To buy a ticket for my trip to Kabul, my sister and I went to the office of a bus company. The staff told me that because I did not have a mahram (male guardian) with me, they could not sell me a ticket.
I explained that I would not be travelling alone but would be with my mother and sister. They replied that they had received an official directive and could not issue me a ticket.
I told them that I am a woman with a disability and that I had to travel to Kabul for medical treatment. At the moment, I had no male family member who could accompany me on the journey. They said they had no authority to make an exception. If I wanted a ticket, they told me, I should first go to the Ministry for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice where I had to obtain a letter authorizing my travel.
Taking a chance, I went to another bus company. Desperate, I first explained my circumstances and then asked if they would sell me a ticket. Fortunately, they agreed.
We arrived at the terminal and set off for Kabul. Along the way, the bus was stopped at a checkpoint. A Taliban gunman boarded to inspect the passengers, looking at each person before moving on. When he reached us, he asked, “Where is your mahram?”
I replied that I was travelling with my mother and sister and was not alone. I also explained that I am a woman with a disability and no male relation could accompany me on this trip.
The gunman shouted at me, accusing me of lying.
I said, “Look at my wheelchair. Look at my physical condition and my legs. You’ll see for yourself.”
Instead, he walked over to the driver and slapped him across the face.
“Why did you let these women board without a mahram?” he demanded.
The driver replied, “I’m not responsible for checking passengers or issuing tickets.”
The gunman ordered him to stop the bus so he could force us off.
After a heated argument and much commotion, the Taliban fighter finally let us continue. But he issued the driver a warning: “This time I’ll let it go. But if you ever allow a woman without a legitimate mahram onto your bus again, I’ll refer you for criminal prosecution.”
At the Ministry of Interior
My sister and I wanted to apply for international scholarships to continue our education. One of the application requirements was a certificate from Afghanistan’s Ministry of Interior confirming that the applicant had no criminal record. Obtaining this certificate was the main purpose of our trip to Kabul.
I went to the Ministry of Interior to obtain that certificate.
Although I was wearing a black chapan and a face mask, and my sister was with me, an armed guard standing at the ministry’s entrance asked, “Where is your mahram? Why have you come here without one?”
Fear washed over me. I worried they would refuse to let us in and that our long journey from the province would have been for nothing.
With a trembling voice, I told him, “We have come from a distant province. I am a woman with a disability.. I had no choice but to come without a mahram.”
The guards looked at each other, then at my old wheelchair. They asked me several questions before finally agreeing to let me enter.
We were directed to the women’s security checkpoint, where a female officer carefully searched us. After we passed through, we entered the ministry compound.
We had gone only a few meters when two more men suddenly stepped in front of us. One of them, speaking harshly in Pashto, demanded, “Where are you going? Where is your mahram? Who gave you permission to enter without one?”
I felt exhausted and defeated. A lump rose in my throat. I wanted to answer, but I realized my voice had become weak and shaky. I fell silent, staring at him in disbelief.
He raised his voice even louder.
“Is there anyone who can translate for them? I don’t think they understand what I’m saying.”
The man beside him asked in Dari, “Sister, where is your mahram?”
I gathered myself, swallowed hard, and answered, “Brother, we don’t have a mahram. My brothers are abroad. I have an elderly father who stayed home with my younger sisters. We have come from a distant province. We came without a male mahram because we had no other choice.”
They looked us up and down for a few moments. Finally, without another word, they walked away.
After asking for directions several times, we finally found the office we were looking for. An employee directed us to a room where women staff members were working.
I handed her my papers. She looked through them and then asked, “Where is your male mahram?”
I explained my situation, but no matter what I said, she would not listen. She kept repeating, “We have been instructed that we cannot issue this form to anyone who does not have a legitimate mahram.”
I told her we had traveled from a remote province in northern Afghanistan. I explained that my father is elderly and unable to make the journey, and that even if he could, we could not afford the travel expenses. I asked her to please help us.
But she showed no sympathy.
“That is your problem,” she said. “It has nothing to do with us.”
I tried again.
“This form is only for applying for a scholarship,” I said. “We are not planning to travel at the moment. We don’t even know whether I will be accepted.”
“Whatever the reason,” she replied, “these are our instructions.”
The more I pleaded, the harsher she became. Her tone grew colder with every word.
As we left the office, heartbroken and defeated, she called after us:
“If you come back again, don’t come without a legitimate mahram. Without a mahram, we won’t even give you a blank sheet of paper.”
I don’t know how I made it out of the ministry compound. I have no memory of the route or how long it took.
But I do remember that everyone who passed me seemed to be looking at me differently. I don’t know whether they were staring at my wheelchair or at the tears streaming down my face, soaking my cheeks.
My whole body was trembling.
I wanted nothing more than to get away from that place as quickly as possible. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell my sister to hurry. If I had spoken, or even turned my face toward her, she would have seen me breaking down.
I wanted to curl into myself like a snail retreating into its shell and let everything dissolve silently inside me.
I don’t know whether my sister was crying, too. But for kilometres, neither of us said a single word.
Simin Daneshjoo is the pseudonym of a Zan Times reporter.
