I’m a 30-year-old woman from Somalia. In 2018, I was married to a British citizen from my home country. I joined him in the UK on a spouse visa in 2020, hopeful for a new chapter and a future filled with love and stability.
I hold a university degree, but my husband’s education ended at primary school. From early on, I could sense that this difference made him feel insecure. Rather than celebrate or support me, he used it against me. He would undermine my confidence, insult me, and make me feel small, as though tearing me down made him feel stronger.
It became clear very quickly that he believed a wife should be completely submissive someone who never disagrees and simply says “yes” to everything. Just two months after we married, he shouted at me during a simple discussion, calling me “stupid” and insisting my opinions didn’t matter. When I tried to explain, he silenced me. I wanted to leave then, but my family back home didn’t allow it. They were more concerned about honour than my wellbeing.
The abuse continued and got worse. While I was pregnant, he slapped me. He spoke openly and proudly about violent things he had done in the past, telling me about smashing his friend’s head with a hammer, something even his father confirmed. He told me about hurting a previous partner so badly she needed stitches but never reported him. These stories were meant to scare me, and they did.
I thought things would change if we had a child. We went through IVF and were blessed with a daughter, but instead of things improving, they got worse. He would fly into rages, throw things, scream, and act unpredictably. I realised he wasn’t taking his prescribed medication for his mental illness, and when he was unmedicated, he completely lost control. I truly feared that one day he might kill both me and our child.
He continued to call me “stupid” and threatened to divorce me if I left the house without his permission. He never even used my name. I told my father back home how abusive and mentally unwell my husband was, how controlling and dangerous he had become. But I was told to “cope” and avoid bringing shame to the family through divorce. I felt trapped culturally, emotionally, and physically.
Then came the breaking point. After one particularly terrifying episode, I called the police. He left for a few days but returned, more volatile than ever banging his head on the wall, screaming, throwing objects. At one point, he took a knife from the kitchen and threatened to kill himself. That was when I knew I couldn’t risk staying any longer. I had to protect my daughter and myself.
I confided in a health visitor, who immediately recognised the danger I was in and referred me to KMEWO. Because it was unsafe to communicate while my husband was home, the caseworker took extra precautions to ensure I could speak safely. They supported me every step of the way. I was moved to a hidden location, and when my husband realised, I had left, he tried to shame me by telling my family I had fled with another man.
KMEWO became my lifeline. My caseworker spoke my language and understood the cultural pressures I was facing. For the first time, I didn’t have to explain or defend myself, she understood me. KMEWO gave me support, protection, and most importantly, they helped me believe I had the right to live free from fear.
Support and Outcomes
KMEWO carried out a full risk assessment and found I was at high risk. My case was referred to MARAC for multi-agency support. They helped me create a personal safety plan and referred me to Children’s Social Services to ensure my daughter’s wellbeing was safeguarded.
I was referred to an immigration solicitor and applied for the DDV (Destitute Domestic Violence) concession, which gave me temporary leave to remain. At first, I was placed in a hotel for emergency safety, then transferred to a refuge where I could begin to recover.
I was also referred to a family solicitor and successfully applied for a Non-Molestation Order. KMEWO supported me through the legal process, even supporting me give a statement to the police.
To help with my healing, I was referred to counselling in my native language. I continue to receive emotional support, and I’m slowly rebuilding my confidence and sense of self.
A Future Without Fear
KMEWO has become like family to me. I had no one in the UK, but they stood by me, guided me, and reminded me that I deserved safety, dignity, and freedom. For the first time in a long time, I feel safe. I am learning to live again, not as a victim, but as a survivor.