Listening to the Silence: Lessons from Rochdale’s South Asian Communities on Addiction

Over recent months, we listened to more than two dozen people from Rochdale’s South Asian communities: women, young men, community and faith leaders. We held three focus groups and spoke one-to-one with others who preferred privacy. The aim wasn’t to produce a perfect report. It was to hear, as clearly as possible, what life looks like when addiction is present—and what might genuinely help.

The rooms were quiet at first. People tested the air before speaking, eyes down, hands folded. Then the stories came. A woman told us she had hidden her husband’s drinking and drug use for years—shielding the children, preserving the family’s reputation, keeping the circle small. When he was finally hospitalised, she said she wished she’d asked for help earlier. That tension—love, duty, and silence—threaded through almost every conversation we had.

A community leader said something I keep returning to: stigma kills before the drugs do. In our groups, izzat (honour) and sharam (shame) weren’t abstract ideas; they were the unspoken rules shaping when—and if—families speak up and sought professional help. Problems are often managed at home until a crisis forces the issue. People described long work hours and cost pressures that squeeze the time and energy needed for careful conversation. In some homes, young people become quiet around fathers; important things are left unsaid. It isn’t a vocabulary problem. Urdu and Punjabi have the words. The conversations themselves are what’s missing.

Alongside that silence sits exposure. Participants described the visibility of substances near schools, shops, and in cars. Nitrous oxide—laughing gas, often called NOS—came up repeatedly. People spoke about balloons in cars, sometimes while stationary and sometimes while moving; discarded balloons and canisters near primary schools and parks; and, increasingly, larger cylinders being used on the spot. Families were particularly worried by an emerging pattern of South Asian girls and young women trying NOS. One leader captured the dynamic in a sentence: low conversation and high availability is a dangerous mix. People emphasised that heavy or repeated use is not harmless; they connected it to coordination problems, numbness and nerve damage.

Faith surfaced in every group. For many, prayer and belonging support steadiness in recovery; the mosque can be a place of spiritual motivation and stigma reduction. But no one suggested that faith on its own replaces treatment. In personal conversations, imams described the weight of expectation some families place on them—expectations that extend far beyond their training or role. They were willing to help and wanted to be part of a solution, while recognising their limits in addiction and recovery work. They asked for basic training, clear referral routes, and a realistic partnership where faith complements professional care rather than standing in its place. That is a practical, honest way forward: faith walking beside treatment, not in front of it.

What families asked for most clearly was visible outreach and a trusted local place to talk without fear of judgment. They wanted a go-to space that feels discreet and safe; bespoke support for people using substances; and guidance for relatives who support them at home. People also stressed the order of operations: tackle stigma first. When speaking becomes possible, help-seeking follows. The outreach people imagined wasn’t a poster or a one-off workshop; it was consistent presence in the places they already gather—mosques, youth settings, women’s groups, community centres—paired with short, bilingual messages in everyday language and stories of lived experience that make the subject human rather than shameful.

When the discussion turned to getting help, two realities stood out. First, the women’s group linked hesitation to stigma and safety: fear of reprisals if they reported dealing; worry that nothing would happen; the pressure of close-knit networks. Some families preferred to look outside Rochdale for support to avoid being recognised. Second, community leaders felt mainstream services often miss cultural cues. Their ask was not complicated: close the cultural gap with short, practical training; co-design bilingual materials with input from those with lived experiences; and stop leaving people to navigate the system alone. A supported referral—a warm handover where someone stays with you through first contact and subsequent meetings —was seen as the difference between moving forward and giving up. The stress of navigating the various disjointed services is enough to trigger a relapse.

That’s where we think the idea of a culturally sensitive support worker—a kind of chaperone— is key to all this. People wanted someone who understands South Asian family life, can speak the languages that matter at home, has basic faith literacy, and ideally has lived experience. This person would help with the practical path—benefits, GP and therapy referrals, detox pathways, social services, housing, safeguarding, childcare, essential shortfalls of everyday supplies—at the family’s pace. A trusted guide can keep people engaged and provide a sense of security while they focus on what really matters: recovery.

There is another truth we can’t ignore: the hidden burden borne by relatives, especially women. We heard about the long years of managing chaos in private; about safety fears when drug activity spills onto the doorstep; about not knowing what help exists until much later. These aren’t side notes to addiction; they are central to the story. When families are stretched to breaking, communities weaken. Recognising carers’ needs—confidential advice, practical help, routes into domestic abuse, finance and childcare support—isn’t an optional extra. It’s part of keeping families intact and becomes a kind of indispensable social capital that contributes towards broader preventative strategies.

What should happen next? In our focus groups, people described a sequence rather than a slogan. First, make conversation possible—reduce stigma with consistent, culturally fluent outreach and stories of lived experience. Begin education earlier and wider: not just schools, but madrassahs, youth clubs, women’s groups and elder gatherings, using a familiar vernacular so different generations can hear the same message and talk about it at home. Setting up services is of no use if people don't feel confident enough to access them. These two aspects need to work in tandem and the messaging (via in-person outreach and online social media platforms) needs to be consistent and relentless.

Work with faith appropriately: mosques as spaces of motivation and signposting; imams equipped to recognise risk and refer quickly. Redesign service touchpoints with communities: bilingual, faith-aware practitioners; warm handovers instead of cold numbers. And fund culturally sensitive support workers who walk alongside families through the system, reducing the drop-off points where people lose heart.

At The Salik Project UK, we’re still getting our house in order—building partnerships and systems—but we’ve already supported some families who are caring for someone with addiction. Those early steps have taught us something simple: what works is not just a service; it’s a relationship. And relationships are built in the places people actually are.

That last part matters. We talk about “meeting people where they are,” but we need to admit this will be trial and error. The rooms we assume are key—mosques, schools, community hubs, —won’t always be the right rooms. The places we do need to reach may require different routes and timings. The only honest method is to co-design, test small, listen hard, and adapt—measuring what matters: conversations started, trust built, safe referrals made. The outreach map isn’t printed in advance; we draw it with the community, in pencil, and redraw it as we learn.

My ask is straightforward. Walk with us. If you’re a parent, carer, teacher, imam, youth worker, neighbour—tell us which spaces we’re missing, which words land, which timings make sense. Lend a story if you can, or a room, or an introduction. Because when we make it easier to talk—really talk—we make it easier to heal. If there is one transcendent truth to all of this it is that the recovering addict needs the support of an entire community to give them the best chances to stay on the path to recovery.