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For those who have suffered torture, oppression and war
Tel: 01225 444911 email: email@example.com
On 28th December 2015 Kim Hastings, one of our longest standing and valued members, died at the much-
Kim worked as a therapist since 1983 when she completed her training with the Institute of the Development of Human Potential, then the only therapy training in this area. She went on to complete the art therapy training in St Albans and the BCPC training. Kim was also a founding member in 2002 of the BCPC Asylum Project, now the Trauma Foundation South West, and was still a member at the time of her death. No other founding member was/is still working with this charity except myself. Working with asylum seekers and refugees became her passion and was the only aspect of her work that she was still undertaking when she was taken ill having retired from working with other clients. Contd/…..
Kim was an experienced therapist and supervisor who continued her work up until her death in spite of suffering from ill health in recent years and difficulty with hearing which made group work difficult for her and curtailed the range of work she could have undertaken.
Kim was a talented and deeply thoughtful therapist who was much valued by her colleagues and clients. One of her colleagues commented that she brought so much dedication and sincerity to the work. Her contributions to supervision groups were always reflective and brought new depth to our understanding of the work being done. Another close colleague, Lynn Linsdale, said that she felt that Kim’s insight and support was something she could learn from to pass on to others. She commented that Kim liked to share her thoughts but she also listened carefully and her remarks thereafter showed she was open to learning and wanted to understand as a core value that was very important to her.
Written by Judy Ryde
Cry, like the Spring Rain
was suddenly still:
the sound of your voice;
rubble earth formed a crust,
Cry, like the spring rain,
like the birds that cut the dusk:
call to me, I am listening, I am listening.
Lifted from the ruin of the house -
his lungs fluttered like a moth
in a silk cocoon:
He was blue
Until he cried out
but his mother’s hush
doesn’t quiet him now.
that beneath the beams of the roof,
the dust that spreads over her,
beneath our Bibibaff carpet,
our sleeping rooms,
she feasts on mulberry -
spins her silk-
and when the moths rush the window
press our hands to the glass.
by Kim Hastings
On 28th December 2015 one of our longest standing and valued members , died at the much-