Being blind has made me feel out of place many times in life. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. From navigating unfamiliar spaces to meeting new people who sometimes don’t know how to interact with me, these moments have become a part of my life. But there’s one place that stands out—the one place where feeling out of place shouldn’t happen, yet it does: the mosque.
When I go to the mosque, it’s not just to worship. It’s also a place for community, connection, and spiritual nourishment. A place where we’re all supposed to come together, especially during events, celebrations, and gatherings. And yet, that sense of belonging, that warm embrace of community, often feels out of reach for me.
I wish I could say this was a one-time experience, but sadly, it’s not. Each time I walk in with my guide dog or cane, there’s a noticeable shift. It’s hard to ignore the discomfort, the glances, and sometimes even the avoidance. I understand that many people may not know how to interact with a blind person, let alone one with a cane or guide dog in a setting where animals aren’t traditionally present. But what hurts the most is not the stares—it’s the feeling of being excluded from the very thing I came there for: connection.
At community events, the feeling intensifies. While others gather in groups, exchange smiles, and share stories, I often find myself on the sidelines, trying to make conversation or hoping someone will reach out. It’s an isolating experience in a place that’s supposed to be about unity and togetherness. I can’t count how many times I’ve been left standing awkwardly, wondering if anyone even notices.
I know I’m not the only one who has felt out of place in a religious setting, but being blind adds an extra layer of challenge. I’ve always believed that places of worship should be inclusive for everyone, regardless of ability. Unfortunately, my experience has shown me that we still have a long way to go when it comes to understanding and embracing people with disabilities in these spaces.
What makes this even more difficult is the fact that, in Islam, making someone feel connected, welcomed, and supported is a fundamental part of our faith. Helping others is not just encouraged; it’s a responsibility. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) reminded us repeatedly that kindness, especially toward those who might need extra assistance, is an act of worship in itself. Blindness is even mentioned in the Quran, where the Prophet was gently corrected by Allah for turning away from a blind man seeking knowledge. This story highlights that everyone, regardless of their abilities, deserves respect and consideration. And yet, despite these beautiful teachings, the reality I’ve experienced tells a different story. Unfortunately, cultural attitudes can have a significant impact on how people perceive blindness. In many cultures—not in our religion, but in cultures—blind people are often seen as incapable, a burden, or even an annoyance. In some places, blindness is seen as a curse, a misfortune that weighs on the individual and their family. These perceptions often shape the way people interact with me, even in the mosque.
What adds another layer to this feeling of exclusion is the fact that I’m also a convert to Islam. Being a convert brings its own challenges in spaces like the mosque. There’s an unspoken barrier sometimes when you walk in and everyone is speaking their native language, catching up with familiar faces, and sharing experiences from their shared cultural backgrounds. Meanwhile, I’m left feeling like an outsider, struggling to connect in an environment where I don’t share the same language or cultural history. As a convert, you want to feel that sense of belonging, but it can be tough when you’re navigating both cultural and religious differences.
I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. Many converts, regardless of their backgrounds, often feel a sense of isolation when trying to integrate into a new community that’s so deeply tied to culture. It’s not that people intentionally exclude us, but the cultural habits, language barriers, and pre-existing social circles can make it difficult for us to break through and feel part of the group.
It’s heartbreaking because I know that Islam doesn’t teach this. Our faith encourages the opposite: that we see each other as brothers and sisters, and that we offer help, support, and dignity to those around us. But when these cultural biases creep in, it can make places that should feel like a refuge instead feel unwelcoming. People might avoid engaging with me because they see my blindness first and my humanity second. They may not know how to approach me, or worse, they may see me as a burden in a space where they’ve come to focus on their own spiritual needs.
I try not to let these experiences make me bitter, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t hurt. I love my faith deeply, and I want to feel at home in my mosque. I want to be seen not as a challenge or a problem to solve, but as a fellow believer who simply experiences the world differently. I want people to understand that while I may need some accommodations, I’m still fully capable of engaging in worship, participating in activities, and contributing to the community.
What I hope for—and what I keep working toward—is a shift in perspective. We need to remind ourselves that the essence of Islam is rooted in compassion, inclusion, and support. The cultural attitudes that make people like me feel out of place need to be questioned, challenged, and ultimately, left behind. There’s no room for exclusion in a religion that emphasizes mercy and connection.
It’s not all bad, though. There have been moments of kindness—times when someone goes out of their way to include me, or when I’ve had the chance to connect with others who truly understand. Those moments remind me of what the mosque could be for me: a place of refuge, community, and spiritual connection. I still hold onto hope that one day I’ll feel as welcomed as everyone else when I walk through those doors.
My faith, my connection to God, and my desire to be part of the community are stronger than those moments of discomfort. But I also hope that with time, more people will open their hearts and minds, making places like the mosque a little more welcoming for those of us who often feel out of place.
The Dappled Odysseys 