Once upon a time, there was a forgotten village surrounded by mountains. No wind ever reached it, nor did birds flap their wings there. It was as if the sky itself had turned its face away. For years, not a single drop of rain had fallen; the soil had turned to stone.

In the heart of that village lived an old woman named Zehra Mother. She never took off her white shawl. Every morning, with her worn-out rosary in hand, she would walk to the dried riverbed outside the village, kneel down, and pray:

“O Owner of Mercy, soften our hearts turned to stone with the rain of Your grace.”

But the heavens remained silent.

Years passed. No rain came. The children grew up in drought. The villagers, weary and hopeless, began mocking her prayers.

“Even the rain has given up hope, Zehra Mother. Are you still waiting?”

One day, a young man from the village—Yusuf—couldn’t contain himself any longer and asked:

“Mother, why do you still pray? Can’t you see? Even the sky no longer hears you.”

Zehra Mother smiled gently.

“My child,” she said, “the sky is closed to hearts without hope. If man does not weep, neither will the clouds. Hope is the key that opens the door to mercy.”

That night, the wind blew differently. There was a red glow on the horizon—but it was not the glow of the sun, it was the glow of fire. A great blaze broke out in the village. Everything burned. People screamed, trying desperately to extinguish the flames with their bare hands.

Zehra Mother said nothing.

She knelt before the fire, placed her face upon the ground, and began to weep—deeply, silently, with her whole being.

She wept…
Yet her weeping was not despair, but supplication.
Each tear that touched the earth turned into a faint mist.

Then, suddenly, the heavens roared.
After years of silence, the sky finally heard the cry of Zehra Mother’s heart.

Rain began to fall.
It poured down endlessly. The fire died. The cracked soil breathed again. Even the stones on the mountains glistened with moisture.

When morning came, the village seemed to be reborn.

But Zehra Mother was gone.

They found her by the river—rosary in hand, a peaceful smile on her face. It was as if she, too, had become rain and returned to the sky.

Yusuf knelt by her grave, touched the damp soil, and whispered:

“Mother, now I understand…

There can be no tears in a pain that has lost its hope.
Your tears became our rain.”

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A Sufi Interpretation

This tale speaks the mystical truth that “There can be no tears in a pain that has lost its hope.” It is a story of divine surrender.
• Zehra Mother embodies patience (sabr) and trust (tawakkul).
• Rain symbolizes divine mercy—the reflection of a heart steadfast in hope.
• The village’s drought mirrors the human soul dried out by hopelessness.
• The fire represents the trial of suffering; yet that suffering, through Zehra Mother’s tears, transforms into mercy.

The story gives life to the idea expressed by Ibn Arabi:

“Pain is mercy in disguise; in the tears of the patient, mercy reveals itself.”