Bal's Thoughts 

Shahid:
Bal, we’ve seen so much knife crime across London and the country—it’s everywhere in the news.
What’s really going on? Why is this happening?

Bal:
Listen, Shahid—this ain’t about “bad kids.”
It’s deeper than that. Knife crime is a symptom—it’s the end result of years of neglect.

You’ve got young people growing up in poverty—cramped homes, broken families, no youth clubs, nothing to do but sit around and scroll online while the bills pile up at home.

Schools? Underfunded.
Mental health services? Non-existent for most of them.
Meanwhile, everywhere they look—on Instagram, TikTok, wherever—it’s people flashing cash, watches, fast cars, like it’s all easy.

Gangs come in and fill that gap.
They offer what nobody else is offering—respect, protection, and yes—money.

This isn’t about “choosing” violence. It’s survival for a lot of these kids.

Shahid:
Some people say, “They’ve got choices. No one’s forcing them.” What do you say to that?

Bal:
I say, swap shoes with them for one week—see how much choice you really have.

When you’ve got no heat in the house, no food, no safe adults around you, and the world’s telling you you’re worthless—you’ll grab onto anything that makes you feel powerful.

People are quick to point fingers but slow to ask why the system failed them in the first place.

Shahid:
Break it down for us—how does a kid actually get drawn into this? Is it just about gangs?

Bal:
Nah, it’s bigger than gangs.
Let me take you through it—from start to finish.

It starts at home—stress, poverty, family violence, or just total neglect.
Then school kicks in—teachers labelling kids as trouble before they even hit Year 6.
They’re kicked out, isolated, forgotten.

Then comes poverty—empty cupboards, stressed parents, no pocket money, no fresh trainers, nothing but shame.

Next, you step out onto the street.
You see older lads rolling in nice cars, dripping in designer gear.
They’ve got power. Respect. Money.
They tell you, “Just run this for me.” Or, “Hold this for a minute.”
That’s the entry point.

By the time you’re deep in, it’s too late—you’re carrying, moving, trapped.

Shahid:
By the time the news says “gang member,” it’s already too late?

Bal:
Exactly. They’ve been failed long before anyone called them that.

Nobody wants to carry a knife at 12. They do it because they’re scared, because they feel hunted—sometimes by other kids, sometimes by life itself.

Shahid:
What about kids from well-off families?
People always ask, “Why are some middle-class kids involved?”

Bal:
Oh yeah, that’s real.
Some of these kids come from big houses, private schools—but they’ve got a different kind of neglect.

Their parents? Never home. Too busy climbing the corporate ladder, throwing money at their kids instead of love.

Those kids aren’t hungry for food—they’re starving for attention, respect, adrenaline.
Gangs don’t care what your bank balance says. If they see a gap in your heart, they’ll fill it.

It’s not always about cash—it’s about belonging.

Shahid:
And who’s really running these gangs? Who’s on top?

Bal:
Let’s be clear—it’s not the kids in the headlines.

There are grown men running the show.
Older guys, sometimes outside the community altogether, sitting at the top, untouched. They use these kids like pawns—running deliveries, holding weapons, taking the fall.

It’s a pyramid.
Young ones at the bottom, older lads in the middle, and the masterminds on top—never seen, never caught.

The ones carrying knives? They’re just the ones getting exploited.

Shahid:
People always talk about “postcode wars.” Can you explain that? Why are kids afraid to cross into other ends?

Bal:
Postcode wars—man, that’s another trap.

Basically, it’s territorial beef between areas—sometimes old, sometimes petty, sometimes just inherited violence passed down.

Kids can’t even go two streets over without fear of getting jumped, robbed, stabbed.
It’s not just gangs—sometimes it’s pure fear of stepping into the “wrong” area.

Imagine being a teenager who can’t even go to the next neighbourhood without risking your life. You’re trapped—in your own ends, in your own postcode.

It’s trauma on top of trauma.
And nobody’s solving it. They just keep policing it, like that’s gonna fix it.

Shahid:
So what’s your message for the people judging these young people right now?

Bal:
Simple.

“You wouldn’t blame a child in a sweatshop for making trainers.
So don’t blame a child on the street for carrying someone else’s weight.”

These young people didn’t build the system—they’re surviving it.

If we don’t start listening to them, giving them hope, building real opportunities—they’ll keep dying, and we’ll keep having these same conversations.

Shahid:
That’s real, Bal. Thanks for speaking the truth—no filters, no fluff.

Bal:
Always, Shahid. Someone’s got to.

 

beyond the headlines_ understanding knife crime's roots.wav

Shahid:
Bal, everyone’s talking about Adolescence: The Series. What is it exactly?

Bal on "Adolescence: The Series":

You wanna know what Adolescence: The Series is about?
It’s about why things really go wrong for young people—and why no one ever tells the full story.

This ain’t just about gangs or knife crime like the news loves to shout about.
It’s about pressure.
Pressure at home.
Pressure in school.
Pressure on social media.
Pressure to survive when your whole life feels like it’s closing in on you.

It’s about young people growing up in poverty, in homes full of stress, in postcodes they can’t even walk out of safely.
It’s about being told you’re a “failure” before you even get a chance.
It’s about services that say, “Sorry, there’s no funding,” every time you ask for help.

These stories show you what happens when the system keeps failing you—and how easy it is to get pulled into stuff you never asked for.

This series shows how all of it connects—racism, poverty, family breakdown, trauma, everything.

But it’s not just about pain.

It’s also about survival.
About loyalty, laughter, love, and holding on when everything’s against you.

Young people ain’t the problem.
They’re surviving the problem.

This ain’t a show to just watch and move on from.
It’s a wake-up call.
And it’s about time people listened.

It’s a docu-drama that shows what growing up really looks like today. No filters, no fakeness. It’s young people telling their own stories—about everything they’re dealing with.

Shahid:
What kind of things does it cover?

Bal:
Everything people pretend not to see—mental health, knife crime, social media pressure, family problems, money stress, identity, gangs, postcode beefs, peer pressure.
It’s honest and it’s heavy—but it’s also about hope and survival too.

Shahid:
How’s this different from all the other shows about young people?

Bal:
Because it’s real people telling it themselves. No actors. No experts speaking over them. No fake storylines.
It’s their words, their truth.

Shahid:
And it’s not just about crime, is it?

Bal:
Nah, not at all.
It’s about everything—family, friendships, depression, anxiety, belonging, even funny moments.
People forget there’s joy too, even in hard times.

Shahid:
Why do you think everyone needs to see this?

Bal:
Because people love to judge young people—but they don’t listen to them.
This series shows you what it really feels like to grow up right now.

If you work with young people, if you’ve got kids, if you’re part of this society—you need to see this.

Shahid:
What do you hope people take from it?

Bal:
That young people aren’t the problem—they’re surviving it.
And if you actually listen to them, you’ll see they’re stronger than anyone gives them credit for.

Shahid:
Alright, Bal—people watching this at home or even people in Blossom itself, they might be thinking,
"Where can I get help? What do I do if I’m going through all this?"
What would you say to them?

Bal:
I’d say this—first, don’t sit there in silence.

You don’t have to be strong all the time. You don’t have to pretend everything’s alright.

Start where it’s safe.
If you’re in the Blossom community already—come speak to us.
We’ve got the Community Box for advice—benefits, housing, legal help, domestic stuff, whatever.

We’ve got the Togetherness Café—where no one judges you, and you can actually breathe.

We’ve got groups for mental health, bereavement, youth projects, everything.

Even if you just need someone to sit with you and listen—we’ll do that.

And if we can’t help with something ourselves?
We’ll find someone who can.

My advice? Don’t wait till it gets worse.
Reach out.
Trust me—people care more than you think.

Shahid:
And if they’re scared to ask for help?

Bal:
Then come in quiet, no pressure.
Ask for me or anyone in Blossom.
We don’t judge. We don’t gossip.
We help. That’s what we do.

Shahid:
Alright, Bal—you’ve talked about gangs, mental health, all that.
But what other issues are young people facing right now that people might not even realise?
And what can we, as parents, grandparents, or society, actually do to support them properly and let them live their lives?

Bal:
Oh mate—there’s a lot more going on than people realise.

First off—pressure.
Young people are drowning in pressure from all sides—school grades, body image, social media, money worries, climate change, racism, family drama—you name it.

They’re expected to act like adults by 14 but still get treated like kids when they ask for respect.

Then you’ve got identity struggles—feeling stuck between cultures, not fitting in anywhere, worrying about their faith, their sexuality, their gender, or just who they are inside.

Some are battling addictions—not just drugs or drink, but social media, gambling apps, fast fashion, food—things people don’t even see as addictions but they’re trapped in it.

And you know what else?
Loneliness.
Loads of young people feel completely alone, even when they’ve got a house full of people.

As for what parents, grandparents, or society can do—simple:

1. Stop shouting. Start listening.
   Half the time, young people just want to feel heard without being cut off or judged.

2. Let them mess up sometimes.
   Not everything has to be perfect. Let them learn, make mistakes, fall down—just be there to help them back up.

3. Respect their feelings.
   Don’t brush off anxiety or sadness as “drama” or “attention-seeking.” If they’re struggling, take it seriously.

4. Don’t force them to live your dream.
   Let them find their own way. Not everyone wants to follow the same old path of job, marriage, kids.

5. Be patient.
   Growing up now is not like how it was in the past. The world’s faster, harsher, louder. They’re figuring it out in real-time.

And lastly—show love in actions, not just words.
It’s not enough to say “I care.”
Sit down with them. Eat with them. Walk with them. Ask what they’re into. Show up for them—every time.

Because if we don’t back our young people now—we’ll regret it later.

Shahid:
Bal, let’s get real—do you think it’s even harder for young people from minority backgrounds?
Your family’s Punjabi, and you care for your nani.
What extra issues do you and your nani face?

Bal:
Oh, 100%, Shahid. It’s harder for us—no doubt.

When you’re from a minority background, everything’s heavier.

You’re not just dealing with money stress or mental health—you’ve also got racism, cultural expectations, and being judged everywhere you go.

For me and my nani, it’s every day.

She don’t speak much English, so everything’s a battle—council forms, NHS appointments, benefit letters.
People speak to her like she’s stupid because she’s older and brown.
In shops, in clinics—they rush her, ignore her, talk over her.

But when I’m there, it changes—until I speak Punjabi, then they switch up again.

And inside our own community?
We’ve got that whole “log kya kahenge” mindset—what will people say.

It’s always about shame and pride.
You can’t say you’ve got depression.
You can’t admit you’re struggling with money or stress.
Especially as a girl, you’re just expected to get on with it.

Young people like me? We’re stuck between two worlds.

Nani’s generation says, “Be strong, don’t complain, keep quiet.”
But we’re dealing with modern pressures—social media, racism, mental health—and we’re still expected to stay silent.

Plus, every time something bad happens in the news with “Asians” or “immigrants,” people start looking at us like we’re all the same problem.
It sticks.

Shahid:
So it’s like a double load—racism from outside, pressure from inside?

Bal:
Exactly. It’s like you’re carrying two massive bags everywhere.

One’s the outside world treating you like you don’t belong.

The other’s your own people expecting you to stay quiet and deal with it.

We’ve got to break that.

My message?
Let young people be proud of where they’re from—but also let them speak their truth.

That’s how we survive.

 

 

We need to talk about something that happens in silence.
Behind closed doors.
In houses where the curtains are always drawn.
In families that look fine on the outside but are living with fear inside.

Domestic violence isn’t just “a private issue.”
It’s not just bruises or broken things.
It’s control. Isolation. Shame. Guilt.
It’s something that lives in every community—Asian, Black, White, working-class, middle-class—and it often follows the same patterns, even if the language changes.

---

What It Looks Like

• He controls her phone.

• She makes excuses for his outbursts.

• She stops seeing friends. Stops laughing. Stops being herself.

• He calls it love.

• The family calls it “marriage.”

• The community calls it “not our business.”

Domestic abuse can be physical, emotional, financial, sexual, cultural, or psychological.
Sometimes it's loud. Sometimes it's quiet.
But it’s always real.

---

Why It Happens Everywhere

Abuse doesn’t need one culture. It thrives in any system where power is protected and shame is weaponised.

In South Asian households, it’s often tied to izzat (honour).
In African and Caribbean homes, it might be “keep family matters private.”
In white British households, it’s “don’t ruin the kids’ lives.”

Different words. Same outcome. The abuser stays protected. The survivor stays stuck.

---

Why People Don’t “Just Leave”

People always ask: “Why didn’t she just leave?”
But the real question is: Why did he make it so impossible to?

Here’s why leaving isn’t easy:

• Fear of violence getting worse

• Financial dependence

• Immigration threats

• Children

• Shame

• No real support

• Family loyalty and pressure

• Cultural silence

But one of the deepest reasons?

---

When Girls Never Had a Choice to Begin With

In too many families, the violence doesn’t begin with marriage—it begins with the erasure of choice.
In some communities, girls are promised to a cousin, a neighbour’s son, or someone “back home” from the moment they’re born.
Not asked. Told.

• “You’ll marry him when you’re older.”

• “It’s already agreed with his parents.”

• “It’s for the family's honour.”

This is how it starts:
A life mapped out before she even knows how to speak.
Her rights aren't hers. Her body, her future, her name—it becomes a transaction.

By the time the marriage happens, the idea of leaving isn’t just hard—it’s unthinkable.
Because it was never her decision to begin with.

She’s taught:

• Sacrifice is strength.

• Suffering is normal.

• Speaking up is shameful.

• Divorce is failure.

• "Good girls don’t talk back."

And if the abuse comes? She’s told to stay. To “adjust.” To not bring dishonour.

And if she tries to leave? She’s told:

• “What will people say?”

• “What about the kids?”

• “Your dad will die of shame.”

This isn’t just about culture.
It’s about control baked into expectation—from birth.

---

When Family Is the Abuser

Sometimes the husband is a cousin.
Sometimes your mother-in-law is your mum’s sister.
Sometimes the whole setup is arranged and enforced by your own blood.

This is domestic abuse not just by a partner—but by the entire family structure.
And when the people hurting you are also the people meant to protect you, where do you go?

This is why survivors don’t “just leave.”
Because leaving means breaking not just a marriage—but an entire family system built around silence.

---

What Needs to Change

• Recognise forced or predetermined marriages as a form of control and grooming

• Support girls before marriage is even on the table

• Teach young people that love without choice is not love at all

• Challenge “family honour” culture that sacrifices girls for reputation

• Create real routes to safety—even when abusers are inside the family tree

---

Final Word

Domestic violence isn’t always a punch.
Sometimes it’s a plan drawn up before a girl is even old enough to say no.

That’s why this conversation has to start early.
Before the wedding. Before the abuse. Before the silence.

Because real safety starts with real choice.

And no girl should have her future signed away before she’s old enough to sign her name.

don’t even know when it started. Maybe Year 8. Maybe earlier.
It wasn’t one big moment. It was all the small things that added up.

The stares when I walked into class.
The messages that stopped.
The group chat I used to be in—now renamed, without me.
The comments that sound like “jokes” but don’t feel like jokes when everyone laughs except me.

And then there’s social media—where the real bullying hides behind filters and “likes.”
People post things that almost sound like they’re about me.
Photos where I’ve been cropped out.
Stories that I wasn’t part of, even though I was right there in the room.

Sometimes I ask myself, “What did I do?”
And the worst part is, I can’t find an answer. I just feel… wrong. Like I take up too much space.

Some days, I don’t want to go to school. Not because of the lessons—but because of the people.
I sit in silence at lunch, pretending I’m not bothered. Pretending I’m busy on my phone. Pretending I don’t care.

But I do care. It hurts.
It’s not just sadness—it’s this weird mix of anger, shame, and confusion.
Like I want to scream but also disappear.

I haven’t told anyone. Not really.
Because I’m scared they’ll say, “Just ignore it,” or “Don’t let it get to you.”
But it’s already gotten to me. It’s in my head. It’s in how I walk, talk, eat, breathe.

I want it to stop. I want to feel like me again.

I don’t need someone to fix everything.
I just want someone to understand what it’s like—to sit next to me, not judge, and say,
“You’re not invisible. You’re not overreacting. And you’re not alone.”

That would be enough.
That would be everything.

— Sheen, 14

Sometimes I feel like I’m living two different lives.

At home, I’m the oldest son. British Indian. Expected to get the grades, help out, stay respectful. No talking back. No messing around. No “I’m stressed” or “I’m tired.” That’s not really something we say in my house.

At school, it’s different—but not easier. People think they know who I am before I even open my mouth.
Quiet. Polite. "Probably gonna be a doctor."
They don’t see the pressure I carry every single day. The way I overthink everything. The way I try to fit in without losing myself.

I saw Adolescence: The Series last month. It didn’t change my life or anything. But there was something about it—how the characters move through school with masks on, like everyone’s pretending they’re fine when they’re not. That felt real.

One episode hit hard. This guy just keeps nodding, saying “yeah I’m good,” while his whole world’s falling apart. That’s me. I do that.
Because where I come from, talking about your feelings makes people uncomfortable. Or worse—they brush it off like you’re being dramatic.

So I just keep quiet.

But the truth is, I’ve got questions. About who I am. About what I want.
Do I have to choose between being “one of the boys” or being true to myself?
Do I have to explain my culture to be accepted—or hide it to fit in?

Some nights, I stay up just thinking.
Thinking about expectations. Thinking about freedom.
Thinking about how I can be everything people want me to be—and still feel like myself.

That’s why Adolescence stuck with me.
Not because it had all the answers. But because it reminded me I’m not the only one asking the questions.

— Palli, 15