My school’s PE kit rules left Muslim pupils like me unable to take part

My heart pounded as we squared off against a more experienced basketball team.

Our nerves were undeniable from the first whistle, but these soon transformed into a fierce energy of determination and every pass, tackle, and sprint became a coordinated dance of teamwork.  

We didn’t score that day, but it didn’t matter. The way we rallied together made that match one of the most thrilling I’ve ever played and, as captain, I was proud of my team’s relentless effort and unwavering spirit.

This game was the perfect reminder of my enduring love for exercise, and why it’s so important that we make it accessible to all.

Growing up, I was the only South Asian girl in a small coastal town near Aberdeen and sports were my way of connecting with others and building friendships.

My speed made me a natural pick for playground games like Bulldog and tag, and I thrived in the camaraderie they provided. 

But when I started secondary school, I felt my cultural and religious beliefs were compromised.

As a Muslim girl, I was uncomfortable wearing certain kit, such as netball skirts, but the school’s strict PE uniform policy left no room for alternatives.

My father tried to intervene, requesting that I be allowed to wear jogging bottoms – a simple change that would have allowed me to join in – yet the school still refused saying that jogging bottoms weren’t part of the school uniform and they weren’t willing to make an exception.

This meant I missed many lessons and was excluded from many sports teams, which not only hindered my progress, but my confidence too. Soon, the only real connection I had to the sports I loved was by watching them on TV.

When I was 14 though, I moved to London and was eager to reconnect with sport.

My first, and only, attempt was to join a local women’s netball team. Once again though, my adherence to my religious and cultural beliefs set me apart.

I constantly found myself on the periphery, struggling to fit in rather than being genuinely included. I felt othered by the group, not so much in what they said, more in how they treated me by keeping their distance and their clique made me feel unwanted.

As a result, after three sessions, I quit in frustration.

All I wanted was an inclusive space to do sport. To feel like I was part of a community rather than an outsider. But if that didn’t exist, then I decided I would create one.

In 2008 I started my own basketball club. I secured a venue and a coach and began advertising by reaching out to community leaders, distributing flyers, and using word of mouth to spread the news.

Sadly, the first turnout was disheartening – just me and the coach.  

Friends and community members weren’t exactly supportive of my new venture either. 

They told me I was wasting my time, that no one else seemed to miss sports as much as I did, and that people were too busy with family and other responsibilities. 

That really hurt because, as much as I wanted to try and establish this initiative, it meant I was spending a lot of time away from my family. It was incredibly disheartening to hear that they were not supportive of what I was trying to do.

But I knew that wouldn’t be the case for everyone. In fact, research from This Girl Can indicates that the majority of Asian women in London (70%) do want to be more active outdoors, but face barriers such as lack of time and insufficient access to local green spaces. 

Determined, I continued to sell the club to anyone who would listen. 

And gradually, what began as a challenging endeavour blossomed into something meaningful with more and more women showing up week on week.

Participants slowly started inviting friends, and soon our sessions became more than just basketball games; they turned into a safe space for women in my community to be themselves, away from the constraints of daily life. 

Seeing it all come together was incredibly rewarding. 

Many of these women were experiencing sports for the first time, and it was fulfilling to provide an opportunity they hadn’t had before.

Plus, the wider community started to appreciate it too as they saw the benefits and impact sport could have not only on physical but also mental health. Their enthusiasm and progress reminded me in turn of the transformative power of sports for personal growth and community connection too. 

Our success then led to the formation of the Muslimah Sports Association (MSA), a non-profit inspiring Muslim women to get involved in sport – and now includes badminton as well as basketball.

Witnessing their passion and competitive spirit come out on the court only during that difficult defeat reaffirmed my belief in the need for inclusive sports spaces.

Today, MSA has evolved into a vibrant organisation that runs a variety of sports sessions and consults with smaller organisations to set up similar initiatives. 

And we are working towards becoming a national governing body for Muslim women in sports, aiming to ensure that female Muslim representation extends beyond participation to include coaching and leadership roles. 

Among everything I’ve learned though, two things stand out: firstly, sport is an undeniably powerful tool for inclusion and empowerment; secondly, there is still much work to be done.  

Muslim women and women from diverse backgrounds often find themselves on the periphery of sports and exercise.

The netball team that treated me badly, made me feel othered and unincluded by not passing me the ball and not understanding why I wore a hijab while playing. But sadly my experience is just one example.  

It is crucial that we keep fighting to break down these barriers, create spaces that cater to all, and challenge stereotypes that limit participation. 

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