Young Muslims have created an inclusive Ramadan that works for everyone. Now that’s in danger | Nosheen Iqbal

. UK edition

Sadiq Khan at the Shukr event for Muslim creatives at 180 The Strand, London, 22 March 2025.
Sadiq Khan at the Shukr event for Muslim creatives at 180 The Strand, London, 22 March 2025. Photograph: handout

Led by women, queer-friendly, diverse: this model can break so many boundaries. But if we lose spaces to meet in, it can’t happen, says Today in Focus host Nosheen Iqbal

Something quietly profound happened last Ramadan. In a year when the war on Gaza hardened public debate into camps, when half the UK was found to believe that Islam – and therefore Muslims – to be incompatible with British values, when the general volume of Islamophobia was ratcheted several notches higher by Reform UK’s rise in the polls, hundreds of Muslim Londoners gathered every night to build the kind of community and connection we were told had been decimated. Lost to whatever the flavour of blame is at the moment: doomscrolling, the telly streamers, individualism promoted by late-stage capitalism, a society fractured by the cost of living.

For a month, Muslims came together in the capital and put on iftars, the evening meal that breaks the day’s fast, that reflected the world we want to live in: inclusive, often female-led and queer-friendly, properly diverse, rooted in generosity. A community without judgment, formed outside mosques, free from the performative piety Olympics. Which all sounds deeply earnest, but believe me when I tell you that these were some of the most vibey events I went to last year.

Communities such as Ramadan Space, grown on WhatsApp, negotiated a venue in Shoreditch and put on sold-out nights all month long. These became regular rituals for some, a wholesome bit of eat-pray-love that, as one hijabi student told me, felt “like oxygen” at a time when it felt difficult to come up for air. The Inclusive Mosque Initiative put on feminist prayers in a south London church. A friend launched Shukr, bringing together London’s Muslim creatives at the top of 180 The Strand. (In attendance: rappers Krept and Konan, and the mayor of London.)

Another friend hosted Faith & Flow, a wellness workshop mixing movement with meditation. Palestine House quickly became a central destination for everything from political solidarity to spiritual Sufi dhikrs. Hulm Club, a Muslim coworking space for techies, opened its doors in Farringdon. Rumi’s Cave in north-west London, a hub like no other, fed hundreds of vulnerable, homeless and isolated members of the local community via Rumi’s Kitchen. Buzzy new interfaith ideas and venues – Karrom Club, Kismet Cafe – were born from that energy. And through it all: charity, fundraising, volunteering. All central tenets in a month that’s about compassion and empathy.

It doesn’t take a sociologist to point out the importance of third spaces like these, and the social and cultural benefits of spontaneous meet-ups, of breaking bread with people from different backgrounds. There is a hunger for meaning and purpose among young Muslims who are doing things differently from their elders in a way I find far more inspiring and encouraging than what much of my generation did. To be clear, Ramadan has always been about community coming together, about family iftars and leaning into your most spiritual, introspective self. But last year was different. Breaking from traditions, it felt fresh, open – and desperately necessary.

London can often feel harsh and transactional but, like New York, its dynamism and creativity comes from the margins. From people pulling it out of the bag with the DIY punk spirit that has always been key to influencing the wider culture.

Which is why news that Ramadan Space’s venue has pulled out this year feels so crushing. At the time of writing, the physical space to gather won’t happen this year. Its founding committee is desperately trying to secure a different spot – any generous benefactors please step forward – but it’s a huge blow for those of us trying to create something at the grassroots.

Does this matter? Perhaps it’s tempting to view the cancellation as a logistical hiccup or an admin problem for a minority of Muslims who make up a scene on the fringes. But that misses the point that what comes under threat is a model of belonging that so many from all backgrounds say they want to see, and that Londoners desperately need.

There is endless talk about cohesion and resilience, about mental-health crises and loneliness epidemics, about us living in polarised, divided times. What sense does it make to allow the very spaces that soften those hard edges to disappear?

Ramadan is coming again, we’re less than two weeks out, and I know what kind of Ramadan I want. Community doesn’t just happen. It is made, night after night, by people choosing to be together. On any day, in any month, we should be doing everything we can to make space for that, not the polar opposite.