Finsbury Park Mosque

Listen for a moment. Trains run along the tracks nearby, and buses work their way along the main roads. Footsteps pass on the pavement. Then you look up, and there is a solid brick building with the shape of a mosque. It stands quietly among the terraced houses and railway lines of north London. On a Friday around midday, the street changes. Men arrive in twos and threes, some in work clothes and some in long robes. They all walk toward the same door.

This is Finsbury Park Mosque. Today it is also called the North London Central Mosque. It sits on a side street a short walk from Finsbury Park station, in a corner of London where Islington, Haringey and Hackney almost meet. The area has been a place of arrival for generations. Irish, Greek Cypriot, Caribbean, Turkish, Kurdish, Somali and North African families have all made homes in these streets. The mosque belongs to that long story of people coming to London and building something of their own.

The building is fairly young by London standards. It was built in the late twentieth century and opened in the early 1990s. According to widely reported accounts, much of the money for its construction came from Saudi Arabia. Before then, many Muslims in this part of north London prayed in rented rooms, converted houses and community halls. A purpose-built mosque meant a permanent address and a real prayer hall, and it gave a growing community something visible on the street.

Look closely at how the building fits its setting. It does not stand in a wide plaza like the great mosques of Cairo or Istanbul. It sits close to the pavement, with ordinary London homes and shops around it. Its walls are brick, like the Victorian houses on the neighbouring streets. That shared material ties it to the neighbourhood. Many British mosques of this period look the same way. They are new places of worship that grew up inside the old shape of the city.

The mosque's history is not a simple one, and most visitors already know part of it. In the late 1990s, a small group led by the preacher Abu Hamza al-Masri took control of the mosque. His sermons were openly extremist. Over time, Finsbury Park became a word in newspaper headlines across the world. Many local Muslims stopped coming, and the mosque's original trustees found they could not get their own building back.

In January 2003, police raided the building as part of a counter-terrorism investigation. The mosque was then closed. Abu Hamza was later convicted of crimes in Britain. He was eventually extradited to the United States, where he received a life sentence. For the people who lived on these streets, those years were painful. A place meant for prayer had come to carry a name that many of them wanted nothing to do with.

Here is the part of the story that many visitors miss. In 2005, the mosque reopened under new trustees and new management. The leadership changed the building's direction completely. Over the following years, it became known for open days, interfaith meetings, visits from schools and work with local police and churches. Its leaders spoke publicly against extremism. Visitors who arrive expecting the old headlines often find a very different place.

The new name is part of that change. Calling it the North London Central Mosque was a deliberate fresh start. The older name is still widely used, however. Taxi drivers, bus passengers and long-time residents usually still say Finsbury Park Mosque. Both names are correct. Using the newer one is a small sign of respect for the community that rebuilt the mosque's reputation.

In June 2017, this neighbourhood was in the news again, this time as the target of violence. During Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting, a man drove a van into a group of worshippers. They had just left night prayers at a nearby mosque on Seven Sisters Road. One man died, and several people were injured. What happened next became part of local memory. An imam held back the angry crowd and protected the attacker until police arrived.

In the days after the attack, flowers, candles and handwritten notes appeared along the pavements. People of every faith in the area came to show support. Leaders from this mosque, from local churches and synagogues, and from the council stood together in public. Ask long-time residents about that week, and many will tell you about the vigils first. The anger and fear are part of the memory, but people often speak about the solidarity before anything else.

Above all, this is a working place of worship. Five times a day, worshippers come to pray. Friday midday prayers are the busiest, and the street can fill with people arriving and leaving. During Ramadan, the evenings are especially lively. Families come to break the fast together after sunset, and the smell of food drifts out into the cool air. If you visit, remember that people are here to pray. Shoes come off at the entrance, and quiet voices are the custom inside.

The surrounding streets are worth a slow walk too. A few minutes away is Finsbury Park itself, a large Victorian park with wide lawns, old trees and a boating lake. In the other direction, you can reach the Emirates Stadium, home of Arsenal Football Club. On match days, the neighbourhood fills with football songs and red and white scarves. Turkish bakeries, Algerian cafes and Ethiopian grocers line the nearby main roads. This mix of faith, football and food is everyday north London.

So take a last look before you move on. You can see the brick walls and the doorway where people take off their shoes. Around them, the ordinary houses and railway lines carry on with their day. This building has carried a difficult name. It has also been the work of a community that chose to reclaim it. As you walk back toward the station, listen again to the trains and the buses. Somewhere behind you, people are still arriving to pray.