بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Anyone who has spent time with the opening duʿāʾ of al-Ṣaḥīfa al-Sajjādiyya knows the moment. Imam Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn (ʿa) turns to describe the human being who grows content with fleeting pleasures, and then the prayer says:

فَمِنْهُمْ مَنْ لَتَصَرَّفُوا فِي مِنَنِهِ فَلَمْ يَحْمَدُوهُ، وَتَوَسَّعُوا فِي رِزْقِهِ فَلَمْ يَشْكُرُوهُ، وَلَوْ كَانُوا كَذٰلِكَ لَخَرَجُوا مِنْ حُدُودِ الْإِنْسَانِيَّةِ إِلَىٰ حَدِّ الْبَهِيمِيَّةِ
There are among them those who dispose freely of His gifts but do not praise Him (fa-lam yaḥmadūhu), and who expand in His provision but do not thank Him (fa-lam yashkurūhu). Were they to remain thus, they would exit the boundaries of humanity and enter the limit of al-bahīmiyyah.

For generations, translators and commentators have rendered al-bahīmiyyah as “bestiality” or “the level of brute beasts.” The image is stark: a human being, by abandoning the path of conscious devotion, degrades himself to the rank of an animal. There is truth in this reading, but it rests on an assumption that may not do justice to the Arabic root or to the Qurʾān’s own depiction of the animal world — and, crucially, it can close the door to a deeper spiritual insight the Imam is placing before us.

What if al-bahīmiyyah does not mean “beastliness” in the sense of an animal – but rather such a creature or condition, outside the limits of humanity, but who is of human lineage (not of animal lineage in conventional sense of the word) one who is of opaque, featureless uniformity — a state in which the light of conscious, discerning worship is extinguished, leaving behind a soul as sealed and undifferentiated as a night without a star? This article explores that alternate understanding, drawing on the rich semantic field of the root *b-h-m* and the Qurʾānic teaching that all creatures, without exception, participate in the praise (ḥamd) of their Lord.

The Problem with “Beastliness”

The conventional translation is understandable. The word bahīmah (pl. bahāʾim) means a quadruped, a brute beast, and the abstract noun bahīmiyyah is its natural derivative. Historically, animals were often seen as creatures devoid of reason and spiritual capacity, so falling to their level meant losing the very thing that makes us human.

But we now know, empirically, that many animals possess remarkable intelligence, emotional depth, and social complexity. More importantly, the Qurʾān itself never says that animals are without a beautiful relationship with God. Quite the opposite. The Book of Allah resounds with the declaration that every existent thing praises Him:

وَإِن مِّن شَيْءٍ إِلَّا يُسَبِّحُ بِحَمْدِهِ وَلَٰكِن لَّا تَفْقَهُونَ تَسْبِيحَهُمْ
“There is not a single thing that does not glorify Him with His praise, but you do not comprehend their glorification.” (17:44)

The phrase bi-ḥamdihī (“with His praise”) is critical. Animals do not merely perform a mechanical glorification; their very existence flows with ḥamd, the praise that belongs to God alone. The limitation, the Quran states, is not in them but in us humans: we do not understand this mode of praise. Birds, mountains, trees, and four legged animals, those of the sea, all prostrate and praise, each in a language we cannot decode. So if the Quranic witness tells us that animals are perpetually engaged in ḥamd, then the Imam’s warning cannot mean that those who fail to say al-ḥamdu lillāh simply become “animals.” Something else is lost, there appears to be a transmutation of the human being, that results in such person to fall outside of what it means to be a human, and that loss is what bahīmiyyah names.

Returning to the Root: What Does ب-ه-م Really Mean?

Arabic words are not arbitrary labels; they grow out of roots that carry a core image. The triliteral root ب-ه-م (b-h-m) paints a picture of solidity, unbrokenness, featurelessness, and being sealed. The classical lexicons, particularly Edward Lane’s monumental work, preserve meanings that have little to do with animals as such:

• A night without light: Layl bahīm — a night that is a solid, unbroken blackness, with no moon and no star. Not simply dark, but devoid of any distinguishable point of illumination.
• An unmixed colour: Faras bahīm — a horse of a single, uniform colour, with no white markings on its face or legs. A surface without differentiation.
• A solid rock: Buhmah — a massive, solid stone, not hollow, without fissures or openings.
• A locked door: Bāb mubham — a door closed and locked, so that one cannot find the way to open it. A wall with no door. A chest with no lock to pick.
• Dubious, vague speech: Kalām mubham — speech that is confused, opaque, offering no clear way to understand it. An affair that is sealed against the mind.
• A sound without inflection: Ṣawt bahīm — a voice with no trilling or quavering, a single, unbroken tone.
• A courageous warrior: Rajul buhmah — a man so formidable that his opponents find no gap, no way to reach him; he is a solid, unbreachable front.

In every case, the root points to the absence of distinguishing features, the closing off of apertures, the collapse into a monolithic sameness. When something is bahīm, it has no door, no star, no marking, no inflection — it is a sealed, undifferentiated whole.

The Human Vocation: Articulate Praise within the Boundaries

Now we can reread the Imam’s words with fresh eyes. The failing that triggers the exit from insāniyyah is specifically falem yaḥmadūhu — they did not praise Him — and falem yashkurūhu — they did not thank Him. These people were not devoid of existence. They were not removed from the universal chorus of tasbīḥ bi-ḥamdihī that encompasses every atom of creation. But they failed to perform the distinctively human act: the voluntary, conscious, articulate offering of ḥamd in response to recognised blessings. They moved through the gifts, used them, enjoyed them, expanded in them — and remained silent. That silence is the key.

All creatures praise God. The stars, the mountains, the birds in flight — each knows its prayer and its glorification (24:41). But the human alone is given the trust (amānah) of a conscious, articulate relationship, one that can name the Beloved and speak back to Him with a heart that knows. The ḥamd of a bird is perfect in its own mode, but it is a seamless, unbroken hymn that does not articulate itself through the duality of faith and forgetfulness, gratitude and heedlessness. The bird never stops praising in order to return in repentance. The human does, and the beauty of human ḥamd lies precisely in this movement — the descent into the night of the self, followed by the dawn of return.

The Spiritual Condition of al-Bahīmiyyah

When the Imam describes the soul that becomes content with this world alone, he warns of a terrifying metamorphosis. The soul does not cease to exist, nor does it leave the universal chorus of praise. Rather, it moves from the articulate, discerning ḥamd of insāniyyah into the featureless, sealed state of bahīmiyyah.

Imagine a soul that still breathes, still eats, still says words — but its inner landscape has become a layl bahīm, a night without any star. No point of transcendence breaks the seamless dark. It is a solid rock with no fissure for the light to enter, a locked door behind which the heart lies sealed. Its praise continues — for “there is not a thing” that does not praise Him — but that praise has become an undifferentiated, opaque hum. There is no conscious turning, no wakeful recognition of the Giver, no voice that breaks into the inflection of longing, gratitude, or love. It is the ṣawt bahīm of the soul: a monotone of mere existence, indistinguishable from the biological rhythm of a creature that eats, sleeps, and moves on.

This is the ḥadd al-bahīmiyyah. It is not a judgment on the animal kingdom, which glorifies God in its own mysterious and perfect way. It is a diagnosis of the human soul that has lost its specific gift. The boundaries of humanity are the sacred space in which we can hear God’s call and answer with a heart that understands. To leave those boundaries is to enter a state where the call is still sounding — for God’s mercy never ceases — but the soul has become so sealed, so featureless, so mubham, that it can no longer perceive the call, let alone respond.

Why This Matters Spiritually

This reading transforms the verse from a simple moralistic warning (“don’t be an animal”) into a profound map of the soul’s peril and potential. It tells us that the real danger is not that we will become something subhuman, but that we will become something spiritually opaque — a walking, talking creature whose interior is a night without a star, whose worship is a locked chest that never opens to the Beloved.

It is easy to be religious without being awake. One can perform all the outward acts, utter all the prescribed words, and still be living in the ḥadd al-bahīmiyyah — a state where the words are a solid, unbroken surface, devoid of the living, piercing light of conscious ḥamd. The Imam’s warning is a call to break the featureless night of the soul. It invites us to examine whether our own praise has become a monotonous drone, a sealed-off recitation, or whether it trembles with the inflection of a heart that truly sees.

The Qurʾān tells us that everything in the heavens and the earth praises God, but “you do not understand their glorification.” The goal of the spiritual path is not to leave the universal praise, but to add to it our specifically human understanding — to be among those who “understand” their own tasbīḥ, who praise with knowledge and love.

Imam Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn (ʿa) is teaching us to fear not the animal, but the sealing of the heart. The boundary of humanity is guarded by our capacity to break the seamless night of the self with the star of a conscious, turning al-ḥamdu lillāh. Every time we offer praise from a wakeful heart, we plant a point of light in our interior darkness, and we push back the limit of bahīmiyyah. In that struggle, we remain within the ḥudūd al-insāniyyah — the luminous boundaries where the human being truly lives.

A Closing Reflection: The next time you recite this duʿāʾ, pause at ḥadd al-bahīmiyyah. Do not picture a beast. Picture a night sky without a single star, a wall without a door, a heart so sealed that it hears nothing but its own hollow echo. Then ask yourself: Is my ḥamd a star that breaks the dark, or a locked door behind which no light enters? The answer is the difference between a soul that is merely existing and a soul that is truly alive.

Allahu A’lam