Inclusion for Whom? Rethinking Accessibility in Global Universities 

Published on: May 3, 2026 

Universities across the world increasingly present themselves as inclusive spaces. Campus websites, policy documents and institutional narratives frequently highlight commitments to diversity, accessibility and equity. On many campuses, these commitments are visible in concrete ways: ramps that ensure wheelchair access, elevators in academic buildings and accessible washrooms designed for students with physical disabilities. These developments matter. They reflect a growing recognition that education should be accessible to students with diverse physical needs.

At the University of Calgary, for instance, this commitment is evident in the built environment. Academic buildings are equipped with ramps, elevators and accessible washrooms that make navigating campus easier for students with mobility challenges. Such efforts are meaningful and deserve acknowledgement. They represent real progress toward more inclusive educational spaces.

Yet inclusion is rarely as complete as it appears. While universities have made important advances in addressing certain forms of accessibility, other everyday needs often remain overlooked. My experience as an international Muslim student in Canada has brought one such gap into focus. Consider something as ordinary as a washroom. For many Muslim students, using water for personal hygiene is not optional but a basic religious practice. Across many buildings at the University of Calgary, including student residences, washrooms typically lack facilities such as hand showers or bidets that would make this possible. What might seem like a minor design choice can become a quiet but persistent difficulty for those whose daily practices depend on it.

At first glance, this may appear insignificant compared to larger conversations about inclusion. But it raises a more fundamental question: whose needs are taken into account when universities design “inclusive” spaces? This question becomes clearer when viewed through comparison. Before coming to Canada, I studied at the University of Glasgow in the United Kingdom. There, I noticed that some library washrooms included facilities for water use. It was not a prominently advertised feature, nor framed as a policy initiative. Yet its presence suggested an awareness that students come from varied cultural and religious backgrounds and that these differences shape everyday routines. Inclusion, then, is not only articulated through policy but also expressed through small, often unnoticed design decisions that shape daily life.

Education systems are not just logistical structures; they are social ecosystems. When a child in Dhaka logs into a virtual classroom while another in Kurigram cannot even connect, we are not simply observing a technological gap, we are reproducing inequality. Even where accessibility measures exist, usability can remain an issue. In student residences at the University of Calgary, laundry rooms are shared spaces used by many students. For blind or visually impaired students, these spaces can be difficult to navigate independently because washer and dryer machines are not easily distinguishable. Without tactile markings or clear physical cues, identifying the correct machine becomes challenging. Tasks that should be routine can instead require assistance.

This points to a broader concern. Accessibility is not only about whether a space exists but about how it is experienced. A facility may be available to all yet still not be equally usable by everyone. Taken together, these examples suggest that inclusion is often approached through a narrow lens. Universities understandably prioritise visible forms of disability, and these efforts are essential. But when inclusion is defined too narrowly, other dimensions of diversity, such as cultural practices, religious needs or sensory differences, risk being sidelined.

This limitation is particularly significant for global universities. Institutions like the University of Calgary draw students from across the world. These students bring with them not only academic ambitions but also everyday habits, cultural practices and ways of engaging with shared spaces. If universities truly aim to be global, their understanding of inclusion must expand accordingly. Inclusive design, therefore, should go beyond removing obvious physical barriers. It should consider how ordinary campus spaces, washrooms, laundry rooms, libraries and residences, can be used comfortably and independently by people with different needs and backgrounds. Sometimes, small adjustments, such as installing bidet-style facilities or adding tactile indicators to machines, can have a disproportionate impact on daily life.

The issue is not whether universities value inclusion. Many clearly do. The more important question is how expansively they define it. True inclusion begins with attention to everyday experience. It requires recognising that accessibility is not only visible in ramps or elevators but also embedded in the ordinary routines that shape student life.

In the end, the most revealing conversations about inclusion may not take place in policy documents or official statements. They often begin in the most unremarkable corners of campus, a washroom, a laundry room, where the realities of diversity quietly expose the limits of what we currently understand inclusion to mean.