No Guardian, No Freedom: Inside Afghanistan’s Mahram Restrictions

This article is co-published with Zan Times.

Every morning, before Nazanin wraps her headscarf or makes breakfast, one question hangs heavy in her mind: “Can my husband come with me today?”

At 23, Nazanin is a midwife with four years of experience, but she can only go to work if accompanied by a male guardian, or mahram. That man is her husband, who must remain unemployed to escort her to the clinic each day.

Without him, she is turned away at the door.

The couple carries a special mahram card issued by Afghanistan’s Ministry of Public Health and approved by the Ministry of Vice and Virtue. It is their daily passport to her livelihood.

“So far, there have been only three times that I went without a Mahram,” said Nazanin, explaining that Vice and Virtue government officials  blocked her from entering the clinic each time. “[They] told me that I am not allowed to enter without a Mahram. [All three times] I had returned home and lost the day’s pay.”

Nazanin earns 18,000 afghanis a month, but a third of it goes to covering her husband’s travel and meals. At home, she supports a family of 12, including a sick mother. If her husband were free to work, their family might stay afloat.

“This rule hasn’t only stripped us of our dignity,” Nazanin told More to Her Story. “It has shattered the backbone of our family’s economy.”

Her wish is simple: to leave her house and go to work — alone, as she once did.

Since the Taliban’s return to power in August 2021, Afghan women have seen their rights steadily erode: they are banned from schools, barred from employment, and removed from public life. But now, a new rule has added yet another layer of control: the mahram card, a small piece of paper stamped with the Taliban’s “Islamic Emirate” seal issued by the Ministry of Vice and Virtue. For women health workers — one of the few remaining employment opportunities for women — the card is issued by the Health Ministry and approved by the Vice and Virtue ministry. The process takes weeks to verify identity documents, such as a national ID (tazkira) for the father, brother, and a marriage certificate for a husband or son.

The rule requires women to be accompanied by a male guardian (mahram) and carry a government-issued card to access any public space, workplace, market, or even the pharmacy. Without it, women risk arrest, beatings, job loss or worse. The rule initially came into effect for long distance travel in December 2021; but it has since been expanded to include any visit outside the home. 

Speaking to More to Her Story, women from across Afghanistan, regardless of their age, described how the newly expanded policy has transformed their daily lives into a minefield of fear, humiliation, and forced dependency.

Zubaida was always passionate about learning, a young woman with a degree in English literature and teaching experience. She entered the job market in 2018, first working as an instructor at a language institute. After the Taliban’s takeover, she joined a local organization running World Food Program (WFP) projects.

“The Vice and Virtue officers came every day,” Zubaida said, “and they became stricter and stricter. Their daily presence and checking every woman for a mahram made it harder for us to continue.” She remembered the day she showed up at work without one: “They didn’t let me into the office. They brought my paperwork outside, I signed it in the car, and went back home.”

In April, when her brother left Afghanistan, everything collapsed for Zubaida. “The office announced that continuing work without a mahram was no longer possible. I was forced to leave a job I loved and had worked hard at for years. Quitting was a huge blow. It was extremely difficult for me to endure.”

Maryam*, a legal and monitoring officer at an NGO, had been unable to attend work for three consecutive days because she lacked a mahram. Her husband had passed away, and her son, now married, no longer qualified to serve in that role.

“I love my job and consider myself a strong woman,” Maryam said. “But I’ve cried so much over the past three days, I feel like all my strength is gone.”

The restrictions have become even more burdensome in her province in western Afghanistan. A humanitarian aid organization was recently shut down after seven female staff members were arrested for working without a mahram. In the wake of that incident, Maryam’s employer also barred her from entering the office or working in the field unless accompanied by a male guardian.

“God forbid you get arrested,” the management told her. “Our entire multi-hundred-thousand-dollar project would be at risk.”

In response, Maryam’s sister—who lives in Helmand province in southern Afghanistan—sent her son to accompany Maryam as her mahram. Now, Maryam is pinning her hopes on her nephew, who is making an 11-hour, 1,200-kilometer journey across the country to act as a guardian for his 48-year-old aunt.

She hopes that once he arrives, she will be able to obtain a mahram card and finally return to work.

“Today, when my nephew called and said, ‘Dear Aunt, I’m on my way and close to Badghis to be your mahram,’ I cried out of joy,” she said.

In the scorching heat of Kandahar, beneath midwifery uniforms, black hijabs, and burqas that cover bodies down to the ankles, young women struggle to breathe. Simin* was one of them — a student in one of the midwifery programs in Kandahar, who, in pursuit of her dream to become a midwife, forced her breadwinner father to miss work every day just to accompany her as her mahram. At the institute’s entrance and hospital gate, two Taliban amr bil ma’ruf officers sat daily. Anyone arriving without a male guardian was turned away. Their message was clear: “Wear a burqa, wear hijab, and bring a mahram.”

Despite everything, Simin said, “We told ourselves, it’s okay, at least we’re allowed to study, and we accept that.” But even that minimal hope was taken from them.

The institute was shut down in June 2024. Simin and her classmates returned multiple times to ask for permission to continue their studies, but they were not allowed to enter. They were left standing outside with their cards, with their mahrams and with their burqas.

At Taliban checkpoints, officers inspect mahram cards and question women and men separately: What is your familial relationship? What’s your father’s name? Your grandfather’s?

Fatima, an educated, middle-aged woman from a western province, went out alone to buy household essentials. She took a taxi. Near a Taliban checkpoint, she was ordered out of the vehicle.

“He asked, ‘Where’s your mahram?’ I told him I didn’t have one — that I had no choice but to come alone,” she said. “He snapped, ‘Don’t talk back, or I’ll beat you!’”

Sensing the tension, the taxi driver urged her to flee.

“Go,” he said. “Just go from here.”

Fatima walked home in fear, afraid she was being followed.

“Now, I no longer dare step outside. My house has become my cage,” she said. “Not having a mahram has become a crime — one that strips us of everything: the right to work, to shop, even to save the lives of our loved ones.”