End of Life from Perspective of Islamic Psychology | by Dr. Kamal Abu-Shamsieh.
Summarized by Mazeedatul khair Yaqub
When we talk about end-of-life and post-mortem care in our Islamic tradition, the conversation is usually centered around rituals and filtered through legal rulings—what’s obligatory, what’s permissible, and what’s prohibited in Sharia. But after over a decade of being at the bedside in hospital settings, witnessing firsthand how Muslim patients and their families struggle with decisions around life support, terminal illness, and medical ethics, I’ve come to believe we need a much broader, more compassionate framework.
I’ve seen how difficult it is for Muslims to reconcile the secular medical model with our Islamic ethics, especially around decisions like downgrading care or withdrawing life support. That’s why I advocate a return to our normative sources—the Qur’an, Sunnah, and our scholarly tradition—but with an approach that also prioritizes human experience, emotion, and spiritual readiness.
For me, one of the most instructive events is the death of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. His final days offer powerful lessons, not just in terms of theology, but also in how to face death with dignity, clarity, and purpose. He embraced the reality of his death. He made conscious choices—where to be nursed, how to continue worshipping, what to say to his family and community. His farewell sermon, his heightened worship, and his final conversations all indicate a spiritually conscious approach to dying.
I focused on three essential points during my reflection:
1. The Prophet ﷺ was aware of his approaching death.
2. He responded to this knowledge with deliberate action—both public (like the farewell sermon) and private (like increased dhikr and du’a).
3. His life and choices offer a framework we can emulate today.
One of my frustrations, however, is how fragmented our records are about this final period of the Prophet’s life. Compared to the Christian tradition, which documents Jesus’s last week almost hour-by-hour, our seerah on the Prophet’s death is scattered. We need to do better as scholars and researchers in reconstructing these events to draw out ethical, spiritual, and theological guidance.
Another key message I share is that death is not merely a medical event. It is, above all, a theological and deeply personal moment. It’s not something to be hidden or feared, but an inevitable part of existence—a sign of Allah’s might. Illness and pain at the end of life can be rahmah (mercy), a means of purification. I often describe it like autumn leaves falling: with every pain, a sin is shed. It’s a generous, beautiful way to view suffering, rooted in our tradition.
Yet, even though we pray daily for a good ending (ḥusn al-khātimah), I’ve noticed we still don’t agree on what exactly that means. Many assume that uttering the shahada at the moment of death is the only sign of a righteous ending. But I’ve seen countless palliative care patients—especially those with cancer—sedated in their last weeks and physically unable to speak. Are we to say their deaths are not good? That mindset needs to change. We must learn to value a righteous life just as much, if not more, than the final moment.
During this session, a dear sister who is a cancer patient and mental health professional shared how much she appreciated our discussion. She reflected on how seldom we study the Prophet’s death for personal guidance. She’s right. We don’t talk about death enough—not with our children, not in our communities, and definitely not with those who are terminally ill. That silence needs to be broken.
I explained that death comes in two ways: fast (like sudden accidents or cardiac arrests) and slow (like terminal illness). Both are equally significant but bring different challenges. Sudden death can leave families traumatized and riddled with guilt. Slow death involves gradual loss—physical, emotional, and even financial—and requires greater preparation. In both cases, spiritual care is essential. Sadly, many imams are not clinically trained to provide it. As a chaplain, I’ve had over 2,000 hours of clinical experience, and I see the difference that proper spiritual support can make in a person’s final days.
We also need to stop policing grief. Parents who lose children, patients in pain—they may express anger, they may question Allah’s mercy. That’s not a sign of weak faith. It’s a sign of being human. Our role is to hold space for their struggle, not silence it with platitudes.
When I return to the Prophet’s last moments, I’m moved every time. He indicated his awareness of death during the farewell pilgrimage and later when he mentioned his own grave to companions. His choice to be cared for in Aisha’s (ra) home, his intimate whisper to Fatimah (ra), and his final du’as show how personal and spiritual this transition was for him.
He did not shy away from death. He welcomed it, chose to be with Allah, and left behind a model of how we should prepare: emotionally, legally, and spiritually. That means having end-of-life conversations, choosing where and how we want to be buried, and ensuring our loved ones are informed and equipped to fulfill our wishes. It also means making istighfar, doing sincere repentance, and letting go of fear.
My goal in these discussions is to shift our mindset. Death is not just a legal issue or medical emergency—it is a sacred transition. It is personal. It is communal. It is spiritual. It deserves our attention, our reflection, and our preparation—just as the Prophet ﷺ demonstrated.
May Allah allow us all to meet Him with ease, forgiveness, and readiness. Ameen.
https://youtu.be/szr6rU3rAhg?si=TTrMrkw3ckv1wtj2