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When The Masjid Mirrors The Marketplace: An Ode To Inclusion In Faith

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masjid

[Dedication: For every woman who stood at the threshold of a sacred space and wondered if she was truly welcome. For the unheard, the unseen, the unwavering.]

They built it with marble and calligraphy, arched domes echoing the names of God. But somewhere between the minbar and the boardroom, the sacred was traded for the familiar.

The masjid, once a refuge for the broken, now feels like a lounge for the well-connected. Decisions made behind closed doors, while the women outside whisper their needs into the wind.

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They say it’s about tradition. But tradition never silenced Maryam 'alayhi'l-salām (peace be upon him) when she cried out in labor beneath the palm. It never turned away Khadijah’s raḍyAllāhu 'anhu (may Allāh be pleased with him) wisdom, or Ali’s 'alayhi'l-salām (peace be upon him) courage to speak truth to power.

No—this is not tradition. This is dunya dressed in thawbs and titles, where family ties outweigh community cries, and silence is the currency of comfort.

I wrote to them. Not to accuse, but to ask: Is there room for me here? They answered with nothing. And that nothing said everything.

Still, I believe in the masjid. Not the building, but the promise. The one etched in every sajdah, in every tear that falls unseen.

So I will keep knocking. Not because I need their permission— but because I refuse to let them turn God’s house into a gated estate.

They speak of unity from the pulpit, but practice division in the shadows. Their circles are tight, their ears closed to unfamiliar names, their hearts armored in comfort.

I’ve seen the way they greet their own— smiles wide, hands extended, as if Jannah were passed through bloodlines. And I’ve seen the way they glance past others, like we are footnotes in a story they’ve already written.

But I am not a footnote. I am the daughter of Hajar, the sister of Sumayyah, the echo of every woman who stood when the world told her to sit.

You may not answer my email. You may not open your doors. But I will not unwrite my truth to make you more comfortable.

Because the masjid does not belong to you. It belongs to the One who hears the whispers of the unseen, who counts every tear that falls when no one else is watching.

So I will keep walking— not toward your approval, but toward the light that never needed your permission to shine.

They say sabr, but only to the silenced. They say adab, but only to the unheard. They weaponize patience like a leash, hoping we’ll stay quiet, grateful just to be near the door. But I was not made to shrink for the comfort of men who confuse control with leadership.

They build platforms, but only for those who echo their comfort. They host panels on justice, while ignoring the injustice in their own prayer halls. They speak of the Prophet ﷺ, but forget how he stood for the orphan, the widow, the stranger— not just the familiar faces in the front row.

And still, they wonder why the hearts of women grow quiet, why the youth slip out the back door, why the call to prayer no longer feels like a call home.

And Still, I Believe

Because faith was never theirs to gatekeep. It lives in the breath of the unseen, in the footsteps of the overlooked, in the hands of those who build even when no one thanks them.

I will not wait for their invitation. I will write my own welcome, etch it in the sky with every prayer, and walk boldly into the sacred as if I belong— because I always did.

 

Related:

Podcast: Revisiting Women-Only Tarawih | Ustadha Umm Sara

Friday Sermon: Including Women in the Masjid

Keep supporting MuslimMatters for the sake of Allah

Alhamdulillah, we're at over 850 supporters. Help us get to 900 supporters this month. All it takes is a small gift from a reader like you to keep us going, for just $2 / month.

The Prophet (SAW) has taught us the best of deeds are those that done consistently, even if they are small. Click here to support MuslimMatters with a monthly donation of $2 per month. Set it and collect blessings from Allah (swt) for the khayr you're supporting without thinking about it.

Dania is a writer and community advocate based in New Jersey. She explores themes of faith, justice, and belonging through poetic reflection and storytelling. Her work centers the voices of women and the unseen, drawing inspiration from Islamic history, nature, and the quiet strength of those who persist.

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