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.
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. Imams described the weight of expectation some families place on them—expectations that extend far beyond their training or role. They asked for basic training, clear referral routes, and a realistic partnership where faith complements professional care rather than standing in its place.
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.
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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
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.
