أسمع جعجعة ولا أرى طحناً

In the heart of Al-Hana, a village nestled among gentle hills, life moved at a comfortable pace. The rhythm of daily life was predictable, marked by the call to prayer and the familiar sounds of the marketplace. For decades, the village relied on one flour mill, owned by a kind and honest man named Abu Omar.

Abu Omar’s mill was a cornerstone of the community. Its stones turned steadily, producing fine, wholesome flour that fed families for miles around. His work was consistent, his prices fair, and his reputation solid. The gentle rumble of his mill was a comforting background sound to the villagers.

Then came Jabir. He was Abu Omar’s ambitious, if somewhat flashy, cousin. Jabir decided to open his own mill right next to Abu Omar’s. He built a larger structure, boasting newer machinery, or so he claimed.

From the very first day, Jabir’s mill was loud. Very loud. It produced a continuous, earsplitting clamor, a relentless 'Ja'ja'a' – the Arabic word for grinding noise or commotion. It sounded like an enormous machine working non-stop, churning out vast quantities of flour.

The village buzzed with talk. “Jabir’s mill is truly a marvel,” some said, marveling at the sheer volume of sound. “He must be working day and night to make such a racket!” Others wondered if Abu Omar's quieter, older mill could compete with such apparent vigor.

Abu Omar, a man of few words, simply continued his work. He kept his own stones turning, producing flour, bag after honest bag. He heard the endless noise from next door. He saw the villagers look towards Jabir’s mill with a mix of awe and curiosity. But he said nothing.

Jabir’s 'Ja'ja'a' filled the air, a constant declaration of his supposed productivity. It promised much. Yet, few people actually saw Jabir’s mill produce much flour, the 'Tahn'. The stacks of flour bags outside his mill remained conspicuously small.

One morning, a respected merchant from the city, a man named Hassan, arrived in Al-Hana. His usual flour supplier had suddenly fallen ill, and he needed a substantial amount for his bakery. He heard the formidable roar of Jabir’s mill long before he reached the village center.

“That sound!” Hassan exclaimed to his driver. “That is the sound of prosperity! This mill must be a powerhouse. They will surely have the flour I need, and plenty of it.”

He instructed his driver to pull up to Jabir’s impressive, noisy mill. The ground seemed to vibrate under their feet. Hassan strode to the entrance, a confident smile on his face, ready to place a large order. The 'Ja'ja'a' was almost overwhelming inside the building.

Jabir, looking quite disheveled but also very pleased with himself, emerged from the mill’s dusty interior. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, as if he’d just completed a heroic effort. “Welcome, esteemed merchant!” he shouted over the din. “How may my busy mill serve you today?”

“I need fifty sacks of your finest flour,” Hassan announced, his voice booming to be heard. “Your mill’s tremendous activity speaks for itself. I trust you can meet such a demand?”

Jabir’s confident smile faltered for a moment. He glanced around, then forced the smile back. “Fifty sacks! A magnificent order, sir! Of course, of course. My mill is always working overtime. However, we are just completing a very exclusive batch. It will be ready for you… by the end of the week.”

Hassan was a man of business. He wasn’t easily put off, but he was also not easily fooled. He stepped further inside the mill, curious to see the machinery producing such a powerful sound. He expected to see sacks of grain piled high, and the steady flow of flour.

What he saw instead was bewildering. The enormous millstones spun at incredible speed, rubbing vigorously against each other. Sparks flew, and a cloud of fine, grey dust filled the air. The noise was immense, deafening. But the hopper, where the grain should have been fed, was empty. Not a single kernel. And there was no stream of white flour flowing into the collection chutes below.

Jabir was grinding nothing. He was simply running the stones empty, creating a massive, impressive noise. He was producing 'Ja'ja'a', but absolutely no 'Tahn'.

Hassan watched, his jaw slightly agape. Jabir, seeing the merchant’s confused expression, quickly tried to cover. “Just a routine cleaning, you know!” he yelled, gesturing vaguely at the empty hopper. “Keeps the stones in perfect condition for when we process the next mountain of grain!”

But Hassan had already pieced it together. He was a practical man. He understood machinery. And he understood deceit. The dust was rock dust, not grain dust. The vibration was from friction, not from the heavy work of grinding grain.

Jabir wasn’t just cleaning. He was staging a performance. He was generating an illusion of industry and productivity. He wanted everyone to believe he was immensely busy, successful, and a major producer of flour. He filled the air with the sound of work, but produced nothing of substance.