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Like every day of Ramadan this year, Imran* sits in a large, sprawling mosque in East London waiting to break his fast.

Though an East Londoner himself, he has deliberately chosen a mosque far away from his home so that there’s no chance of bumping into a neighbour or relative.

As he sits and utters his most ardent prayers, saved for this special time just before sunset, he tries to convince himself that he is no different from the people next to him.

The young lads and the uncles, his brothers in faith, chose to break their fast in the mosque out of piety or attachment to this beautiful place of worship.

But the truth is that for Imran’s young, growing family who already relies on food banks, breaking his fast outside of the home is the difference between having the heating on or not, or keeping his two youngest children in nappies.

His choice is less about religiosity and more about necessity.

"The fact is, Muslims are disproportionately impacted by poverty. In fact, a staggering half of all UK Muslim households live in poverty compared to around 18% of the general population"

The melodic adhan sounds in the mosque and Imran and his fellow worshippers tuck into the dates, water and milk placed before them.

After praying Maghrib, he wolfs down a small polystyrene bowl of chicken biryani and then just as the mosque starts to fill up for Taraweeh (the long night prayers that characterise Ramadan for many Muslims) Imran slips out to start his night shift as a food delivery driver.

He feels a great deal of shame for eating at the mosque and not staying to worship, which is why he doesn’t want to be recognised by anyone he knows: “I wish I could stay for Taraweeh like I used to but this is the best time for me to work. In Ramadan, people are ordering food all the way until Suhoor (the dawn meal) so I can make extra money.”

Most nights, Imran doesn’t return home until three or four in the morning, leaving him a mere few hours before starting his day job in a warehouse.

Imran and his family are not alone. The picture across Britain is bleak. Food prices are at an all-time high in the UK. This month saw a 17.5% hike in the cost of basic items — the added to a family’s yearly food bill.

Like Imran’s, are relying on food banks and for the first time in five years there has been a in Britain as more and more people fall victim to rising rents and a lack of affordable homes.Ěý

Yes, everyone is feeling the pinch, but it is undeniable that Muslim communities experience the brutal impact of the cost of living crisis more harshly.

The fact is, Muslims are disproportionately impacted by poverty. In fact, a staggering compared to around 18% of the general population.

Around 90% of British Muslims are from an ethnic minority, already making them statistically more likely to be economically disadvantaged, but Muslim communities in particular encounter a uniquely brutal combination of factors which exacerbate this hardship.

As outlined by the recent , Muslim communities sit at “the intersection between low-income, working class and urban communities that have less liquid assets to absorb rising costs.”

This translates into Muslims using a food bank since 2021 and of UK Muslims having trouble paying a bill in the last year.Ěý

Ramadan is a month that is highly anticipated by Muslims the world over as a time for spirituality, worship and community. But for British Muslims living in intense, crippling poverty, in the past couple of years, it has also spelt out a heightened sense of suffering, isolation and struggle.

Simply put: it is impossible to nourish yourself for a day of fasting when you can’t afford basic food items. It is difficult to host loved ones for Iftar meals when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from.

It is hard to decorate a home for Ramadan when it can be ripped under your feet at any minute by a rogue landlord. When dealing with the insurmountable reality of poverty: with debt, homelessness and poor health, with being overworked and in a constant state of anxiety, with bills you cannot pay and mouths you cannot feed, it leaves little room for welcoming in the festivities of the blessed month, even if your soul desperately craves its transformative power.

Couple the way the system keeps Muslims destitute with how our system vilifies and and the result is catastrophic.

Lone Muslim mothers like Samira*, who was the victim of domestic abuse and now raises two young children by herself, knows what it’s like to feel as though you are at the bottom of a ladder with no apparent help from anyone in a position of power.

Samira’s immigration status means that she and her children have “no recourse to public funds”, rendering her unable to access state benefits or support. Her life is already wracked by the symptoms of poverty: she sublets a small room with her children and only needs to listen to the persistent cough they are both inflicted with to know what the black mould on the ceiling is doing to their health.

"At home in Libya, Ramadan was about gathering with family, everyone cooking delicious foods, so many sweets and treats, but I cannot do any of that here. My children don’t know about how special the month is because I can’t make it nice for them”

The shared kitchen in her rented Manchester home is in such an unusable condition that she cannot cook the nourishing, healthy meals she knows her children need to grow: “I feel like such a bad mother feeding them fish fingers and chips every day but I have no choice. I’m lucky that their school gives them free breakfast and lunch even though they aren’t legally allowed free school dinners.”

Life is constantly tough for Samira who only sticks it out only for her children to have a good education, but this Ramadan it feels even harder for her.

Ramadan as a single mother in poverty is a stark contrast to what she grew up with: “At home in Libya, Ramadan was about gathering with family, everyone cooking delicious foods, so many sweets and treats, but I cannot do any of that here. My children don’t know about how special the month is because I can’t make it nice for them.”

Without access to an adequate kitchen or the money to buy Ramadan staples that remind her of home, Samira is breaking her fast on own-brand cereal and long-life milk that she keeps on the windowsill, before eating the same again before dawn in preparation to fast.

Despite being aware of the support that might be available to her through her local mosque or charity-run food banks, Samira, like many whose immigration status makes them fearful of authority, is scared of drawing attention to herself.

Plus, as a mother of two it isn’t easy to make the bus journey there, “I want to go to the mosque and be with other people in Ramadan, but I just can’t go out at night with two small children who have school in the morning. It’s not fair on them. I have to put them first.”Ěý

Charity and community are often upheld as cures to the systemic, entrenched problems that plague our society. Ramadan is a month itself that is characterised by selfless giving.

But the fact is, this isn’t about Ramadan and Samira’s case is proof that even the most robust of community support is simply not enough to close the gaping chasm caused by a lack of governmental support because shame, a lack of access and fear will always keep people in the dark.Ěý

Speaking to Muslims from a range of backgroundsĚý— from those experiencing real, abject poverty to those whose comfortable lifestyles are starting to feel the pinchĚý— across the board, the message was clear.

Whether it is fathers working so many jobs that they are missing prayers during this holy month, taxi drivers breaking their fast at the roadside, whether it is mothers letting their children “fast” to cover the fact they can’t afford to keep their growing bellies full or students fasting on nothing but water for Suhoor because they can’t keep up with the rising cost of living, Ramadan is harder this year for Muslims in Britain: a country that deliberately and structurally discriminates against us, not just socially, but economically too.Ěý

Nadeine AsbaliĚýis a secondary school teacher in London.

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