reasonable in theory, its actual impact has fallen short of expectations. Institutional performance has not noticeably improved, the national economy remains in distress, and—most importantly—public trust in the state continues to erode.
Competence alone, it turns out, does not replace deep understanding. The issue may not lie in appointing technocrats per se, but in assuming that good governance can be fully shaped within lecture halls and conference rooms. In reality, we replaced field experience with theoretical knowledge, and practical management with technical reports. As a result, decision-making became disconnected from the street, and policies were crafted in a language that citizens neither understand nor trust.
This brings to mind an article I wrote more than 15 years ago, titled “The School of Shepherds,” when a wave of bald-headed elites—graduates of prestigious foreign universities—began taking control of Jordan’s economic sectors. They embraced privatization, austerity, and financial discipline without sufficiently considering the social realities. At that moment, I felt the need to invoke a simple yet powerful image.
I wrote about a humble shepherd who pitches his tent every spring across from my house, after spending the winter in the Jordan Valley to escape the cold. He plants barley, wheat, and a few vegetables, harvests only what he needs, and feeds his livestock according to a precise daily routine. He consumes only what he produces, does not borrow, and wastes nothing. He organizes his life seasonally and manages his resources with flexibility. Most importantly, he repeats this cycle every year without losses.
This shepherd holds no management degree, knows nothing about 'visions' or 'missions,' yet possesses an innate sense of administration that surpasses many sitting in ministerial offices.
We’ve grown accustomed to criticizing troubled administrations as being run with a “shepherd’s mentality,” as if that were an insult. But in truth, this quiet, wise, and resourceful shepherd, who ends each season in the positive, deserves for his model to be studied.
What Jordan’s public administration lacks today isn’t degrees, but insight—not theories, but genuine understanding of how to manage resources. Competence without wisdom, and plans detached from ground realities, turn into theoretical exercises with no practical value. That’s the essence of the difference between the “shepherd” and the “isolated expert.”
This is not an attack on technocrats themselves. Some have performed admirably and contributed valuable technical solutions. But when technocrats are isolated from politics, society, and accountability, they become theoreticians living in ivory towers—far from the people's pulse. Meanwhile, a shepherd managing his land and flock offers a simple yet complete model of balance, planning, and sustainability.
This is why I seriously propose the inclusion of “The Shepherds’ School” in modern administrative theories—not just as a folk symbol, but as a practical framework for managing resources efficiently, planning seasonally, working within one’s means, and linking decisions directly to results.
We don’t need more strategies on paper. We need a deeper understanding of people, land, and resources. Management is not what we read, but what we apply and accomplish. And sometimes, in a shepherd’s tent, we find lessons far richer than those in conference rooms and policy forums.
Perhaps it's time to ask: Do we need more technocrats—or more wise people? More plans—or a truer understanding?
I leave the answer to you.
By Prof. Dr. Ali Al-Nahla Hayasat
Over the past three decades, Jordanian governments have followed a clear path of assigning leadership positions to experts and individuals with academic or technical backgrounds—commonly referred to as technocrats. This trend typically intensifies during times of crisis, particularly economic ones, under the belief that “technical competence” alone can save the state from its hardships.
A recent study published in a specialized academic journal shows that approximately 57% of ministers who held office in Jordanian governments between 1989 and 2020 came from academic or technical backgrounds. This significant number marks a shift in leadership from political figures to “experts.” While this transformation may sound reasonable in theory, its actual impact has fallen short of expectations. Institutional performance has not noticeably improved, the national economy remains in distress, and—most importantly—public trust in the state continues to erode.
Competence alone, it turns out, does not replace deep understanding. The issue may not lie in appointing technocrats per se, but in assuming that good governance can be fully shaped within lecture halls and conference rooms. In reality, we replaced field experience with theoretical knowledge, and practical management with technical reports. As a result, decision-making became disconnected from the street, and policies were crafted in a language that citizens neither understand nor trust.
This brings to mind an article I wrote more than 15 years ago, titled “The School of Shepherds,” when a wave of bald-headed elites—graduates of prestigious foreign universities—began taking control of Jordan’s economic sectors. They embraced privatization, austerity, and financial discipline without sufficiently considering the social realities. At that moment, I felt the need to invoke a simple yet powerful image.
I wrote about a humble shepherd who pitches his tent every spring across from my house, after spending the winter in the Jordan Valley to escape the cold. He plants barley, wheat, and a few vegetables, harvests only what he needs, and feeds his livestock according to a precise daily routine. He consumes only what he produces, does not borrow, and wastes nothing. He organizes his life seasonally and manages his resources with flexibility. Most importantly, he repeats this cycle every year without losses.
This shepherd holds no management degree, knows nothing about 'visions' or 'missions,' yet possesses an innate sense of administration that surpasses many sitting in ministerial offices.
We’ve grown accustomed to criticizing troubled administrations as being run with a “shepherd’s mentality,” as if that were an insult. But in truth, this quiet, wise, and resourceful shepherd, who ends each season in the positive, deserves for his model to be studied.
What Jordan’s public administration lacks today isn’t degrees, but insight—not theories, but genuine understanding of how to manage resources. Competence without wisdom, and plans detached from ground realities, turn into theoretical exercises with no practical value. That’s the essence of the difference between the “shepherd” and the “isolated expert.”
This is not an attack on technocrats themselves. Some have performed admirably and contributed valuable technical solutions. But when technocrats are isolated from politics, society, and accountability, they become theoreticians living in ivory towers—far from the people's pulse. Meanwhile, a shepherd managing his land and flock offers a simple yet complete model of balance, planning, and sustainability.
This is why I seriously propose the inclusion of “The Shepherds’ School” in modern administrative theories—not just as a folk symbol, but as a practical framework for managing resources efficiently, planning seasonally, working within one’s means, and linking decisions directly to results.
We don’t need more strategies on paper. We need a deeper understanding of people, land, and resources. Management is not what we read, but what we apply and accomplish. And sometimes, in a shepherd’s tent, we find lessons far richer than those in conference rooms and policy forums.
Perhaps it's time to ask: Do we need more technocrats—or more wise people? More plans—or a truer understanding?
I leave the answer to you.
By Prof. Dr. Ali Al-Nahla Hayasat
Over the past three decades, Jordanian governments have followed a clear path of assigning leadership positions to experts and individuals with academic or technical backgrounds—commonly referred to as technocrats. This trend typically intensifies during times of crisis, particularly economic ones, under the belief that “technical competence” alone can save the state from its hardships.
A recent study published in a specialized academic journal shows that approximately 57% of ministers who held office in Jordanian governments between 1989 and 2020 came from academic or technical backgrounds. This significant number marks a shift in leadership from political figures to “experts.” While this transformation may sound reasonable in theory, its actual impact has fallen short of expectations. Institutional performance has not noticeably improved, the national economy remains in distress, and—most importantly—public trust in the state continues to erode.
Competence alone, it turns out, does not replace deep understanding. The issue may not lie in appointing technocrats per se, but in assuming that good governance can be fully shaped within lecture halls and conference rooms. In reality, we replaced field experience with theoretical knowledge, and practical management with technical reports. As a result, decision-making became disconnected from the street, and policies were crafted in a language that citizens neither understand nor trust.
This brings to mind an article I wrote more than 15 years ago, titled “The School of Shepherds,” when a wave of bald-headed elites—graduates of prestigious foreign universities—began taking control of Jordan’s economic sectors. They embraced privatization, austerity, and financial discipline without sufficiently considering the social realities. At that moment, I felt the need to invoke a simple yet powerful image.
I wrote about a humble shepherd who pitches his tent every spring across from my house, after spending the winter in the Jordan Valley to escape the cold. He plants barley, wheat, and a few vegetables, harvests only what he needs, and feeds his livestock according to a precise daily routine. He consumes only what he produces, does not borrow, and wastes nothing. He organizes his life seasonally and manages his resources with flexibility. Most importantly, he repeats this cycle every year without losses.
This shepherd holds no management degree, knows nothing about 'visions' or 'missions,' yet possesses an innate sense of administration that surpasses many sitting in ministerial offices.
We’ve grown accustomed to criticizing troubled administrations as being run with a “shepherd’s mentality,” as if that were an insult. But in truth, this quiet, wise, and resourceful shepherd, who ends each season in the positive, deserves for his model to be studied.
What Jordan’s public administration lacks today isn’t degrees, but insight—not theories, but genuine understanding of how to manage resources. Competence without wisdom, and plans detached from ground realities, turn into theoretical exercises with no practical value. That’s the essence of the difference between the “shepherd” and the “isolated expert.”
This is not an attack on technocrats themselves. Some have performed admirably and contributed valuable technical solutions. But when technocrats are isolated from politics, society, and accountability, they become theoreticians living in ivory towers—far from the people's pulse. Meanwhile, a shepherd managing his land and flock offers a simple yet complete model of balance, planning, and sustainability.
This is why I seriously propose the inclusion of “The Shepherds’ School” in modern administrative theories—not just as a folk symbol, but as a practical framework for managing resources efficiently, planning seasonally, working within one’s means, and linking decisions directly to results.
We don’t need more strategies on paper. We need a deeper understanding of people, land, and resources. Management is not what we read, but what we apply and accomplish. And sometimes, in a shepherd’s tent, we find lessons far richer than those in conference rooms and policy forums.
Perhaps it's time to ask: Do we need more technocrats—or more wise people? More plans—or a truer understanding?
I leave the answer to you.
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Shepherds’ School, Technocrats
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