There are few places as central to Muslim life as the mosque. It is where we gather for Jummah prayers, break our fast during Ramadan, attend classes, celebrate milestones and seek comfort during difficult times. For many of us, walking through the mosque doors is something we rarely stop to think about. 

For wheelchair user Mohammed Khan, 44, however, those doors have represented something very different. For more than twenty years, he has navigated barriers that have made something as simple as attending the mosque far more difficult than it should be. Yet rather than criticising individual mosques, he hopes sharing his experiences will encourage Muslim communities to think more deeply about what accessibility really means.

“Sometimes the organisers have never had to deal with mobility impairments and the use of wheelchairs; they simply do not know what we rollers need,” he said.

His experience is not unique. According to the Office for National Statistics, around 17.7% of people in England were disabled in 2021. Yet conversations about accessibility within Muslim spaces often remain overlooked, despite the mosque playing such an important role in many Muslims’ lives.

Mohammed’s experience shows that accessibility is rarely just about getting through the front door. For many disabled Muslims, the barriers continue long after they enter the building. 

Khan believes many accessibility improvements are far simpler than people assume. “Building ramps will take a few hours of work,” he said. Yet inaccessible design can have consequences that go far beyond inconvenience as accessibility is about dignity and the ability to participate fully in community life.

Discussing the lack of accessible toilet facilities, Khan explained: “Sometimes I wet myself waiting for access to the loo.”

Experiences like these have shaped his relationship with mosque spaces for decades. “The community has seen me struggle to enter for the past 20 years.” Despite this, he is careful not to place blame on individual mosques. Instead, he hopes conversations around accessibility encourage communities to reflect on how disabled Muslims can be given dignity and included from the outset.

Getting through the door safely is just the beginning. For blind NHS psychological therapist Mehrreen Akhtar, accessibility also means having equal access to knowledge, community and independence. Akhtar, who lost her sight at around three-and-a-half years old following multiple operations in early childhood, has never viewed blindness as something that defines or limits her.

“I don’t see blindness as a deficit,” she said. In fact, she says she would not choose to regain her sight, explaining that blindness has shaped who she is and strengthened her relationship with Allah. Some of her positive memories come from people who took the time to make Islamic learning accessible. At school, one teacher who could read both Arabic and Braille made extra efforts to ensure she could learn the Qur’an alongside her classmates. “They didn’t have to do that,” she reflected.

For Akhtar, that simple act showed that meaningful inclusion is often about thoughtfulness rather than expensive changes. But not every experience has been as positive. At an Islamic seminar she attended a few years ago, every participant received printed handouts; however, the materials provided to her were inaccessible.

“Everyone else received handouts, but mine were not accessible,” she said. Although she benefited from the sessions themselves, she was left wondering why her needs had not been considered before the event.

She believes one of the greatest barriers disabled Muslims face is not disability itself, but the assumptions people make. People are often surprised that she prays regularly or actively participates in Islamic life, as though disability somehow weakens a person’s connection to faith.

“People will say, ‘May Allah give you your sight back,” she said. “I’d rather they prayed for my health, wealth and success.” For Akhtar, disability only becomes limiting when society creates barriers and treats it that way.

Akhtar’s story also calls into question how Muslim societies have viewed disability in general. It’s not as if we don’t have examples in Islamic history of disabled persons being honoured and given significant duties. The blind companion of the Prophet ﷺ, Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum RA, was chosen to lead the prayers while the Prophet ﷺ was away. His story serves as a reminder that a person’s value and position within the ummah are not diminished by their disability.

Mohammed’s and Mehrreen’s experiences may be different, but they point to a common question: what makes a mosque feel truly accessible?

For Zahra Faisal, co-founder of Amanati, a UK organisation working to improve disability inclusion within Muslim communities, the answer begins long before someone reaches the prayer hall. “The biggest barrier is often how welcome people feel,” she said.

Through her work with disabled Muslims and their families, Faisal has seen how negative attitudes, a lack of understanding and stigma can discourage people from attending the mosque long before physical barriers come into play. Parents of disabled children, she explained, can be left feeling judged rather than supported.

One of the most common misconceptions, she says, is the assumption that disabled people are less capable than everyone else. “People will sometimes speak to a parent or carer instead of directly to the disabled person themselves,” she explained.

For those with invisible disabilities, the experience can be equally isolating. Their needs are often questioned or overlooked simply because their disability is not immediately apparent. Despite these challenges, Faisal is hopeful. Across the UK, she has seen mosques and Muslim organisations beginning to think more intentionally about inclusion by introducing sensory rooms, disability awareness initiatives and more accessible community programmes.

She is quick to point out that meaningful accessibility does not always require major renovations or large budgets. Often, it starts with listening. Faisal identifies four areas where mosques can make a real difference: accessible infrastructure, education, inclusive programme design and practical support for disabled individuals and their families.

This could include accessible parking, wider doorways, step-free entrances, handrails and accessible toilets. It could also mean providing Braille Qur’ans and accessible learning materials, offering disability awareness training and ensuring disabled Muslims are involved in planning community events from the outset.

For Faisal, accessibility is not about doing something extra for disabled Muslims. It is about recognising that they have always been part of our communities.

Listening to Mohammed, Mehrreen and Zahra, one thing becomes clear: accessibility is not simply about ramps, lifts or building regulations. It is about whether disabled Muslims can participate in community life with dignity, independence and a genuine sense of belonging.

For Akhtar, the issue is not blindness itself, but the assumptions that surround it. For Khan, many of the barriers he faces are not inevitable – they are the result of choices, oversights and a lack of awareness. The solutions, as Faisal argues, are often simpler than communities imagine. Sometimes they begin with accessible facilities; other times they begin with listening more carefully to disabled Muslims and involving them in decisions that affect their participation in mosque life.

As Faisal puts it, “Every little helps, and every single person can make a difference.”

The challenge facing Muslim communities is not whether disabled Muslims belong in our mosques. They already do. The real question is whether our mosques are being built, organised and imagined with that reality in mind.