Staff Content Archives - Waterloo Community Counselling

Marie Anch’s Story

Volunteer Contributor — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 10:25:01 +0000

Author’s note: This piece was created from an interview that Marie Anch (pseudonym) kindly shared with a member of WCC staff. As the author, I have made every intention to ensure that her story is told with integrity and authenticity, while still respecting her wishes to remain anonymous. It is my hope that telling this story amplifies her incredible resilience and progress, while also empowering her and others with similar lived experiences – Lu Brookes, 2026

CW: This piece contains mentions of sexual assault, violence and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.

My name is Marie Anch and I’m from Cameroon. I never intended to come to the UK.

I knew from a young age that I wanted to be a midwife. Growing up, I had my future planned out: I’d finish primary school, my parents would send me to secondary school, and from there I’d qualify as a midwife.

When I was around sixteen or seventeen, my dad told me he didn’t have enough money for me to stay in school. Instead, I had to get married.

Women back home are rarely afforded the same treatment as men. We can’t do the things that men can, we’re expected to get married and have a family. I was devastated: what about what I wanted? That same night, I was told my future husband would be coming to our house in the morning. My tears barely seemed to register with my dad.

The next morning, the first thing I remember thinking was how old this man was! I’d never seen him before and had no idea who he was but somehow, he knew about me. Was he one of my father’s friends? After he left, I told my dad I couldn’t marry him. My mum tried to persuade him when she saw how distraught I was. She asked why I couldn’t just stay in school – I was their firstborn child; our family could manage. My dad remained unconvinced.

At first, the man would come to visit our home in the village. After some time, I went to live with him in the city. I had no say in the matter. Getting married meant I had to leave my family – my home. I forgot what it felt like to be happy, until solace came in the form of our children.

We had four, two boys and two girls, over a period of ten years. By the time our youngest was born he was already getting too old to work, and there wasn’t anything in place to support us when he retired. We rented our house, and I was worried about our children. I urged him to think about it – I understood the consequences of not having enough money and didn’t want them to go without – but he admonished me for telling him what to do. I remembered when my own mother tried to fight for me.

Three months after he retired, my husband told me we had to leave the city. We moved from our house to his family’s home in a village. There was only one floor, and there were already three other families living there.

I was miserable. It would have been fine if it were just me, but I had my children to consider. They weren’t used to sleeping on the floor, to the six of us sharing one room. The children would cry and ask why we couldn’t be in a house of our own, but I couldn’t provide that for them. The other women in the house bullied me; they believed I thought myself better than them having moved from the city.

My late husband fell ill not long after we moved back to the village. It was a normal day for us: he’d gone out and I’d gone to the bush to collect firewood. I heard the sudden shouting and saw his brother leaving in a hurry. I overheard people saying something about a fall, but no one told me anything. They returned with my husband, who complained that his stomach was hurting. He’d been drinking.

He kept repeating, “I drank palm wine, I drank palm wine!” between groans of pain. I could only cry as they struggled with him. They did everything they could, but he died later that day.

We buried him with the help of a lady who we knew from the city, and who’d helped us with the move. I couldn’t manage it alone. He was barely in the ground when his brother told me I had to marry him in his stead and become his fourth wife. He insisted that it was tradition and that I couldn’t refuse. I would’ve sooner dropped dead instead of marrying him, but I was forced to despite my wishes.

We had to move again at this man’s behest. He was incredibly violent towards us: he’d throw hot pans at me while I was cooking and dragged my children off their beds onto the floor when they were sleeping. He wouldn’t hesitate to hit me in front of them. There were times where he’d drug me, then take me to a separate room to beat and rape me. In the brief moments of lucidity, I prayed that my children wouldn’t know what he was doing to me.

They begged me to leave, but again, we had nowhere to go. Once you’re married, tradition dictates that your family has ‘given’ you to your husband, so his home is where you ‘belong’. We would never be accepted in my parents’ village despite how we were being treated.

Sometime later, an acquaintance from the city came to our village. She’d heard of my late husband’s passing and was shocked when I mentioned the abuse we were suffering. She said she could help. I told her I didn’t have any money, but I’d do anything to take us away from him. She said money didn’t matter but asked if I had any education. I replied that I had some, which seemed to satisfy her. She said she could take me not just out of the village, but out of the country. I would have to leave my children, but it was a chance to make things better for us. Anything had to be better than what we were enduring.

A part of me still hesitated, wondering why she was being so kind. We hadn’t known each other that well, but here she was insisting that she could help me. Eventually, I agreed. She said she’d come back as we both needed time to prepare. That night, I told my children there was a kind auntie who wanted to help us, but I couldn’t explain how just yet.

When she returned two weeks later, she said we’d be leaving the village that same night. I packed my small bag and told my children it was time. Before we left, I took my eldest son aside.

“It’s only you now,” I told him. “I will leave your sisters and brother with you. I don’t know where I’m going. Trust me, God will take control of everything, but I can’t continue living like this. You see the way they are treating me here.”

“Yes Mom, let’s give it to God,” he said. “Go where you are going. I will take care of my sisters.”

We fled under the cover of the night sky – my heart pounded with a mix of anxiety, fear and sorrow. The lady had everything organised – I’d only lived in villages and the small city with my late husband, so I didn’t realise we were in the capital until I saw signs for ‘Douala’. When we got to the airport, she told me we were going to Canada. Because there were no direct flights from Cameroon, we’d be making a stop along the way to catch a second plane.

We made the first journey with no problems. While waiting for the flight to Canada, the lady told me to wait for her while she went to buy some water. She assured me she wouldn’t be long. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. One hour became two. I started to worry.

I saw a man who was wearing an unfamiliar uniform. I went up to him and explained my situation. He asked to see my passport, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. His face was stern when he told me to follow him. He led me to a small room, where we were joined by more in the same uniform. They said they were police officers, which explained why I didn’t recognise them – Cameroonian police are dressed differently after all.

I told them I was worried about where the lady had gone. They searched my bag – the only thing I had on me – before taking everything out; they didn’t let me have anything back. Then they told me I’d be staying with them, in custody, until they could take me to court. I didn’t have a passport; I didn’t have a visa, so I wasn’t supposed to be in the UK.

The UK? I said this was the first time I’d heard anything about coming to the UK! I said they needed to find the lady; she’d be able to explain everything to them better than I could.

I went to court the following Monday. I answered everything they asked to the best of my knowledge. I told the judge why I’d fled Cameroon. They asked me if I was guilty or not guilty, and I said, ‘not guilty’. The judge declared I’d be in prison until a second hearing could be held.

I was taken to a women’s prison. I was there for three or four months before the court summoned me. I didn’t have a lawyer, so they assigned me one. I explained everything to her and pleaded not guilty in court. They sent me back to prison.

Another six months passed before I was summoned again. I saw the same lawyer. She told me I that should plead guilty this time. What was I guilty of? The lady promised I’d be taken away from my abuser so I could try and make a better life for me and my children. Then she’d disappeared.

I remember looking directly at the judge when he asked for my plea. “I’m not guilty,” I said. I was sentenced to eighteen months in prison, charged with entering the country with possession of false documents.

The first few months in prison went by. It was all I could do but hope and pray my children were okay, that maybe I’d see them soon. Partway through my sentence, the chaplain came to visit our building. He wanted to speak with me.

From one look at his face, I knew that something was very wrong. I’d seen expressions like his before and good news never followed. He insisted I sat down on the bench and had some water before we spoke. I wasn’t thirsty; I implored him to just tell me.

He said he had very bad news. I thought about my children. My voice quavered as I asked what was wrong, even if the answer would destroy me. The chaplain explained they had received a phone call from Cameroon.

That man, my abuser, was looking for me. He’d gone to ask my eldest where I was. My boy said he didn’t know, but he didn’t believe him. That man insisted that, if anyone knew where I was, it would be him; my son reiterated that he didn’t know anything. He started beating him, not caring that his children were present. The chaplain’s face remained stony as he explained that they hadn’t been spared from his wrath, either.

The beating continued until my son collapsed. He was rushed to hospital, but nothing could be done. My son was dead.

The pain was greater than any of the physical pain I’d endured before. I broke down, sobbing. My children were thousands of miles away without me, without their big brother, and I was powerless to do anything. I remembered our conversation from the night I left. The only words I had left in me were to swear to the chaplain that I would find a way to kill myself.

They put me under suicide watch, but I found ways around it. On my first attempt, I took a curtain and tied it around my neck. My roommate caught me before I could go further and called for help. I was distraught when the officers came in to restrain me, I didn’t want to be stopped.

Another time, I found some toilet cleaner lying around. It was simple enough to find a glass and take a drink. I started feeling sick, so went to lie down on my bed. I told my roommate not to worry if I fell asleep and didn’t respond, because I’d finally managed it. She went to get help, and I was taken to hospital. They watched me closely for the rest of my time there.

Once I’d served my sentence, they said I’d be taken somewhere with other people I could talk to, that I’d get to have a normal life with no fences. When we arrived at the new place, I realised they’d lied: this was just another building with oppressive fences and high walls under a different name – a detention centre. I started crying, I didn’t understand what was happening. I shut down completely and refused to eat or drink for several days.

After a short time there, they gave me a phone number for a befriender scheme where I could arrange for a volunteer to come talk to me. I slowly built up the courage to call, and I was matched with a lady from the local area. She came in regularly and we’d talk about how I was feeling. Over time, I felt comfortable enough to share my story with her.

Three months into my stay, I was handcuffed and taken to the airport in the early hours of the morning. They told me I was going back to Cameroon. Two police officers boarded the plane with me; I was in hysterics before we took off, terrified of what awaited me when we landed.

My outburst caused the pilot to come to the cabin. I explained as much as I could through tears. I told him I’d rather die than go home. He refused to carry me onboard, so I went back to the detention centre.

The second time I was allowed to wear a traditional Cameroon dress, and there were no handcuffs – perhaps they thought it would make me feel more at ease. As the plane began its taxi the anxiety swelled in my stomach and spread to the rest of my body like fire. I had to get out; I couldn’t go back! In my desperation, I left my seat, stood in the aisle and threw off my dress – I was naked underneath – and sobbed violently. People were shouting, calling me a madwoman, but I didn’t care. They stopped the plane and I went back.

Another time we left the detention centre, but no one told me where we were going. On the drive they offered me something to drink. I was thirsty, so thought nothing more of it. The next thing I remembered was being in an airport.

I knew it wasn’t the UK. I could hear my mother tongue – French – being spoken around me. As my senses returned fully, I learned that I’d been taken to Brussels.

I asked my escorts what was happening, but I already knew the answer. I could feel the familiar dread surging through me, hot tears spilling down my face. I cursed and shouted at them in French, begging them not to take me to Cameroon.

Two strangers approached me. No uniforms, just ordinary men who spoke to me in French, asking whether I was okay and if there was anything they could do to help. I told them as much as I was able to in that moment, and they were outraged. They said I wouldn’t be going anywhere if they had anything to do with it. When I tried to board the plane to Cameroon I was denied. I don’t know what miracle they pulled, but I am so grateful to them.

After that, there were no further attempts to take me back to Cameroon. I spent eleven months in detention until I was suddenly released.

The lady I’d confided in – my befriender – had paid for my bail. She brought me to her home, where I had my own room, my own space and where there were no high fences and imposing walls. This newfound peace would be short-lived, as two months later the police came to the house and arrested me. She bailed me out again and I came home, only for the police to take me back to detention. We repeated this cycle over the course of five years, during which I was diagnosed with PTSD.

Living became unbearable, even in the times where I was safe with her. I would leave the house and end up hiding behind the garden fence, intrusive thoughts wracking my mind and paralysing me. Was I truly free, this time? How long did I have before they’d drag me back to the detention centre – or worse, to Cameroon?

It took five years of fighting, but I was finally granted asylum status. Upon receiving my papers, I felt a huge sense of relief. I didn’t have to live in perpetual fear anymore. I could finally study; I could get a job to support myself – it was so liberating! I told my befriender that I wanted to move out and have my own space. She encouraged me to consider moving to London, given its diversity.

I liaised with my mental health team, who helped me find temporary accommodation. I moved a few times before settling into a flat, where I’ve lived ever since. The flat was empty when I first moved in, my befriender and her family bought everything I needed: the bed, the fridge, the sofa. She once told me that she isn’t my befriender, she’s my sister, regardless of our skin colour. She can tell how I’m feeling from the tone of my voice whenever she calls me. I could just show up unannounced at her house, and she would make room for me. We’re family, and nothing will change that.

Once I was settled, I sought to see my children as soon as I could. They’d fled to Nigeria with one of their cousins not long after their brother passed. There was a lot of violence back home beyond what had happened to him, and it wasn’t safe anymore.

I needed a passport to travel, but the Cameroonian Embassy refused to help. They wouldn’t even meet with me – in asking for asylum they said I’d insulted the name of the country. My lawyer was only able to procure a temporary travel document because of my mental health nurse at the time, who wrote a letter explaining my situation. I went to Nigeria and saw my children for the first time in over ten years.

I started working as a security guard for a supermarket in south London. The job was manageable, and I could study around it. Part of me still hadn’t given up on my dream, despite how distant the memory of my old self seemed.

My peaceful life changed four years into working there. I was approached by a group of boys in broad daylight; I had a sense that they were up to no good. I went to stop them from going in; one opened his bag to show me a large knife. I froze, unable to do anything.

They went to the spirits aisle with their bags. My manager came out from his office, berating me for doing nothing. He announced he’d called the police, and the boys turned on him. I had visions of my son; it was all too much to bear. I handed my notice in not long after that.

I went into care work next. While it wasn’t midwifery, it involved helping others. I’d cook and serve the patients their meals, help them get washed and dressed, and take them to any routine appointments they had at the hospital. I took pride in my work. It gave me so much joy.

One day, I had just gotten back from the hospital with a patient. There were three of us working that morning, all women. One held the door for the patient, and I stood behind them to make sure they got in safely. None of us realised there was someone else standing behind me until it was too late.

I screamed as arms wrapped around my body, restraining me. I couldn’t move. Then came the punches, someone was hitting me. Suddenly I was back in that room in the village, not knowing when it would stop, how far it’d go. I begged the others to help, but they were petrified.

Luckily, our driver was still nearby. He heard my cries and ran to us, throwing the attacker off me. It was a man, someone who used the very service I worked for. We called the police, but he’d vanished by the time they got there.

I went to hospital for x-rays where they found damage all the way up to my shoulder. The incident left one of my hands permanently twisted – I still can’t bring it all the way up. It broke my heart when I realised I wouldn’t be able to continue working in care, there was no way I’d be able to carry out my duties. I’m still waiting for an operation on it, and I haven’t been able to work since then.

I’ve not been able to go back to Nigeria either; the embassy still refuses to see me. I speak to my children and grandchildren on the phone, but it’s so confusing for the littlest ones. Every time I call, they say, “Grandma, why are you not coming?”, but I can’t explain it to them in a way they’d understand.

I didn’t hear from them last Mother’s Day. When I called them a few days after my daughter replied, “Do we have a mother?”. They only get to see little glimpses of my life, and I never want them to see me upset when we talk. It’s hard for them to understand how complicated my situation is or how devastated I am every time I’m told I can’t travel. I’m 62 now, it kills me to not be with them.

Being unable to work or travel, despite my best efforts, took a toll on me. A few years ago, I couldn’t cope anymore; my suicidal thoughts became overwhelming. I spoke to my doctor, who referred me to a charity that provides therapy to displaced people like me called Waterloo Community Counselling.

I remember sitting nervously in the waiting room. I was worried about talking to someone about what I’d been though, but after meeting my counsellor she assured me that everything would stay between us.

I started telling her my story, and I felt something lift within me. With each session I realised that there were people out there who would listen without judgement or telling me my voice wasn’t important. My counsellor helped me sort through my racing thoughts and make sense of them. I felt relieved after my sessions, and thinking about the next day or so didn’t feel as daunting.

I had therapy for a year. The charity also runs groups for current and previous clients, so I’ve tried to join those too – though I sometimes struggle to engage with others.

These days I don’t feel like myself. My memory’s fuzzy, and it’s hard for me to sleep. I’m plagued with nightmares when I do find rest. I find myself ruminating on my life in Cameroon a lot, but this time I know I can ask for help and get support. I found counselling helpful before, so I’m considering returning to therapy at WCC for more sessions.

Therapy has helped me to gradually build up the confidence to express myself however I want to. It’s opened my eyes as to how resilient I truly am, and that I can share as much or as little of my experiences as I want to. It’s never easy talking about my life, and I doubt that will ever change, but I’m not afraid of holding back anymore – nor does my past completely consume me like it used to.

I can’t promise that my story has or will ever have a happy ending. Life is still difficult. I’m still fighting to get my permanent residence while waiting for the operation on my hand so I can work again – I’d love to work with children, but I don’t know how, and I’m worried that I might be too old. I want to get another travel document so I can see my children. As hard as things get, I have never and will never give up when it comes to my family. I will always fight for them.

The post Marie Anch’s Story appeared first on Waterloo Community Counselling.

The Transformative Impact of Affordable Counselling

Volunteer Contributor — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 11:41:23 +0000

Deciding to embark on the journey of counselling or therapy can be a major hurdle to begin with, but for many Londoners it can be even harder to afford the specific help they need. Some of our clients share their experience…

Saira said, “I have struggled with low mood and anxiety since my mid-teens and was in a particularly rough patch before a friend recommended WCC.”

Tim* also experienced complex mental health problems that require more acute treatments prior to being referred to WCC:

“I was diagnosed with C-PTSD, and the NHS trauma-specific waiting list was 3-4 years, with the pathway unclear. WCC offered support much sooner.”

This is echoed by Arthur*, a client who engaged in long-term talking therapy from 2023 to 2025.

“I had been struggling with depression and anxiety for 6 years, and accessing therapy through my local NHS service was difficult and a long-winded process. WCC allowed me to access treatment much quicker and pay an affordable rate based on income.”

Dinah referred herself to WCC, knowing that she needed more support than she was able to access for free:

“I was struggling in some aspects of my life as well as existentially and wanted to learn how to manage my emotions and thoughts in a better way. CBT has never been helpful for me, and I needed an affordable talking therapy service.”

For some Londoners like Rachel, accessing long-term mental health support during a cost of living crisis is extremely daunting:

“I was unemployed, living at my parents’ and feeling very lost without the means of paying for private therapy.”

Being able to support the local London community has always been a core ethos for Waterloo Community Counselling. In 2025-26, 594Londoners received support, with 93% saying their mental health and wellbeing improved. 82% of clients said they felt more confident and had better self-esteem**, including Rachel:

“It completely changed my life, gave me the opportunity to experience a confidence I’ve not had before, allowed me to be more in my own body and work through things not around [my parents].”

Saira said, “My self-perception has changed, and I feel more stable and able to manage difficult moments. It was at once soothing and challenging – it changed the way I travel through the world.”

Since he finished counselling sessions at WCC, Arthur has been working towards a degree full-time. He said, “Counselling has helped me to understand myself more deeply, acknowledge the root causes of issues both past and present, and changed my perspective on many things. It has improved my relationships with family and friends, helped improve my finances, and created more long-term achievable goals.”

Long term therapy was incredibly helpful for Alex. They said: “Sessions at WCC have changed my life. I was given the chance to talk through deep rooted childhood trauma, as well as be supported through challenging work and life events. I am much more confident and self-assured in my decision making and attribute a lot of my personal growth over the past year and a half to my sessions at WCC.”

Tim’s life has also changed for the better, thanks to accessible therapy with WCC: “I have a reduced trauma response to common situations and so am able to carry on in everyday life, including caring for my child, in a more normal way.”

Dinah reflects:“Counselling has been invaluable to me, especially in these difficult times when affordable mental health help beyond CBT is very difficult to find.”

*Tim and Arthur kindly provided consent for WCC to use their real names.

Thanks to our fantastic volunteer, Lu Brookes, for writing this case study.

The post The Transformative Impact of Affordable Counselling appeared first on Waterloo Community Counselling.

20 Years of the Multilingual counselling service: Hear from our team – Jenny

Lucian Dee — Fri, 04 Oct 2024 15:55:06 +0000

The third counsellor who has kindly offered to share their experiences of working at the Multilingual counselling service is Jenny who has been at WCC since 2020. Jenny works primarily with Latin American clients in Spanish, many of whom are refugees or asylum-seekers.

1. What attracted you to working at WCC’s multilingual service for refugees & asylum-seekers?

I saw the opportunity to work with Spanish speakers and offer counselling in my native language

2. What do you think makes the multilingual service unique or special?

That takes in consideration the cultural and language diversity to match the clients with the counsellors that can offer sessions in clients own language.

3. What has been the most rewarding experience?

To see clients that overcome the emotional turmoil and learn how to deal with the emotions.

4. What is one thing you have learnt?

That working with short term contract is efficient and works for some cases

5. What are some of the challenges you faced?

To work in a short-term contract 12 sessions with complex cases.

6. How important is it that refugees, asylum-seekers & migrants can access multilingual and / or culturally-sensitive counselling?

Is very relevant to clients to have the space where they can feel a sense of belonging after the trauma related to refugee or migrant journey.

7. Looking ahead, what do you see as the most important areas for the service to focus on to continue effectively supporting this community?

Focus in the intersectionality

The post 20 Years of the Multilingual counselling service: Hear from our team – Jenny appeared first on Waterloo Community Counselling.

20 Years of the Multilingual counselling service: Hear from our team – Pedro

Lucian Dee — Wed, 18 Sep 2024 10:14:55 +0000

To celebrate 20 years of the multilingual counselling service we asked some of the counsellors who work with our refugees, asylum-seekers and migrants clients to share some of their experiences of their work.

Next up, Pedro who has worked at WCC since October 2023. Pedro works with refugee and asylum-seeking clients in Spanish and English, as well as within the Low Cost Service.

1. What attracted you to working at WCC’s multilingual service for refugees & asylum-seekers?

What attracted me to WCC’s multilingual service was how dedicated they are to supporting migrants, refugees & asylum seekers through their challenging journeys. It was inspiring to see what a small but dedicated team can achieve, even with limited resources. They make such a big difference, helping over 300 clients each year and providing a wide range of free services to individuals often excluded from public support, such as victims of human trafficking and modern slavery. Witnessing all that commitment and dedication motivated me to get involved and do my bit for a cause I believe too.

2. What do you think makes the multilingual service unique or special?

In my opinion, what makes WCC’s multilingual service special is its 20 years of experience in supporting migrants, refugees and asylum seekers, combined with its holistic approach to care. WCC provides counselling in over 30 languages, which I found both impressive and highly responsive to our client’s needs for therapy in their native languages. They also offer free services including regular meetups and workshops, and help clients access further support such as English classes, foodbanks or housing advice. These services are great opportunities for our clients to connect with their community and build essential networks for their recovery journey.

3. What has been the most rewarding experience?

Without a doubt, the most rewarding aspect of my work as a counsellor at WCC is witnessing my client’s growth through therapy. Unfortunately, many clients from our multilingual service often lack access to spaces where they feel welcomed, heard and supported. It is an honour for me to facilitate such space in our therapy sessions, where they can find the emotional refuge and support necessary for their recovery.

It’s especially fulfilling when clients, who often arrive to us feeling helpless or isolated, begin to realise that, despite their challenges, there are still opportunities for them. Witnessing this powerful transformation is truly a privilege.

4. What is one thing you have learnt?

Working with migrants, refugees and asylum seekers has truly shown me the depth of hope and resilience that we, as human beings, can hold, even when it may not be evident to ourselves. Despite facing challenges like deep trauma and mental health stigma, many of our clients at WCC choose to engage in therapy to overcome their obstacles, which I find both courageous and incredibly inspiring.

I also realised that, as a society, we need to improve our empathy and solidarity towards this community. If more people could hear even a fraction of the stories our clients share with us, it would change how we think and feel about immigration.

5. What are some of the challenges you faced?

One of the main challenges I face as a counsellor at WCC’s multilingual service is navigating societal biases and the often-misleading narratives about immigration. My role requires me to remain empathetic and well-informed, constantly educating myself so I can understand the diverse backgrounds and unique situations of those I support in therapy. Grasping how trauma and migration experiences have impacted our client’s lives is crucial, and I work hard to approach each case without assumptions or judgments. Additionally, finding ways to connect across cultural differences adds another layer of complexity, but it ensures that each client feels heard and valued.

6. How important is it that refugees, asylum-seekers & migrants can access multilingual and / or culturally-sensitive counselling?

Access to multilingual and culturally sensitive counselling is crucial for our clients at WCC. Many of our clients experience social isolation, often worsened by cultural clashes and language barriers. Providing a counselling service that is sensitive to their needs helps them express complex emotions and share their experiences in their preferred language. Also, by understanding our client’s cultural background, we ensure that our service is not just relevant, but also respects their unique views, beliefs, and experiences. This approach sets a strong base for emotional healing and recovery, creating a space where our clients can flourish.

7. Looking ahead, what do you see as the most important areas for the service to focus on to continue effectively supporting this community?

I see several key areas where our service should focus to keep supporting our refugee, asylum-seeker, and migrant clients. For instance, addressing barriers to accessing counselling is important, which includes increasing mental health awareness to fight the stigma often faced within this community. Expanding the ranges of languages available and integrating more technology could also enhance accessibility. I also believe it is important to continue building partnerships with more organisations and agencies so we can expand our reach, share resources, and provide more activities, ensuring that every client receives the support they need.

The post 20 Years of the Multilingual counselling service: Hear from our team – Pedro appeared first on Waterloo Community Counselling.

20 Years of the Multi-lingual counselling service: Hear from our team – Alexandra

Lucian Dee — Wed, 18 Sep 2024 09:46:16 +0000

To celebrate 20 years of the multilingual counselling service we asked some of the counsellors who work with our refugees, asylum-seekers and migrants clients to share some of their experiences of their work.

First up, Alexandra who has worked at WCC since January 2022. Alexandra works with refugee and asylum-seeking clients in Romanian and English, as well as within the Low Cost Service.

1. What attracted you to working at WCC’s multilingual service for refugees & asylum-seekers?

The Multi-lingual counselling service works with people who, on top of their myriad conflicts and difficulties, share the experience of leaving a place behind – and with it a part of the self – to find themselves in a new, unfamiliar place. As a foreigner in the UK myself, I am moved to work with some of the specific issues stirred by this experience of being an-other, the pains of cultural dislocation, and the mourning of all that is lost. I consider treatment successful when I get to witness with my clients the integration of their old and new self, and the expansion of their internal world.

2. What do you think makes the multilingual service unique or special?

How can people begin finding their voice if they don’t have a language to share in the first place? Language is so intimately connected to mutuality, to being listened to and understood, and a feeling of belonging. Through a shared language, many of the clients find again the potential of a ‘we’, of being part of a relation, the therapeutic one, in which they feel seen. Through this type of service they can become again active subjects, and place themselves firmly in their story. Language barriers in healthcare are well documented, but within a mental health context, language is an indispensable vehicle to communication. People who are already vulnerable risk further isolation and alienation without a service such as this.

3. What has been the most rewarding experience?

Working with people who experience for perhaps the first time in their new environment what it feels like to be listened to with curiosity. Witnessing how within the shared language, they found their personal language, unique to their affective experiences. The capacity of finding the words for one’s pain, sharing them, and through that creating more space for thinking and breathing, is one of the most rewarding experiences.

4. What is one thing you have learnt?

It is essential to tolerate uncertainty, and especially in the multi-lingual service there may be culturally-bound hidden meanings that the counsellor needs to carefully comb through. It applies to counselling in general, but perhaps it becomes vital for the multi-lingual service, that one should never make assumptions, but be continuously curious, while respectful of differences. Conversely, cultural issues can be used defensively by clients against getting too close to their true thoughts and feelings.

5. What are some of the challenges you faced?

I think that good supervision is essential when working with refugees, asylum seekers and migrants. As a particular vulnerable segment of the population, they can stir strong feelings of guilt, anger at the system or helplessness in the counsellor, which, if left unchecked, will hinder the therapeutic process. One can easily assume the role of protector or saviour, thus stepping out of role.

6. How important is it that refugees, asylum-seekers & migrants can access multilingual and / or culturally-sensitive counselling?

In my experience articulating self-expression is one of the biggest challenges for anyone accessing psychotherapy. Without a multilingual and culturally-sensitive counselling, a whole category of people is denied the chance to even try to express themselves more freely and articulate and process their experiences. The existence of this service is, in my opinion, an act of dignity and respect, in which the client takes an active role in their emotional and mental health. It helps them rebuild trust in the world.

7. Looking ahead, what do you see as the most important areas for the service to focus on to continue effectively supporting this community?

I think that there are many refugees, asylum seekers & migrants who are not aware that services like ours exist, so they cannot reach out directly. Partnerships with other organisations and NGOs could amplify the reach.

Cultural Competency Training – such as the Gypsy Roma and Traveler communities training, to ensure all the counsellors are prepared to understand and respect the different backgrounds.

Trauma-Informed Training seems necessary when working with refugees and asylum-seekers. PTSD, Generalised anxiety disorder and depression are prevalent among displaced populations.

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LGBT+ History Month 2022: Rafael Ramos Garcia

Lucian Dee — Fri, 25 Feb 2022 10:18:31 +0000

LGBT+ History Month 2022

The impact of discrimination, stigma and empowerment on the LGBT+ community – Rafael Ramos García

Trigger Warning: The article includes descriptions of rape, sexual abuse, homophobia and transphobia

“The love that dares not speak its name” – Oscar Wilde

After working as a counsellor and psychotherapist with the LGBT+ community for 20 years, both privately and at various London charities, I think it is worth reminding people that in 1994, the APA finally stated, “…homosexuality is neither a mental illness nor a moral depravity. It is the way a portion of the population expresses human love and sexuality” [1].

However, many of the traumatic experiences that the LGBT+ community go through come from misconceptions left over from socio-political and religious indoctrination dating back centuries. These are pathological perceptions of believing that same sex relationships are a sin or a perverted form of expressing sexuality and love. Current studies show that the only differences between heterosexual and homosexual behaviour and psychological functioning comes from the stress caused by systematic stigmatization based on sexual orientation. This stress has led LGBT+ people to a life of secrecy, fear of persecution and suicide [2].

Long-term discrimination and homophobic behaviour from parents in many of my LGBT+ clients have also created long lasting trauma. They present with mental conditions such as: low self-esteem, substance misuse, eating disorders, severe anxiety, self-hatred, loss, depression, suicidal ideation, trauma, and long lasting psychological and emotional problems. Francisco (not his real name) a Central American young gay asylum seeker described the relationship with his mother and the local authorities as follows:

My religious mother kept telling me that I came from the devil that I was a sinner. Shame and guilt were deeply embedded inside me. I feared walking to and from school. One day walking back home two drunk men from my neighboured took me to an alleyway and started forcing me to perform oral sex on them. They took turns to rape me too. I got home shaking and told my mother. She said: ‘I warned you so; it is your fault, grow up and be a man’. How hypocritical can you get? Considering she never married and had several children from different fathers. I went to the local police, but they started laughing. They told me to keep it quiet and not to reveal who had done this, otherwise I could be at risk of being killed. I took an overdose. Luckily, my sister found me and took me to hospital. As soon as I was able to get sufficient money, I bought a flight to Europe.

Professionally speaking, I can say that many LGBT+ clients at MECS presented with suicidal ideation or suicide attempts due to homophobia and discrimination experienced within their own families and cultural networks. There were many cases of bullying, marginalisation, and persecution taking place at school, in the neighbourhood and in their respective countries, resulting from specific laws and fundamental religious values that condemned instead of protecting LGBT+ population. Philippe (not his real name) reported:

“I was 6 or 7 years old when my mother and father saw me playing with another boy. I never understood what I did wrong. Soon after, they put me in isolation and forbade me to play with my cousins and other boys in the neighbourhood. I had already become a family joke. When, I was 15 my father and uncles took me to see prostitutes who started harassing me sexually. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I remember being scared and begged one of them to tell my father we had sex. She didn’t. She told him I was a fagot. This made things worse. My father tried ‘to beat the queer out of me’. They even took me to an exorcist. I hate my parents and blame their religion for this.”

Criminalization of same-sex relations

In at least 76 countries, discriminatory laws criminalize private consensual same-sex relationships, exposing millions of individuals to the risk of arrest, prosecution, imprisonment, and murder [3]. Ali (not his real name) a gay refugee from Pakistan related his experience:

Many men and the police walk hand in hand in my country. Paradoxically, they threw a gay friend from a high building and his body smashed dead on the ground… My partner of 10 years worked for the police. We lived a life of secrecy and were very happy. Somebody found out and reported it. My partner was killed, and I was tortured and raped… A nice policeman took pity on me and released me one night. My parents got me out of the country. I’m lucky I managed to escape to London.

LGBT+ community has come a long way since the Stonewall Riots of 1968 in New York. Many young people living in the EU, USA, Canada, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand take for granted the relative recent changes in the law legalising same sex marriages and equal opportunities. However, as reported by the UN, there are many jurisdictions that criminalise private, consensual same-sex activity and refuse to change gender names in official documents. In some countries, even though there are no laws against being gay or transgender, you are readily at risk of being attacked or assaulted simply because there are no laws to protect you. Tanya (not her real name) a recent Asian transgender refugee client who worked at a bank in an oil rich Middle Eastern country related her appalling experience:

I was travelling to another country in the Gulf to meet my boyfriend. On arrival the immigration authorities saw the male name in my passport. They took me to a private room where several officers started beating me up. They proceeded with sexual assaults taking turns to rape me until I lost consciousness. I spent 10 days in a hospital. When I recovered, I bought a flight to London and applied for asylum.

In the field of criminology, it is a highly involved process working out the specifics of ‘hate crime’ in terms of its psycho-social impact. How homophobic attacks manifest and impact on each individual and the differences between ‘hate’, prejudice, bigotry, bias, persecution, injustice, or harassment towards LGBT+ people is an ongoing process to be explored in therapy. In some instances, social isolation, loneliness, and widespread discrimination, and an inability to talk openly about feelings safely for fear of retaliation show a strong association with poor mental health. The trauma that can result from this points to the need to foster a greater sense of connectedness for LGBT+ people. Many LGBT+ community services such as Mind Out, Terrence Higgins Trust, Stonewall, Micro-Rainbow, and Gender Intelligence have stepped into the gap by providing information, advocacy, and mental health support for LGBT+ people. These services can allow LGBT+ people to interrelate and develop friendship in an affirming environment. They facilitate the social connections and everyday friendships that many cisgender or heterosexual people take for granted. Bernardo (not his real name) a gay activist asylum seeker reported:

Like many Nicaraguans in exile, I was helping and sending money while working in… [a Caribbean Island] to help the LGBT+ and other political activists challenging Nicaraguan dictatorship. When I returned, the police put me in prison where I was tortured and raped. After a month they released me. My parents and siblings couldn’t care less, they told me I deserved it for being queer working for the devil. I had some savings, so I bought a ticket to Spain and later came to London where I had some friends.

Compassion has no limit. Empathy can be divisive. Kindness has no enemy.

Compassion is when you relate to someone’s situation, and you want to help them. Empathy, however, can make us unconsciously more sympathetic towards individuals we relate to, but it can also make us less likely to want to connect with people whose experiences don’t mirror ours. When it comes to helping “outsiders” who are suffering, our brains may perceive that this is going to be hard work, or perhaps expose our vulnerabilities, so it is better to reject the effort and remain silent. An act of kindness may or may not involve feeling whereas compassion involves very strong feelings that compel us to act upon it.

The Dalai Lama clearly stated that: Compassion is a necessity, not a luxury and it is a question of human survival. Compassion is unifying, as supposed to empathy, they both play a demonstrable role in vicariously dealing with trauma. This is important for LGBT+ peers and their friends because it provides emotional support to those who have been directly victimised. Many LGBT+ associations, bring people together, they strengthen group bonds, and allow victims of homophobia to feel safer. In turn, the individual feels protected, and less vulnerable. So, it is very positive to be able to grow in a permissive multi-cultural environment with protective laws that allow LGBT+ people to thrive. They become part of an embracing and encouraging society that allows them to contribute and create a better world for all concern. This is something that many heterosexual people take for granted. Cristina (not her real name) a lesbian client brought up in a strict Catholic family explained what it was like for her to attend monthly meetings set up by Micro Rainbow – a Jewish LGBT+ charity for asylum seekers and refugees in West London:

“Because a safe environment strengthens you, by helping you to become aware that you’re not alone, that you can ‘come out’ safely, be yourself. You are allowed to have lesbian and gay friends supporting you all the way. This helped me a lot to find out about myself. I know now that being lesbian or gay is not an illness but just another human that can express love to another human being, and no one can condemn you, either from a moral, cultural, or religious point of view.”

“Stigma sometimes is more dangerous than the terminal disease itself”– Nelson Mandela

The LGBT+ community represent a fundamental physical and symbolic space of sexual identity and recognition of minority groups that help to create a sense of belonging. This is essential as it encourages many HIV+ diagnosed individuals in Western countries to access successful medical treatments and psychological support. Thanks to successful changes in the law that protect the LGBT+ community, people can seek appropriate mental health therapies that also work with HIV+/AIDS related issues and stigma. The Terrence Higgins Trust in London and the NHS provide advice and free access to sexual health clinics, online counselling, and peer support. The networks also include chemsex supporting groups dealing with addiction. Chemsex, for instance, is often a risky practice of mixing sex with crystal meth or methamphetamine, and GHB – all of which are highly addictive drugs in their own right. Add to this equation the unsafe sexual practices with heightened sexual desires of repetitive chemsex practices and it becomes one of the most dangerous addictions and transmissions of sexual diseases, including HIV [4].

HIV-related stigma has a major impact on quality of life and health among people living with this condition. The stigma is often experienced as a social and psychological rejection and discrimination, which reinforces shame, guilt, anger, and fear of disclosure. Many people conceal their HIV+ status because it can lead to depression, anxiety, ostracism and disavowal from the family, and friends. It can also reduce the chances of social and psychological support, loss of work, financial strain, including the decision to forgo valuable medical treatments [5].

Sometimes established psychological services and heterosexual therapists may not be aware of the complexities surrounding HIV-stigma and internalized homophobia as it is hard to relate to unless you or someone closed has been through this. There may be blind spots and a need to recognise the insidious damage it does to the psyche of a person. But it can also be overwhelming with the feeling that it is beyond one’s capacity to provide appropriate psychological support. Daniel (not his real name), a HIV+ young gay man dealing with chemsex and sex/love addiction during an assessment disclosed:

“I was rejected for long-term therapy at a… [well-established mental health Trust in London] I was afraid you were going to do the same… I’ve stopped all the chemsex drugs and sexual addiction for over a year. My family doesn’t know I’m HIV+. If they found out they would probably tell my cousins because I’ve had sex with them. I used to live in a small community and people are in each other’s business. Sex among men in… [an island] where I come from is taboo, but it is a regular practice. If they found out that I’m also HIV+, the men I had sex with as a teenager will start getting very scared and become aggressive towards my family, particularly because we’ve all had unprotected sex. But I got HIV from my ex-partner in London. He introduced me, and I succumbed, to all these crazy chemsex parties.”

“I think the best day will be when we no longer talk about being straight or gay.” – P!nk

The LGBT+ community is not a homogenous group. Members of this community represent a diversity of racial, ethnicity, cultural, religious, and socioeconomic backgrounds. However, all the members of the LGBT community are unified in that they belong to a stigmatized minority group. Sadly, the LGBT+ community show a higher risk for mental health conditions because of the stigma, discriminatory policies, persecution, and other cultural and social-political laws and stressors imposed by members of more dominant majority groups [6].

In the UK, LGBT+ people face more overt and implicit discrimination and inequality than their straight counterpart. Counselling and psychotherapy can benefit the LGBT+ individual and in many ways, the treatment used may not differ from other forms of intervention used with heterosexual or cisgender clients. Nevertheless, most heterosexual, cisgender therapists are not in the habit of declaring their sexual or gender identities. In a world that naturalizes their sexual and gender identities, many are unaccustomed to the need of directly making such revelations. Many therapists are not likely to ask the question, “Do you ever wonder why you are heterosexual?” Heterosexuality is assumed to be nature’s way of human reproductive capability to maintain the species by default [7].

Finally, when the socio-political environment is interfering with the mental health and well-being of a particular minority group, counsellors, psychotherapists, and psychologists are called to support social change through therapy, or advocacy [8]. As a homosexual therapist, I’ve worked with some gay men and transgender people because they were concerned that a particular public organisation, or therapist might not see them with respect, compassion and without prejudice about their sexuality and lifestyle. Many psychological services would try to allocate a man or woman and black or ethnic minorities to the same gender and/or ethnicity therapist, if possible, but may not consider so important to allocate an LGBT+ individual with an LGBT+ therapist.

At WCC/MECS we endeavour to allocate LGBT+ clients to LGB counsellors whenever possible, particularly if they request it. During clinical supervision, I encourage our trainees and experienced counsellors, regardless of their gender or sexual identity, to evaluate the client’s need to come out. I consider more valuable to initially explore with the client their needs, ideas, and projections towards the counsellor. I feel that it would become more productive to consider first any previous experiences of therapy and any expectations they may have about the therapist in the counselling room. This approach can create better rapport and a stronger therapeutic alliance. The therapist and the client can also evaluate together the relevance of being open about their own sexuality. I feel it is important to foster an environment of authenticity, and empowerment while respecting confidentiality. We want to encourage LGBT+ individuals to be open and trusting, so they can see that there is nothing wrong with them, but there is a lot of things that may have gone wrong with the world we live in, and that is worth exploring.

Rafael Ramos García is a senior private psychodynamic counsellor of more than 20 years’ experience. He supervises other therapists at Waterloo Community Services and Wandsworth Bereavement Services. He is a member of the British Psychoanalytic Council. He works with LGBT+ asylum seekers and refugees as part of the Multi-ethnic Counselling Services at WCC. He also practices and is a teacher trainer of Kundalini Yoga and Meditation throughout Europe. www.paddingtonandchelseapsychotherapy.com

References:

[1] APA Online. “Answers to Your Questions About Sexual Orientation and Homosexuality”. Online. 11 April 2003. Available https://www.apa.org/pubinfo/answers.html.

[2] December 2000. American Psychologist. Guidelines for Psychotherapy with Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual clients.

[3] United Nations LGBT+ Equality Fact Sheet.

[4] https://www.unfe.org/system/unfe-43-UN_Fact_Sheets_-_FINAL_-_Criminalization_(1).pdf

[5] https://safehouserehab.com/chemsex-addiction/

[6] Vanable PA, Carey MP, Blair DC, Littlewood RA. Impact of HIV-related stigma on health behaviors and psychological adjustment among HIV-positive men and women. AIDS Behav 2006;10:473–482 [PMC free article] [PubMed]

[7] https://focus.psychiatryonline.org/doi/pdf/10.1176/appi.focus.20200001

[8] Mitchell et al., 2009; Mitchell and Howarth 2009; Communities Analytical Services, 2013

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