Blog

Annemarie Ward, CEO of Faces and Voices of Recovery UK, reflects on the spiritual journey that has anchored her tireless efforts to support those in the grip of addiction and change government policies that are failing them.

I embarked on my first pilgrimage to Medjugorje in June 2019 seeking nothing more than a bit of rest and a break from my routine. However, what I encountered was far beyond anything I could have imagined—so profound that I hesitate to even put it into words for fear of sounding irrational. Yet something extraordinary did happen. Upon returning to Glasgow, one phrase kept echoing in my mind: ‘You keep talking, we keep dying’. This haunting message became the driving force behind a campaign that has shaped my work and life ever since.

Over the past five years, the charity I work for, Faces and Voices of Recovery UK, has increasingly focused on urgent advocacy efforts. While we continue to celebrate recovery from addiction through our events, we have also taken a more active role in holding the Scottish Government accountable for the serious deficiencies in their drug and alcohol services and policy infrastructure, and established the UK’s first-ever addiction advocacy case worker service.

Despite substantial investment in harm reduction strategies such as substitute prescriptions, heroin-assisted treatment, and needle exchanges—what the industry often refers to as 'treatment'—there remains a stark lack of support for detox, community and residential rehab, and abstinence-based services…which are the services the public typically associated with the word ‘treatment’.  I believe this imbalance is a significant factor contributing to the alarming rates of drug and alcohol-related deaths.

Just recently, the Scottish Health Minister Neil Gray admitted that the government intends to allocate only 140 rehab beds for the entire country. This provision, they claim, is intended to serve 1,000 individuals annually, based on the unrealistic assumption that each stay would be limited to a mere six weeks. To suggest that 140 beds could address Scotland's severe drug addiction crisis is more than inadequate—it’s an outright scandal. Six weeks might barely scratch the surface of addiction recovery; it is far from sufficient to address the complex, deep-rooted issues that individuals face. True rehabilitation requires extended, intensive care and ongoing support, which this minimal provision utterly fails to deliver.
This gross underestimation by the government is not just a failure—it’s a deep betrayal of Scotland’s citizens. Rehabilitation isn’t a quick fix; it’s a long-term process that demands substantial investment in time, resources, and care. By setting such a low target, the government is effectively declaring that the lives of those struggling with addiction are not worth the necessary commitment.
The broader picture exposes a systemic failure in Scotland’s approach to addiction treatment. The focus appears to be more on managing numbers than on genuinely addressing the crisis. The idea that 140 beds could suffice in a country where 50,000 people are in addiction treatment each year is a damning indictment of the government's scant seriousness in tackling this issue.

When we call for more balanced investment, we often face fierce opposition, with some accusing us of being anti-harm reduction. But nothing could be further from the truth. Our goal is not to dismantle harm reduction but to ensure that every person struggling with addiction has access to the care that best suits their needs. The conversation should not be about choosing between harm reduction and abstinence/recovery, but rather about ensuring that both are available in a way that truly meets the needs of those we aim to help.

Exposing the industry’s shortcomings has undoubtedly stirred up a lot of anger towards me. I knew that speaking out would cause discomfort, but I underestimated just how deep the backlash would be. Yet, the truth needed to be brought to light. Challenging the status quo and highlighting the failings of a multi-million-pound industry that for too long have been overlooked is never easy, especially when it disrupts the comfort of those who profit from the existing system. I understand that my actions have made me a target for criticism and resentment, but my focus has always been on the greater good—advocating for those who are often forgotten and pushing for the changes that are so desperately needed. Particularly when the most vulnerable, living in our poorest communities, are dying in the greatest numbers. In Scotland, people in the most deprived areas are more than 15 times as likely to die from drug addiction compared to those in the least deprived areas.
Throughout this journey, my faith has been my steadfast anchor. There were moments when I felt so overwhelmed by the challenges I faced that I sought refuge in daily mass, drawing on the comfort and protection that only my faith could provide against the abuse and character attacks I endured. In those difficult times, we poured our energy into drafting what is now known as the Right to Recovery Bill—a response to the misleading narratives and divisive arguments that have obstructed meaningful progress in addressing Scotland’s addiction crisis. Although initially overlooked by some political parties, the bill was eventually embraced by the Tories and has since gained significant support. It is now poised to be debated in the Scottish Parliament, offering a crucial opportunity to ensure that both harm reduction and recovery-focused services are enshrined in law.

I have returned to Medjugorje on four occasions, including one deeply blessed four-week visit. My most recent trip was just last month, when I brought my son and his two flatmates to the Youth Festival. During those first few days, I experienced a profound sense of relief, as if a heavy burden I had carried for five years was being lifted. For years, I had felt compelled to fight and educate as many people as possible about this issue, but in Medjugorje, it felt as though that obligation was easing. It was a strange sensation, almost difficult to trust because the burden had been so heavy and the journey so lonely. I sought counsel from various spiritual directors, and they all agreed that I was no longer required to fight with the same intensity as before—that I could choose when and how to continue, rather than feeling it was my sole responsibility.

I often reflect on my first visit to Medjugorje, particularly the moment when I attempted to climb Apparition Hill for the first time. Overcome by the heat and discomfort, I decided to turn back and abandon the climb. As I began my descent, a beautiful young woman stopped me, visibly shocked by my decision to turn around, especially since she informed me that Our Lady was about to appear to one of the visionaries. For a brief moment, I wondered if she might be a bit mad, but I politely offered my excuses, explaining that I was too hot and sore, and turned to continue my descent.

Just then, she asked if she could ask me a couple of questions. The next thing I knew, a very large camera was suddenly in my face, operated by a strikingly handsome young man whose features were partly obscured by the camera. (Until that moment, I had never been asked to speak on camera) The beautiful woman then asked me two questions: why I had come to Medjugorje, and what I was prepared to do. The words that came out of my mouth felt as though they were spoken by someone else. I found myself begging our Lord to allow me to serve him, fully aware of my unworthiness.

At the time, my response surprised me, but now, looking back on how far I’ve come both spiritually and in this campaign and what happened next  I see clearly that God works in mysterious ways. Every time I’ve been asked to speak in front of a camera since that night on Apparition Hill, I think of the beautiful young man and woman from that moment, and somehow despite my fear and inadequacy, I always find the words to respond.  My relationship with Our Lady and Our Lord has deepened, evolving into one of trusted friendship and comfort. I continue to beg for the opportunity to serve, knowing that the burden I’ve carried is, thankfully, lifting and that others are stepping forward to share in this work.

As I reflect on this journey, I realise that it has been as much about my own spiritual growth as it has been about advocating for change. With the burden easing, I hope others will join me in carrying the weight, allowing us to continue this important work together.

It was both inspiring and painful to find myself alongside John Harvey at the recent Christian Peace Vigil at Faslane Naval Base.

The event, organised by Justice and Peace Scotland, served as an opportunity to reaffirm our Christian opposition to the existence of weapons of mass destruction on the site of the UK’s nuclear arsenal with prayer, hymn and reflection. Led by faith leaders Archbishop William Nolan, President of Justice and Peace Scotland and Archbishop of Glasgow; Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, Rev Dr Shaw Paterson and Bishop Andrew Swift, Bishop of Brechin Diocese, from the Scottish Episcopal Church.

John has been part of countless such gatherings over the decades. It inspires that the retired Church of Scotland minister and member of the Iona Community has never stopped bearing witness in his repudiation of nuclear weapons. It pains that this has meant John making his way to Faslane regularly since the first such assembly he brought together in 1968 - the year nuclear submarines docked in the Gare Loch, with the warheads for them stored at the nearby naval base in Coulport.

When John does so approaching the anniversary of the US dropping nuclear bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, responsible for the deaths of an estimated 246,000 men, women and children - the 2024 vigil held almost 79 years after that unimaginable carnage - Mr Nii is on his mind.

A man who became his friend, Mr Nii was a Hiroshima survivor that John took to his first Faslane protest 56 years ago. “I did so to alert people to the true dangers of nuclear weapons,” he said. Mr Nii stayed with him and during his visit the pair attended a Glasgow Film Theatre screening of The War Game. A BBC 1965 docu-drama depicting a nuclear war and its aftermath, it caused such uproar within the Corporation and the government over being “too horrifying” that it was not screened on television until the mid-1980s. Mr Nii’s take was different, though. “When we left the cinema, I asked him what he thought of it and he said ‘very bad, very bad’”, John recalled. “I asked him why and he said: ‘it showed too many survivors’”.

Current nuclear weapons are understood to be 30 times more deadly than those dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It defies any belief in humanity to imagine there could be circumstances whereby any of the nine nuclear powers would consider justifications for their use, and the mass destruction of life and the environment that would ensue.

In a powerful address at the recent gathering, Archbishop Nolan lamented that such arsenals - and bases such as Faslane and Coulport - were being expanded, and called for governments to focus instead on re-establishing their commitment to the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons by preventing the spread of nuclear weapons technology and pursuing serious efforts towards disarmament. He demanded a recognition that these weapons, which many countries seek to ban via the UN, serve as no deterrent but rather perpetuate escalation. That those in power could see through the bogus perception of these weapons as a “comfort blanket” - even as moral arguments, and financial arguments, the UK’s renewal of its stock costing £300 billion, do not appear to be cutting through.

As people of faith, the Archbishop reminded us that we too have a special facet in our armoury. “All we can do is pray that our governments and politicians will see that these weapons serve no purpose at all; they don’t make our world more secure but less secure and waste precious human resources,” he said. “Pray the politicians who make the decisions will have a change of heart and cast away their comfort blanket and rid the world of these weapons of mass destruction.”

The Moderator implored that “our present is shaped by the past, our future is shaped by the present”. “Whenever we see images of the attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, whenever we see the devastation to human life, to animal and plant life, we are reminded of the need to care for God’s creation and work for peace,” he said.

Bishop Swift called on peacemakers to be “the prophetic voice” that cries out “not in our name” over the moral offence that is the existence and propagation of nuclear weapons. In a time when those in the global south go hungry and even those in our own country cannot afford to eat and heat their homes.

A thoughtful liturgy crafted by Fr David Stewart of the Jesuits and Rev Sheena Orr of the Church of Scotland, conveyed such messages to those present. A near 50-strong group that covered various religious faiths and none, and comprised all age groups, from teenagers to septuagenarians. With a closing prayer encapsulating the desire of all in attendance.:
Lead me from death to life, from falsehood to truth,
Lead me from despair to hope, from fear to trust,
Lead me from hate to love, from war to peace.

In the latest in his series of blogs, Alex Holmes updates us on his most recent visit to the refugee camps of Calais. 

Calais.
Come the fences,
Come the walls,
Come the boulders;
And then the wildflowers come.

Between the boulders and the wire of the old Stadium Camp, a scarlet and magenta blaze of poppies and wild geraniums. Further beyond, along the foot of the ‘security wall’, tower the tall stems of wild mustard studded with small yellow blooms. Russet and orange daisies mass across the roundabout where hazardous games of football were once played. 

Displacement – Eviction – Replacement

And then the wildflowers come. Irrepressible, tenacious, the expression of an unbounded freedom.

‘When you have a dream, you have motivation….I will be a professor in America’. Ariam’s teenage exuberance lifts spirits. He’s sitting in the doorway of his tent swiping at the flies that buzz around him. His spoken English is near perfect. He freezes as a wasp is drawn to the honey that he’s spreading onto his breakfast bread. ‘There’s a different vibe today’ he says. All around the camp, a bustle of preparation; bags are being packed, shoes cleaned. ‘White shoes for UK,’ grins Temey as he re-laces his scrubbed-clean white trainers. ‘I leave my black shoes in France’. A round of farewells and he’s off with his friend Mebrahtu. ‘Breakfast in England….see you in Old Trafford’.

A warm but insistent wind blows in from the south-west. Mesfin is sweeping up rubbish using a willow branch. Eyob, the architect, bangs home a final nail into the windbreak he’s constructed from discarded pallets. He then turns his attention to another of his creations: the fire grill. It has a wooden block nailed to each corner and each block is set into an empty tin can filled with water. The fire is blazing, lunch is cooking and the tins need a top-up of water to prevent the blocks burning. Suddenly a call of ‘Gendar’*. Six police cars swing into the nearby car-park; it’s displacement time, again. Twenty police officers walk in single file towards the camp then fan out through the spaces between the tents and the trees. ‘Allez, allez’. It’s a well-rehearsed ritual, repeated every second day, designed to undermine any sense of permanence. The guys must move their tents into the car park; anything left behind will be taken away. The atmosphere is mostly cordial. One policeman sings to himself. After fifteen minutes, they have gone and the tents are re-pitched, cooking resumes, the day moves on.

A clearing in the willows and Adonay’s solitary tent. In the gaps between the trees, a wall of wild thistles. The purple blooms are transitioning; soon the feathery seed hairs will disperse with the wind. A blue half-barrel is filled with water; it serves as the duck pond. The well-fed camp ducks, a pair of mallard, sit in the willow shade, one of them tentatively dipping his bill into the water.

‘I really cannot stay in Calais any longer’, says Adonay. He is one of the ‘old guard’, here in the camp for eighteen months. Looking lovingly at the ducks he wonders why they don’t lay eggs.

‘Because they’re both males’ replies Negus, another of the ‘old guard’.

‘Why don’t they fly away?’ 

‘Perhaps you’ve given them too much food; they’re fat ducks!’

Adonay’s phone is tuned into the BBC World Service; Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury, is interviewing the musician Nick Cave. Negus suggests a change of tone. 

‘Watch this, it made me laugh till I cried’.

It’s a short animation called ‘Before Time, in the Beginning’. A pupil is being taught how to say ‘beginning’. He tries and tries…‘in the beninging…in the beninanging’….but it’s a step too far and he walks away. ‘Where are you going?’ the teacher demands. ‘I will go home now and start in the beninging’.

‘I will go home now.’ Negus dreams of home, of his mother, of a time before time…in the beginning. A strong gust blows through the clearing lifting a puff of thistledown. Soon the feathery seeds have vanished, gone with the wind.

*’Gendars’ (Gendarmes/police)