What Jihād Really Means (And Why Most of Us Get It Wrong)
An introduction to a series on the meanings—and misunderstandings—of jihād
A few years ago, when I encountered the term “the greater jihād” in a piece about Sufi thought, I winced. Not outwardly, but inwardly—because I realised that despite everything I’d read about Sufism, when I heard this word, I still pictured war, terror, and holy fury. That moment marked the beginning of a question I couldn't ignore:
What is jihād, really?
This is what I explore in “Spiritual Struggle or Holy War?”, a series about a notion that is complex, misunderstood, and all too often sensationalised.
In this introduction, I share my personal journey as a student of Islamic Studies confronting my own ignorance about jihād, and set the stage for our exploration of its myriad understandings: from its scriptural foundations in the Qur’ān and the Hadīth, through the different readings of these scriptures, to its expressions in Sufi thought and practice of the past.
What do you think of when you hear the word ‘jihād'?
For many in the West, the word jihād rouses troubling images. Masked men brandishing rifles. Black flags with an incomprehensible white script. The terrible aftermath of a bomb's devastation, shakily documented in smartphone videos. This incendiary word, usually translated in English as “holy war,” is reduced to the waging of war on behalf of Islam.1
Yet this understanding captures only a fragment of jihād’s potential meanings.
As a student of Islamic Studies drawn to Sufism and interfaith dialogue, the word jihād disturbed me too. What bothered me more, however, was how simplistic and uninformed my own associations with it were. Despite my attempts to understand the religion more deeply, I felt that my thoughts about jihād were as affected by fear-mongering headlines as the next person’s, even if more subtly.
So I decided to confront this discomfort head-on. When the time came to write my thesis, I dedicated it to unearthing the traditional understanding of jihād. Through my research, I became more and more aware of the inadequacy of Western portrayals, the polyphony within Islamic discourse on jihād, and the difficulty of making any definitive statement about it.
Essentially, if you ask what jihād means, the answer depends on who you ask, and when.
However, this isn’t simply an intellectual impasse. Rather, it reflects something fundamental about Islamic thought. Having no definable orthodoxy, it is characterised by great heterogeneity and intra-religious debate.2
To understand what jihād means, therefore, we need an awareness not only of its scriptural basis, but also of the sheer variety of these scriptures’ interpretations, and thus, of each interpretation’s partialness.
And since these understandings don’t arise in a vacuum, we need to situate them in their historical context, which can intimate things that the texts themselves do not disclose.
This is what I found in my research, and what I hope to impart in this series.
What does the Qur’ān really say about jihād?
The image of jihād as perpetual warfare against non-Muslims is firmly established in the Western psyche. Attacks such as those of September 11, or more recently, those of October 7, only strengthen its grip. Yet these acts are widely considered to be far removed from the principles of jihād laid down by the Qur’ān.
Based on these principles, many Muslim scholars maintain that such attacks do not reflect the traditional understanding of jihād. The authors of the Amman Message, a declaration signed by over 200 Islamic scholars, are exemplary of this.3
These authors stress that the assertions of those professing to speak in the name of Islam should not be taken at face value, but rather, examined in light of the authoritative sources of the Islamic faith: the Qur’ān (believed by Muslims to be God’s word), the Hadīth (the collected reports of the Prophet Muhammad’s actions and statements), and the example set by religious scholars over the centuries.4
These sources also constitute the foundation of Sufi beliefs and practices. This is why, although my research focus is Sufism, I decided to first examine the scriptural basis of jihād, and why this will be our starting point in the early instalments of this series.
Is jihād a war within, a war without—or both?
For both Sufi and non-Sufi Muslims, jihād can take on both martial and non-martial forms. There is the jihād al-sayf, jihād of the sword, which involves defending Islam and promulgating it. This has, historically, been the predominant meaning of jihād, possibly due to its frequent treatment in juristic literature.5
The spiritual form of jihād is known as jihād al-nafs, jihād of the soul, or jihād bi’l-qalb, jihād with the heart. It does not denote armed combat. Indeed, the spiritual jihād is even described as al-jihād al-akbar, meaning the greater jihād, while the martial jihād is called al-jihād al-asghar, the lesser one.6 Many contemporary Sufis construe this as meaning that it is the less important one.
These more internal interpretations of jihād have long held a central place in Sufi thought. Rather than being directed against external evils, this jihād consists in a ceaseless inner striving to purify the heart and turn it towards God.
It is an inner war waged not with arms, but with humility, abstinence, and self-examination.
Moreover, far from being a marginal or modern reinterpretation, this vision of jihād has shaped the spiritual lives of generations, and continues to do so today.
The greater jihād is, however, not the only jihād recognised by Sufis historically. Contrary to the popular depiction of Sufis as uniformly tolerant, pacifistic mystics, as in this article in Business Economics, history also reveals Sufi figures who advocated for, or even participated in, armed struggle. The omission of this would not just be historically inaccurate—it is, in fact, resented by many Muslim scholars writing in Arabic.7
On top of this, it contributes to a peculiar idealising tendency in the West—a tendency to see Sufism positively not for its own sake, on its own terms, but because of a perceived deviation from “mainstream” Islam. Thus, it is portrayed as a more palatable alternative to a religion often deemed intolerant, expansionist, and incompatible with Western values.
The reality is not so simple. Violence is not unique to any variant of Islam, nor is non-violence.8
Becoming aware of this, there were times I felt confused, unsure of what to make of what I was learning. Frequently I wondered whether I was overstepping as an outsider. How could I approach a concept so charged with both reverence and violence? And with so much potential for misunderstanding, how should I talk about it, both to share my learnings and learn more from others?
While these are ongoing questions for me, I feel that I’ve found the right approach—or, at least, one that honours my need for both honesty and diplomacy. Though I understand the need to reorient oneself towards the more peaceful interpretations of jihād, I’ve come to believe that ignoring the martial aspect of jihād—which does exist, even in Sufism—does not benefit anyone. If anything, it means that the sole voices willing to speak about it are the loud, hate-filled ones, not those we can truly learn from.
For a more nuanced perspective, therefore, we might instead strive to be aware of each reading, seeing it, quite simply, as one potential interpretation of an essentially polyvalent concept, whether it sits well with us or not.9
Our journey together
In the coming weeks, we’ll explore how various Sufi thinkers from the 9th to 14th centuries conceptualised jihād, and what this meant for their spiritual practice. We’ll also examine relevant Hadīth reports and Qur’ānic verses in their historical context, observing how interpretations shifted over time.
Before we begin, it’s worth clarifying the scope of this inquiry. Given the vastness of each Islamic discipline, there are certain discussions of jihād I cannot address, such as those of legal scholars.
Moreover, although there were certainly important developments within Sufism after the 14th century, I had to exclude this later period for reasons of space.
This focus obviously creates significant lacunae in the picture I can offer. However, due to the constraints of my thesis and my lack of familiarity with Islamic law, I considered these to be necessary omissions.
What I will not do, moreover, is determine which is the “correct” understanding of jihād. As an outsider, it is not my place to pass such a judgment. Rather, my goal is to convey the wide spectrum of meanings with both sensitivity and scholarly integrity.
If this is what you’re looking for, you’re in the right place.
Some things to think about:
Can spiritual practice and engagement in armed conflict ever go hand in hand, or is there an inherent contradiction?
If jihād can have a variety of meanings, who gets to decide which meaning is “authentic” or “legitimate”, and on what basis?
How can scholars or practitioners in the West reclaim discourse on martial jihād, particularly within their socio-political context?
If a religion or tradition has undergone such continual change, by what can we judge its character? By its scriptures; by the interpretations of outsiders or insiders, scholars or laypeople; by the views of moderates, fundamentalists or extremists; by its current expressions or its historical ones?
If you have thoughts on any of this, I’d love to hear your perspective! Let me know in the comments.
Notes for curious or informed readers
In this series, all Qur’ānic verses are taken from the translation by Abdel Haleem, with reference to other translations and to the original Arabic text for comparison.10 All other translations are my own, unless otherwise specified.
To ensure readability, most transliteration marks are omitted from Arabic terms, except where necessary for clarity (ū, ā and ī are retained; ḥ, ṣ and others are not).
The popular association of jihād with terrorism is exemplified by the attitude of the journalist Christopher Hitchens, who wrote: “[…] Osama bin Laden was a near-flawless personification of the mentality of a real force: the force of Islamic jihad. And I also thought, and think now, that this force absolutely deserves to be called evil […].” Christopher Hitchens, The Enemy (Amazon Digital Services, 2011), para. 5.
Reuven Firestone, Jihād: The Origin of Holy War in Islam (Oxford University Press, 1999), 14.
Royal Aal al-Bayt Institute for Islamic Thought, Jihad and the Islamic Law of War (Royal Islamic Strategic Studies Centre, 2007), vi.
Royal Aal al-Bayt Institute, Jihad, 4.
Ella Landau-Tasseron, “Jihād,” in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān, vol. 3, ed. Jane D. McAuliffe et al. (Brill, 2003), 38.
Landau-Tasseron, “Jihād,” 17.
Muḥammad A. Darnayqa, Safahāt min jihād al-sūfiyya wa’l-zuhhād [Pages from the Jihād of Sufis and Ascetics] (Jarus Burs, 1994), cited in Harry S. Neale, Jihād in Premodern Sufi Writings (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 28.
For a discussion of violent and non-violent Sufi and Salafi groups, see Mark Woodward, Umar Sani, Inayah Rohmaniyah, and Mariani Yahya, “Salafi Violence and Sufi Tolerance? Rethinking Conventional Wisdom,” Perspectives on Terrorism 7 (2013): 58–78.
To be clear, this is not a claim about the scriptural validity or invalidity of any particular interpretation of jihād. It is simply a reflection on how we might more accurately grasp the term’s semantic range.
The Qurʾān, trans. Muhammad A. S. Haleem (Oxford University Press, 2005) / The Qurʾān, Arabic original, royal Cairo edition (Bulaq Press, 1924).