If you are experiencing any form of domestic violence — please know you are not alone.
You are not weak. You are not to blame. And you deserve help.

At The Community Box, we understand that domestic violence is not just one thing. It can take many forms:

• Physical abuse — hitting, pushing, harming your body

• Emotional abuse — insults, control, intimidation, fear

• Financial abuse — stopping you from having money or controlling what you spend

• Coercive control — isolating you, tracking your phone, deciding who you can see

• Verbal abuse — shouting, threats, constant criticism

• Psychological abuse — gaslighting, confusing you, making you doubt yourself

We’ve seen it all. Many of us have lived through it.

That’s why we’ve built a safe, trusted Domestic Violence Support Unit right here at The Community Box.

Here, you can:

• Speak to people with real lived experience — not just forms and titles

• Get help in many languages — Dari, Farsi, Pashto, Urdu, Somali, Bengali, Polish, English, and others

• Be supported by people who understand cultural pressures — but never use them to silence you

• Share your story only if and when you’re ready

• Be guided gently toward the right support — no pressure, no rushing

• Get help with housing, benefits, legal aid, and emotional safety

• Receive safe referrals to services you can trust — ones we know and have worked with personally

We don’t push anyone to act before they’re ready.
We don’t report anything without your consent (unless someone’s life is in immediate danger).
We will sit with you. Listen. Respect your pace.

Some people come here after years of silence. Some come after one terrifying moment. Both are valid.

We also know that anyone can experience domestic violence — women, men, non-binary people, LGBTQ+ people, people of all ages, all backgrounds, all walks of life.

No judgement here. Just care.

At The Community Box, we always say:

“You are not here for us to save you.
You are here because we walk beside you.”

You deserve:

• Safety

• Dignity

• Respect

• Freedom

• Healing

• Hope

So when you are ready, we are here. No pressure. No shame.
Come as you are — scared, angry, sad, confused — it’s okay.
We’ll make the tea, and we’ll listen.

You are not alone anymore.

I remember staring at the door.
It was locked. Always locked.

I would sit on the cold floor, watching that door for hours, wishing—praying—that it would open.

My name is Babita. I came from India, married into a family who brought me to the UK with promises of love, respect, and a better life.

But from the moment I arrived, they made it clear:
I wasn’t a daughter-in-law.
I wasn’t even a human being.

I was their prisoner.

They locked me in a small upstairs room.
No phone. No friends. No neighbours allowed near me.
They said it was my father’s fault.

"Tumhare pita ne dahej kam diya hai," they told me.
("Your father didn’t give enough dowry.")
"Jab tak paisa nahi milega, yahi band rahegi."
("Until he pays, you stay locked up.")

They called my father back home, demanding more money, screaming at him through the phone. He cried, begged them to stop—but they kept pushing.

And me?
I sat behind that locked door, terrified.

Sometimes they hit me.
Sometimes they used the belan—the rolling pin from the kitchen.
Other times, it was a stick.
The bruises, the pain—that became normal.

One time, they beat me so badly I fainted. I was unconscious in that locked room for two days. No food. No water. No help.

I thought I was going to die there.

One day, in desperation, I ran. Barefoot, confused, I escaped through the door when no one was looking. I ran out onto the road—and nearly got hit by a car.

An elderly man stopped his car, helped me up, and took me to the local doctor’s surgery.

I couldn’t speak. My lips were shaking. My eyes were full of tears.
I sat there, silent, with no English to explain the hell I had run from.

But the social prescriber in the GP’s surgery — she didn’t ignore me.

She sat with me quietly, patiently. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t push me.
She listened.

Then she said calmly,
"I know a place that can help you. You won’t have to explain everything again right now."

She called The Community Box at Blossom Group.

That’s when I met Sahera.

She sat with me, softly speaking in Hindi and Urdu.
Her words weren’t cold or official.
Her voice didn’t sound like a "worker" or "system person."
She sounded like… a sister.

I’ll never forget her first words:
"Behen, daro mat. Tum akeli nahi ho."
("Sister, don’t be afraid. You are not alone.")

As she sat beside me, I could feel her kindness.
Her eyes were full of understanding—not pity.

Then she said,
"You need to speak with Madam Folarin. She’s our elder here. She will help you."

When I met Madam Folarin, she didn’t ask me to explain everything.
She looked me in the eye and said,
"Chiamaka—my dear—you are not the cause of this. You will not face it alone."

That day, something inside me shifted.
I wasn’t alone anymore.

With their help, I found:

• A safe place to stay

• Legal advice

• Immigration support

• Benefits and help for my children

• Step-by-step care with no pressure, no shame

Madam Folarin didn’t just “refer” me somewhere.
She walked with me. She sat with me for tea. She called me “my dear” and treated me like her own.

Today, I am free.
My children are safe.
I can cook what I want, wear what I want, and I am no longer afraid of locked doors.

When I remember that door—the one I stared at for months—I think of the other door:
The door of Blossom.
The door that opened my life.

I now tell every woman who feels trapped:

"That locked door is not the end of your story.
There is always another door waiting—
And behind it, people like Sahera and Madam Folarin are ready to lift you up, not push you down."

My name is Chiamaka. I am from southeast Nigeria.

When I first married my husband, I thought it was a blessing.
He brought me to the UK, saying, “Don’t worry, I will take care of you. You will be fine.”

But inside that house, his words became different.

It started with the way I dressed:
"Look at you, Chiamaka. Who are you dressing for? See that man looking at you! You want to disgrace me?"

He would say I looked cheap. Ugly. Stupid.
"Don’t ever dress like that again. You hear me?"

Every day, it became worse:
"Give me your phone. Let me see your WhatsApp. Where are you? Send me screenshot. Give me your bank card too."

He controlled everything:

• My phone

• My clothes

• My money

• My movements

I had two children, but he would shout:
"These ones, they’re not even mine. They act just like their useless mother."

He would insult me in front of others:
"You can’t cook. You can’t clean. You’re useless. You break everything in this house!"

And every time I tried to speak, he’d shut me down:
"Keep quiet! You don’t talk to your husband like that. I’m your head. Respect me!"

It wasn’t just words.
Sometimes, he’d push me around, grab my wrist so tight it would bruise.
Sometimes he’d smash things, shouting in my face, daring me to leave.

At home, I was living inside fear:
Fear of cooking the wrong food.
Fear of speaking too much.
Fear of answering a phone call.

In our culture, people say:
"Na marriage matter. Woman must endure."

But I was drowning.

One Sunday after church, my friend Nkechi noticed I looked tired and afraid.
She said, “My sister, this is not how marriage should be. Come with me.”

She took me quietly to her GP surgery.

There, I met a social prescriber who listened calmly, softly. No judgement.

She said, “I know somewhere safe for you. You won’t be alone.”

That’s how I found The Community Box.

The first woman I met there was Sahera.
She looked at me and said in her calm, warm voice:
"Sister, breathe. You are safe here. You are not the first, and you won’t be the last."

I cried. I couldn’t stop. She sat with me, no rush.

Then she told me,
"You need to speak with Madam Folarin. She’s our elder here. She will help you."

When I met Madam Folarin, she looked at me—not with pity, but with deep, serious respect.

She said,
"Chiamaka, you don’t need to explain everything now. Just know this—you are not the cause of this. And we will walk this path together."

That day, something inside me shifted.
I wasn’t alone anymore.

With their help, I found:

• Emergency housing for me and my children

• Legal advice

• Immigration support

• Benefits for my children

• Safety planning, step by step, with no pressure

Madam Folarin didn’t just “refer” me somewhere.
She walked with me, checked on me, sat with me for tea, called me "my dear."
She made me feel human again.

Now, I am free.
My children laugh again.
I wear what I want, cook what I want, and nobody controls my phone or my life.

I tell other women this:

“Marriage without respect is not marriage.
If your home feels like prison, there is help. You don’t have to live in fear.”

I found my strength at The Community Box.
And I will never forget the women—Sahera and Madam Folarin—who helped me unlock the door to freedom.

— Chiamaka, survivor and proud sister at The Community Box

Wendy’s Story: “It Always Feels Like It’s My Fault”

My name’s Wendy. I’m from Essex.

I met Brian six years ago.
I was working in a little café in London—serving tea, toasties, the usual. He came in every day, smiling, cracking jokes, leaving big tips. He made me feel special.

Back then, I thought I’d won the jackpot.
He made me laugh. Said I was beautiful. Said he’d take care of me.

But it started small.

First, it was my phone.
"Who’s that texting you?"
"Why’s your phone on silent? Let me see it."

Then it was,
"Don’t meet your friends tonight. Stay home with me."
"Your parents don’t like me. They’re poison. Stop going there."

When I spoke to my dad or my brother, he’d flip:
"You’re picking them over me, ain’t you? You’re disrespecting me in my own home!"

He’d get angry if I so much as smiled at the delivery man:
"What you chatting to him for, you little slapper? You want attention from everyone, don’t you?"

I kept thinking, maybe it’s just his temper… maybe it’s the drink… maybe it’s me.

Then I got pregnant.

By the time we had our third baby, I wasn’t allowed out much at all.
He checked my phone every day.
If I didn’t answer his calls within two rings, he’d go mad:
"Who you with? Where you at? You think I’m stupid?"

When he drank, it got worse—shouting, smashing plates, slamming doors, calling me every name under the sun.

Sometimes it was worse than shouting.

I thought I could fix it if I just kept quiet… but it got too much.

The day he grabbed my arm in front of our kids, I knew something had to change.

I got a non-molestation order. I thought it would end there.

But Brian didn’t stop.
He called me from private numbers:
"You think a bit of paper’s gonna stop me? You think you can take my kids away?"

He threatened me so many times I stopped counting.

And still, some days, I think about going back to him.

I know how that sounds.
People say, “Just leave him for good.”
But it’s not that simple.

He was all I knew for years.
Sometimes, even now, I think maybe it’s my fault—maybe I pushed him too far.
Maybe if I was better, quieter, prettier, things wouldn’t have got so bad.

It’s like he’s still in my head, even now that he’s out of the house.

But the truth is… I’m tired of living scared.
I’m tired of thinking love is meant to feel like walking on glass.

And then, one day, I was at my kids’ school, picking them up, and a community outreach worker overheard me talking to another mum.

She pulled me aside and said gently,
"Have you heard of Blossom Group’s Community Box? They’ve got people who can help. No judgment. Just proper support."

I was scared—but something about her voice made me go.

That visit changed everything.

At Blossom Group’s Community Box, they didn’t ask me to prove anything.
They didn’t tell me what to do.
They just listened—properly.
They spoke to me like I was still a person, not just a "victim."

They signposted me to real help:

• Domestic violence specialists

• Legal advice

• Counselling

• Support for my kids, too

They’ve stood by me ever since. No pressure, no rushing—just steady, patient care.

I’m still learning. Still healing.
But I know one thing:
Without them, I wouldn’t be here telling this story.

And if you’re where I was, please hear me—
There are people out there who get it.

Blossom Group’s Community Box showed me that the door out is there—
You just need someone kind enough to show you where it is.

— Wendy, survivor and mum, standing stronger every day

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.