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 I Hear the Grinding... But See No Flour

"A great deal of noise does not mean the mill is producing flour."

The old Arab proverb, "I hear the grinding, but I see no flour," was never merely a sarcastic remark about a mill turning without producing grain. It was an early description of a political condition that reappears whenever men step onto the stage confusing loud voices with real achievement, and displays of power with the art of governing. Grinding noise feeds no hungry person, ends no war, and builds no peace. It is simply noise that fills the ears while the wheat remains untouched—never passing through the millstones, never becoming bread.

Few figures in recent decades have embodied this proverb more vividly than Donald Trump. He entered the White House—first and then again—promising Americans and the world that he would be the man to end wars, bring soldiers home, close the chapters of long-running conflicts, and replace the language of guns with the language of deals. He spoke with the confidence of a man convinced that politics was little more than a real estate transaction, and that history could be signed on a sheet of paper just as one signs contracts to purchase hotels and skyscrapers.

Politics, however, is not an investment company. It is not an open auction, nor is it a television reality show where the winner walks away smiling as cameras follow behind. It is a profoundly complex discipline in which geography intertwines with history, religion with identity, interests with memory, and hatred with fear. Anyone who believes these knots can be untied through threats one day and incentives the next resembles someone trying to extinguish a forest fire with a toy water pistol.

Trump promised to end the war in Ukraine quickly, yet the conflict only expanded and grew more complicated. He vowed to extinguish the fires of the Middle East, yet the flames spread from Gaza to southern Lebanon, from the Red Sea to the Gulf, until even the Strait of Hormuz now stands on the brink of explosion, while the Bab el-Mandeb Strait looms on the horizon as another candidate to be drawn into the vortex of conflict.

This is how the picture unfolds: every crisis is proclaimed to be the last, only to become the prelude to a larger one. Every threat is presented as a tool of deterrence, only to generate fresh reactions. It is as though the world escapes one pit only to tumble into another even deeper.

Trump has approached politics more with the mentality of a strongman than that of a statesman. In his world, whoever raises his voice the loudest wins; whoever threatens the most extracts the greatest concessions; and whoever carries the biggest stick dictates the rules of the game. Yet history teaches us that empires do not collapse merely because they lose their strength, but because they misunderstand the limits of that strength.

Deterrence may prevent a bullet from being fired, but it cannot kill an idea. Sanctions may suffocate an economy, but they cannot guarantee a change in a nation's will. Bombers can destroy cities, but they cannot build a stable regional order.

Herein lies the great paradox. The more Trump declares that the United States has restored its prestige, the wider the circle of crises becomes. The more he speaks of peace, the higher oil prices climb, the more aircraft carriers move into position, and the larger military budgets grow. It is as though the entire world now lives to the rhythm of a permanent alarm, never knowing when it might erupt into full-scale war.

In the Middle East, possessing power is not enough; one must also know how to use it—and when to refrain from using it. The region is not a chessboard but a labyrinth of identities, vendettas, alliances, and overlapping interests. Every miscalculated move can open doors that are exceedingly difficult to close.

The Strait of Hormuz stands today as living testimony to this reality. It is not merely a waterway through which oil tankers pass, but an artery connected to the entire global economy. Any attempt to choke it would inevitably provoke responses extending far beyond the Gulf. And if Hormuz ignites, Bab el-Mandeb will not remain untouched by the flames, for the two waterways are bound by the same thread: the equation of action and reaction.

Anyone who believes these delicate balances can be managed solely through the logic of deal-making overlooks one fundamental truth: wars do not always begin with deliberate decisions. More often, they begin with miscalculation. What appears today to be a message of pressure may tomorrow become the spark of a confrontation that no one can control.

Trump has long spoken of achieving "peace through strength." Yet when strength becomes the only language, it loses its capacity to create peace. Politics is not about making your adversary fear you; it is about convincing your adversary that avoiding war serves their interests. Once an opponent becomes convinced that their very existence is at stake, every calculation changes, and the impossible suddenly becomes possible.

This is precisely what makes any confrontation with Iran different from many other conflicts. Each side views the struggle through an existential lens rather than a merely tactical one. Consequently, a policy of maximum pressure does not necessarily produce maximum results. It may instead produce maximum escalation.

If history teaches us anything, it is that political noise is no substitute for strategic vision. The past few years have been filled with speeches, tweets, promises, threats, conferences, summits, and official statements. But what has been the outcome? A more divided world, more volatile markets, more fragile alliances, and a greater number of active fronts.

The Middle East does not need louder voices; it needs cooler heads capable of lowering the temperature of conflict. It does not need more slogans, but a deeper understanding of the roots of its crises. Those who spend their time chasing fires without searching for the source of the spark will forever move from one blaze to another.

Conclusion

The old Arab proverb remains more eloquent than many volumes of political theory: "I hear the grinding, but I see no flour." Politics is not a competition in making promises, nor a contest in displaying power, nor an exercise in generating dramatic headlines. It is the art of achieving results—not the art of making noise.

Today, the world appears to stand before a mill spinning at full speed. Its grinding grows so loud that it nearly deafens the ears, yet no one sees any flour. Instead, what we witness are more crises, more open fronts, and growing fears that a single spark in the Strait of Hormuz could ignite a fire stretching toward Bab el-Mandeb—and from there, far beyond.

For no matter how loud the grinding becomes, it produces no bread. And politics, no matter how deafening its clamor, cannot produce peace unless it is grounded in knowledge, guided by vision, and shaped by the understanding that the world cannot be governed by the logic of dominance alone, but by recognizing its complexities and the very limits of power itself.