From ʿĀm al-Ḥuzn to Healing: Understanding Loss in Islam
By Zeynep Tunçkale
Reflecting on the subject of sadness—rendered in Arabic as ḥuzn (“sadness”)—it is noteworthy that modern Arabic psychological discourse lacks a single, fixed term that precisely maps onto “grief” as profound sorrow over the loss of someone or something. Classical Arabic, by contrast, offers a richer and more differentiated vocabulary for this state, including ḥuzn (sadness), fajʿ (bereavement shock; being “struck” by loss), and kamad (suppressed, smoldering sorrow). Contemporary usage often defaults to the more general ḥuzn or to terms such as iktiʾāb (“depression”), which leans toward clinical categories rather than the natural, human process of grieving. This linguistic shift is worth reflecting upon. Imam Ibn al-Jawzī, in al-Ṭibb al-Rūḥānī (“Spiritual Medicine”), grounds the discussion by explaining that ḥuzn is normal—an affective state that can occur in any person. It is a universal human experience, not a deviation.
This framework resonates strongly in the Qur’an. Allah, subḥānahu wa-taʿālā, states that human beings are created in kabad—distress, toil, and hardship: la-qad khalaqnā al-insāna fī kabad (“We have certainly created the human being in toil and struggle”). This ontological condition sets the stage for a life in which emotional strain is not exceptional but inherent. In that same moral-psychological register, the Qur’an links turning away from divine remembrance to an inner constriction: wa-man aʿraḍa ʿan dhikrī fa-inna lahu maʿīshatan ḍankā (“Whoever turns away from My remembrance will have a constricted life”). The paradigm is clear: disconnection from the divine correlates with internal anguish—what modern language often frames as chronic anxiety and depressive suffering.
In contrast, the divine promise offers a counterpoint. Those who truly believe and remain mindful of Allah are given the assurance: lā khawfun ʿalayhim wa-lā hum yaḥzanūn (“No fear will be upon them, nor will they grieve”). This same serene description is given to those who ultimately enter Paradise. A spiritual psychology emerges: in the temporal life (dunyā, “the worldly life”), Allah grants the believer a foretaste of a quality of the hereafter. Following the guided path can yield an inner freedom from overpowering sadness and worry—what modern discourse might call depression and anxiety. This is not a promise of a life without loss, but of a heart anchored enough not to be overcome by it.
It is also instructive to consider how early scholars and biographers sometimes described the Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ . He was referred to as mutawāṣil al-aḥzān (“continually accompanied by sorrows”), that is, living with contemplative sadness. Yet he was also authentically described by his companions as laughing joyfully—at times ḥattā badat nawājidhuhu (“until his back molars were visible”). The apparent contradiction is, in fact, central to the Islamic ethic of emotion: moderation, balance, and intermediacy—wasaṭiyyah (“the middle way”). Excess is harmful. Excessive sadness can be debilitating, but so is the opposite extreme: frivolity and heedlessness, living without care, moral seriousness, or spiritual concern.
The Prophet’s ﷺ life provides a practical model. Grief was visible and openly expressed in the difficult situations he endured. A pivotal example is the year when his beloved wife and supporter, Khadījah, and his protective uncle, Abū Ṭālib, passed away in close succession. The Prophet ﷺ grieved deeply, to the extent that this period is permanently recorded as ʿām al-ḥuzn (“the Year of Sorrow”). This establishes a powerful precedent: grief is natural, human, and expected, especially when losing someone profoundly significant. The best of creation did not deny this reality.
We find a parallel in the stories of earlier prophets. Consider Yaʿqūb (peace be upon him), who waited for his son Yūsuf (peace be upon him) for many years, uncertain whether he was alive or dead. He grieved the loss, yet largely internalized it—until the prospect of losing another son triggered an overwhelming release. The Qur’an describes the intensity of that sorrow: wa-byaḍḍat ʿaynāhu mina l-ḥuzni fa-huwa kaẓīm (“His eyes turned white from grief, and he was inwardly constrained”). The narrative then emphasizes healing through connection rather than denial: when Yūsuf’s (peace be upon him) shirt—carrying his scent and presence—is cast upon his face, his eyesight returns. The story illustrates a psychological truth: grief held in isolation can debilitate, while connection—even symbolic—can be curative.
If grief is not intrinsically bad but a natural response, how should it be handled in a healthy, productive way? Ibn al-Jawzī offers spiritually grounded psychological counsel. One method is cognitive redirection: to think more about the One who decreed the calamity than about the calamity itself, and to remember the broader human reality of suffering. This reframing moves a person from self-enclosure (“Why me?”) to relational meaning-making (“What is my Lord teaching me through this?”). It shifts the sufferer from passive objecthood into active engagement with the divine—seeking instruction within pain.
Second, he advises rational reframing: understand that grief, however deep, will not restore what has been lost—laysa bihi darkun li-l-mafqūd (“It does not retrieve the lost one / what is lost”). The longer one invests in passive rumination, the more one delays functional and emotional recovery. Recognizing that prolonged grief yields no tangible benefit to the deceased or the living can help a person consciously limit its dominance. Ibn al-Jawzī illustrates this with the story of a woman among the righteous predecessors whose face appeared radiant. A man assumed she must have lived without sorrow. She corrected him: she had lost her husband and two sons. Her wisdom, she explained, was realizing that her grief would not return any of them—so she chose not to be consumed by it. This is not suppression; it is disciplined emotion management through perspective.
The Prophet’s ﷺ practice exemplifies this balanced approach. He remembered Khadījah constantly without being incapacitated by grief, even noting how her sister’s manner of seeking permission reminded him of her—Allāhumma Hālah! (“O Allah—Hālah!”), an utterance reflecting the sudden revival of memory and attachment. At the same time, he encouraged emotional expression and human openness. When his infant son Ibrāhīm died, he held the child and his eyes filled with tears. When a companion expressed surprise, the Prophet ﷺ validated the response: hādhihi raḥmah (“This is mercy”)—meaning a mercy Allah places within the hearts of His servants.
He then articulated a complete model of integrated grieving in words widely transmitted in the Prophetic reports: inna l-ʿayna tadmaʿ, wa-inna l-qalba yaḥzan, wa-lā naqūlu illā mā yarḍā rabbunā, wa-innā bi-firāqika yā Ibrāhīm la-maḥzūnūn—which may be rendered as: “The eye sheds tears, the heart grieves, but we say only what pleases our Lord. And truly, O Ibrāhīm, we are sorrowful at being separated from you.” This single statement captures a holistic arc: physical release (tears), emotional acknowledgment (the grieving heart), and mindful verbal framing (speech constrained by faith and acceptance). It neither suppresses emotion nor permits despair. It gives grief a voice while anchoring it in meaning and restraint.
A beautiful, lesser-known example further illustrates this approach. A young boy, Abū ʿUmayr (the brother of Anas ibn Mālik), used to play with a small bird, al-nughayr (“the little bird”). The Prophet ﷺ found him one day visibly sad. Learning that the bird had died and the boy was grieving, he did not rush to distraction or quick fixes. Instead, he sat with the child and practiced active empathy. Then, with perfectly attuned gentleness, he invited the boy to narrate his loss: yā Abā ʿUmayr, mā faʿala al-nughayr?—“O Abū ʿUmayr, what happened to the little bird?” This simple question accomplishes multiple therapeutic goals: it validates the loss, encourages narration and emotional expression, transforms private grief into shared meaning, and honors the bond by recalling the beloved with care.
For this reason, classical texts such as those of Ibn al-Jawzī remain deeply instructive. It is also useful to contrast this with another classical category: the “station of sadness,” manzilat al-ḥuzn, discussed by Ibn al-Qayyim al-Jawziyyah in Manāzil al-Sāʾirīn (“The Stages of the Wayfarers”). This is a different, more existential sadness—healthy, even desirable—rooted not in personal loss but in spiritual longing. It reminds the believer that we are travelers in a transient world and that our enduring home is Paradise. Ibn al-Jawzī makes this point memorably in Ṣayd al-Khāṭir (“The Hunt of Reflections”): al-janna iqṭāʿunā, wa-naḥnu hunā ʿalā safar—“Paradise is our allotted home, and we are here only on a journey.” He also notes that Ādam felt deep ḥanīn (“nostalgic longing”) for Paradise when witnessing the angels descending and ascending.
This theme echoes in the poetry of ʿAllāmah Iqbāl:
wa-lam yaʿrif siwā Riḍwān ṣawtī… wa-mā aḥrāhu ʿindī bi-l-wafāʾ
“Only Riḍwān knew my voice… and to me, he is the very picture of fidelity.”
Our shared destiny (ākhirah, “the Hereafter”) is to return. Thus, the “station of sadness” is a contemplative sadness that fosters mindfulness of the hereafter and loosens attachment to worldly illusions.
Finally, these insights remain valuable for contemporary clinical practice. The aim is to help clients inhabit the mediated middle: avoiding acute, disabling grief on one end and emotional numbness, denial, or non-expression on the other. The therapeutic task includes facilitating healthy expression—helping clients speak about their beloved, narrate stories, recall meaningful moments, and give grief language. Narrative processing is often reparative. The final step is constructive reframing: discerning what the message of the loss might be for one’s life now. How can the client carry forward the values, love, and lessons embodied by the deceased? This reframes the client from passive loss into active legacy-carrying, enabling forward movement while honoring a bond that continues in meaning.