1Kinship studies have long examined cousin marriage as a structured system of social and economic organization (Homans and Schneider 1955; Levi-Strauss 1969; Needham 1958). These scholars emphasize that such unions foster reciprocity, alliance-building, and lineage solidarity. Today, approximately 10.4% of the global population is born to couples who are second cousins or have closer family ties (Bittles, Black, and Govindaraju 2010:1779). Pakistan ranks among the highest globally for consanguinity, with rates of 57% and up to 76% in Pakistani Army communities (Oniya et al. 2019:88). In the UK-South Asian context, especially among Pakistanis, cousin marriages are often viewed as socially advantageous. Shaw (2001, 2006, 2014) and Charsley (2013) highlight how these marriages are perceived as safer, reinforcing consanguineous ties and ensuring trust, emotional support, and moral protection. They are also believed to safeguard daughters from mistreatment (Charsley 2013:22) and prevent post-migration spousal abandonment (Gardner 2006:385).
2This article provides a counterpoint by examining the ambivalence of kinship obligations in consanguineous relationships. It stems from my observation of the harsh treatment my interlocutors face at the hands of consanguine relatives, who are also their in-laws. This prompted me to explore the broader social and cultural dynamics behind this phenomenon. The article highlights the “dark side of kinship” (Gammeltoft 2018; Geschiere 1997, 2003; Obeid 2010), demonstrating how intense kinship obligations in consanguineous ties, when combined with restrictive immigration laws, can serve as tools of control and harm. It details how UK-based in-laws, as well as first cousins, aunts, and uncles, deliberately delayed spousal visa applications, leaving brides in their natal homes for years after their nikah (Islamic wedding), and sometimes curtailing their education. After these brides migrated to the UK, their consanguineous relatives, also in-laws, subjected these women to domestic abuse and used immigration rules to exercise control over them. When marriages ended, some women were handed over to the police by their husbands, with the risk of being deported. Meanwhile, kinship ties in these marriages often prevented brides’ parents from intervening or pressuring their in-laws for fear of damaging family relationships. However, women’s natal families disowned them, making it impossible for them to return home.
3Although Mody (2015, 2020:194) argues that parental decisions about marriage, though often experienced as being coercive by children, may be understood by parents as acts of care, thereby highlighting the contested nature of “forced” marriage and the psychological and moral pressures involved, my interlocutors explained that their forced marriages were arranged against their wishes. Moreover, while arranged marriages in South Asia often involve a strong parental presence, recent scholarship shows that parental influence is rarely absolute. Bhandari (2017, 2020) shows that in India parents may subtly shape or maneuver premarital relationships rather than enforce rigid choices, allowing young people to exercise some discretion. Similarly, Abeyasekera (2021) and Sirisena (2024) demonstrate that couples often seek to win parental approval, negotiating their choices to bring them into line with family expectations, while preserving personal agency. By contrast, this study illustrates situations in which kinship and sibling obligations, as well as economic and social status, dominated elders’ decision-making, and their behavior prioritized kin and sibling relationships over their daughters’ welfare.
4Among the ten transnational marriages I studied, the Muslim brides were from Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan, three of which were cousin marriages in which women faced domestic abuse at the hands of their first cousins and isolation in a foreign country. Using Moran, Turner, and Schliehe’s (2018) framework of “carceral conditions,” this article contributes to this special edition by illustrating the carceral intertwining of consanguineous kinship relationships and immigration rules to produce carcerality that confines, isolates, and restricts women’s potential in transnational cousin marriages.
5In the following sections, this article reviews the literature on UK-South Asian transnational cousin marriage. It outlines the United Kingdom’s 2012 immigration rules, which significantly shaped my interlocutors’ experiences. The concept of carceral conditions as developed by Moran et al. (2018) is discussed. Then the research methodology and the ethical considerations that guided the fieldwork are set forth. Drawing on this framework of carceral conditions (Moran et al. 2018), the penultimate section presents three case studies: Shazia and Irum from Pakistan, and Razia from Bangladesh, to illustrate the carceral aspects of transnational cousin marriage. These highlight issues such as forced marriage, educational restrictions, and prolonged visa delays in the countries of origin. The paper then traces the women’s post-migration experiences, including domestic abuse, marital breakdown, disownment, and threats of deportation. I conclude by reflecting on how punitive kinship structures, strict immigration law, and gendered obligations converge to produce carceral effects in transnational cousin marriages.
6UK-South Asian transnational family ties expanded with the migration of South Asian men to Britain in the 1960s (Anwar 1979; Ballard 1994). Research on Pakistani communities in the United Kingdom and Pakistan highlights the centrality of biradari (kinship and community) and izzat (honor) (Ballard 1994; Charsley 2013; Shaw 2000, 2001). A key mechanism for maintaining kinship and honor is consanguineous transnational marriage (Charsley 2013; Shaw 2000; Shaw and Charsley 2006). Following the UK government’s 1997 repeal of the Primary Purpose Rule, which had required proof that migration was not the primary reason for marriage, the rate of marriage migration increased, with a larger number of men migrating to marry British South Asian women (Charsley 2005a:382; Charsley and Benson 2012).
7Drawing on case studies from Punjab and Bristol, Charsley (2013) found that cousin marriages were motivated by parents’ concerns for their daughters’ happiness. For this, parents relied on mutual kin for character assessments and hoped that shared kin networks would support couples and prevent divorce (Charsley 2005a:385). Parents also sought to preserve cultural traditions perceived as stronger among people from “back home” (Charsley 2005a:396).
8However, Charsley (2005b) outlines the risks associated with these unions, such as marriage motivated by the pursuit of UK citizenship, cultural incompatibilities, and the concealment of negative physical or behavioral issues that may be exacerbated by physical distance. She argues that the risks often outweigh the benefits (Charsley 2005a), prompting close-kin marriages to be perceived as a safeguard (Charsley 2005a:386). Note that her study focused on middle-class UK-based families who controlled the marriage and migration processes when arranging matches for their daughters with men in their home countries. Shaw (2006) and Charsley (2013) provide valuable insight into these kinship-based arrangements.
9Charsley (2006) identifies two immigration-related risks: spousal visa refusal, which may leave a bride an “immigration widow” (Menski 2002, cited in Charsley 2006:1170), and the possibility of a “bogus” marriage, where men divorce their UK wives after obtaining UK citizenship. To mitigate the risks, UK-based families delay their daughters’ cohabitation after their nikah until the husband migrate to the United Kingdom (Charsley 2005a). However, it is worth noting that in such cases, British parents frequently retain control over visa applications and the terms of marriage, creating a power dynamic that favors the woman’s family and the bride’s interests. My study, however, concentrates on brides migrating to UK-based husbands who benefit from economic and immigration advantages and control the spousal visa process and the brides’ immigration status. My data were primarily gathered from migrant brides to the UK who experienced domestic abuse; Charsley’s work and mine do not directly overlap, but provide a useful counterpoint.
10UK policy and the media often frame cousin marriages through a medical lens, highlighting the genetic risks (e.g., congenital disabilities) for the children of these unions (Shaw 2006; Shaw and Raz 2015:27). Despite these risks, cousin marriages are seen as socially and personally compatible (Shaw and Charsley 2006:407). Moreover, Shaw and Charsley (2006:406–7) argue that a rishta (marriage relationship) reflects deep emotional ties, and that rejecting marriage proposals or divorcing can strain family relationships. Shaw (2014), in a study of families in Bradford, finds that cousin marriage provides social, emotional, and economic benefits for British Pakistanis.
11While these studies highlight positive aspects, they overlook the lived realities of women who migrate alone through cousin marriages to men in the United Kingdom, as well as the experiences of carcerality within such marriages. Furthermore, most studies predate the new 2012 immigration rules for spousal visas, which extended the probationary period from two to five years. I revisit these rules to examine their impact on my interlocutors’ experiences.
12Over time, the United Kingdom has progressively tightened immigration rules to deter so-called “sham” marriages and to uphold respect for private and family life (Charsley and Benson 2012:10–11). However, Charsley and Benson (2012) argue that these laws are punitive. The 2012 changes adversely affected my interlocutors. One stipulation is that a migrant spouse now live with their UK-based partner on a permanent basis for five years and renew their visa after 33 months. Only after this probationary period (which has increased from two years) can they apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain in the United Kingdom. If the marriage ends during this time, the spousal visa is invalidated, and the migrant spouse has to return to their country of origin.
13To examine my interlocutors’ experiences, from entering into a transnational cousin marriage to the breakdown of their union, I draw on the work of human geographers Moran et al. (2018), who extend the concept of the carceral beyond penal institutions to explore the spatial, temporal, structural, and interpersonal constraints these women face. This perspective offers a nuanced understanding of the carceral dimensions embedded in certain transnational cousin marriages.
14In anthropology, the carceral is predominantly associated with prison and penal studies (Rhodes, 2001). In geography, however, “the carceral turn” adopts a broader approach to the carceral. Moran et al. (2018:676) posit that carceral practices and meanings can be identified in social relations and subjectivities. These are relative and depend on the person’s experiences and social context, as well as the interplay between three carceral conditions: detriment, intention, and spatiality (Moran et al. 2018:679). These are “not qualifying conditions but rather […] considerations that bear on the nature and quality of carcerality” (2018:677). This includes the subjective dimension, that is, how the individual interprets and perceives their constrained position during carceral experiences. This is helpful because it extends the notion beyond physical incarceration to include various social and psychological forms of confinement. It provides a deeper understanding of people’s institutional, familial, and social challenges, as well as their subjective responses.
15The first carceral condition, detriment, is the lived experience of harm as perceived by those who suffer it. Moran et al. (2018) focus on experiences of harm and on the loss of opportunities or potential that might otherwise have been available. This loss is experienced as being detrimental. The second carceral condition, intention, refers to an agent, family structure, or organization that intends to exercise calculative and controlling authority (Moran et al. 2018:678). Moran et al. (2018) argue that the detriment experienced by individuals, which may stem from an intention to harm, can have lasting effects over time and space. They suggest that although the intent may no longer affect individuals directly, its effects may persist in the long term. The third carceral condition is spatiality. Moran et al. (2018) argue that carcerality is related to space(s). However, the nature of this space(s) and how the carceral is enabled and determined by them may differ. The space could be a detention center, a halfway house, a family home, a former prison converted into a hotel, a school, a street, a human body, or indeed any space or entity on any scale. Rather than simply noting that the carceral is spatial, they suggest that it is more useful to consider how spatiality constitutes and sustains carceral dynamics (2018:679).
16Moran et al.’s (2018) conceptualization of the carceral is particularly useful for incorporating subjectivity and for expanding the concept beyond physical incarceration to encompass social and psychological forms of confinement and control. Their emphasis on lived experience was especially valuable for my study, enabling a more nuanced understanding of how interlocutors navigated institutional, personal, and interpersonal constraints and how they subjectively interpreted these challenges when trapped in the carceral intertwining of family relationships and immigration rules.
17The case studies in this article differ from scholarship that primarily locates the carceral in external institutional impositions on families. For instance, in the US context, carceral logics disproportionately target Black, Native American, and other marginalized families through state regulation, with children frequently removed on neglect charges or placed in foster care (Godsoe 2023; Roberts 2022). Similarly, Brown and Bloom (2009:152–57) show how Native Hawaiian women are criminalized through carceral welfare and state systems. In these examples, the state acts directly on women and families in carceral ways. By contrast, the cases in this article demonstrate a carceral dynamic shaped by the intersection of a familial culture of authority and punitive legal institutions, where coercion, disownment, and immigration-related precarity converge to produce isolation, mental distress, and destitution for transnational brides. Although the women in the non-cousin marriages I studied also encounter significant challenges, this article focuses on the specific carcerality arising from the demands of consanguineal relationships within family practices, which is compounded by the transnational context. It contributes to the debates in this special issue by exposing the darker undercurrents of UK-South Asian transnational cousin marriages and the ways in which these intertwine with punitive immigration law to the detriment of migrant brides.
18This study draws on 18 months of ethnographic fieldwork conducted between September 2018 and March 2020 among 10 South Asian Muslim women (from Bangladesh, India and Pakistan) across three cities in the United Kingdom. Some of the women were known to me from my time working in a refugee center. They introduced me to others in similar situations. Others I had met while teaching English at a local charity or through the women’s solicitors. The research is grounded in ongoing relationships (some spanning nine years) with interlocutors who continue to live in the United Kingdom. Some reside in smaller, less ethnically diverse market towns, while others live in larger, more diverse urban areas. Most of the women arrived in the United Kingdom with limited English and digital literacy, no work experience, and minimal expectations of entering paid employment. During the research period, none of the women had children.
19The methodological and ethical framework of accompaniment shaped my approach. Rooted in Latin, meaning “with bread,” accompaniment suggests mutuality, shared time, and solidarity (Block and Griffin 2013). It draws on liberatory traditions that emphasize “walking with” those affected by injustice rather than providing distant aid (Goizueta 2009:199, cited in Long 2025; Mei-Singh 2021:81; Nicholson 2021:281–2). Personally, this resonates with my Islamic practice of seva (service to others through time, knowledge, and presence), anchoring my approach in faith-based and humanist ethics.
20As Yarris and Duncan (2024) highlight, accompaniment is more than a data collection method; it is an ethical stance. It positions the anthropologist as a comrade and co-traveler (Scheper-Hughes 1995), emphasizing care, solidarity, and responsibility. From the outset of fieldwork, I faced a choice between remaining a detached observer and walking closely with my interlocutors through their daily struggles. I opted for the latter, in line with scholars such as Saxton (2021) and Yarris (2021), who emphasize relational and activist ethnographic approaches.
21This relational approach was essential, especially in high-stakes situations. For example, I provided Irum, who faced threats from her in-laws after she filed for divorce, with moral support. Her brother was wrongfully imprisoned, and she feared for her life. Despite concerns for my own safety, I remained committed to accompanying her. Other women encountered difficulties with housing, immigration status, language learning, and navigating social services. Rather than remain a passive observer, I actively supported them, respecting their consent and requests in line with their needs.
22Ethically, I was careful not to overstep my boundaries. I consistently reminded participants that I was not a qualified professional in the areas in which I was assisting them. I promoted their autonomy by ensuring that they completed forms, made enquiries, and oversaw logistical planning. My role was not to foster dependency but to build confidence and skills.
23Fieldwork activities were woven into daily life, including meetings in parks, cafés, or homes, cooking together, and accompanying individuals to legal, medical, educational, or housing appointments. These formal and informal gatherings helped build trust and enabled me to gain a deeper understanding of their lived realities. In this context, accompaniment became both an ethic of care and a form of engaged ethnography, rooted in human presence, mutual trust, and ongoing self-reflection (Yarris and Duncan 2024). This approach ultimately highlighted women’s experiences and needs, fostering an ethical, reflexive, and relational research practice grounded in solidarity and shared humanity.
24However, it is important to note that I mainly gathered data from women who had experienced abuse. I was unable to engage directly with husbands, fathers, brothers, cousins, and in-laws to fully understand the complexities of these cases. Furthermore, the practices I illustrate here are not based on religious worldviews; they reflect families’ coercive patriarchal social norms, socio-economic conditions, and how these intertwine with punitive migration laws for carceral purposes.
25Moreover, this study only begins to reveal the broader economic structures that contribute to these marriages and points to the need for further research to examine the pressures women and men face and the interdependence of economic, legal, and emotional logics in marriage migration.
26My interlocutors regarded marriage as central to social life (Hassouneh-Phillips 2001b; Sherif 1999), like the beliefs found in studies of Muslim women in the United States and Egypt. Marriage served as a cultural script handed down through daily interactions (Mehrotra 2016). From a young age, they were socialized to view marriage as their primary concern and to believe they had to put in “hard work” to maintain it (Charsley 2005b:95–96; Charsley 2007:1121; Mohammad 2015:600). Thus, a successful marriage was a cherished goal. However, as the cases discussed below illustrate, their experiences of cousin marriage were often constrained by carceral conditions, making the pursuit of this aspiration particularly challenging.
27At just 15 years of age, when Irum returned home from school one day, she was told that her father’s UK-based first cousin had proposed a rishta for her to marry his 33-year-old son. The two fathers agreed to the arrangement without consulting Irum. When she found out, Irum explained, “Mai bohot hairaan ho gai” (“I was shocked”), and voiced strong objections. However, her father and grandmother viewed the proposal differently: a match with a wealthier cousin living abroad was seen as advantageous for both Irum and the family. In a low, sad voice, Irum said that her father refused to withdraw from the agreement, stating he had given his word and could not break a promise made to a member of his biradari, because doing so would damage his izzat. With downcast eyes, Irum explained despondently that, despite her distress, “Mere paas koi aur rasta nahi tha, mujhe qubool karna para” (“I had no other option, I had to accept”).
28Like Irum, Shazia was 15 when her grandmother and father forced her to marry her 42-year-old first cousin, Sameer, from the United Kingdom, who was also her sister’s ex-husband. Sameer was her paternal aunt’s son. She said she tried very hard to oppose the marriage. Her older, divorced sister (who had previously been married to the same cousin) tried to stop her family, but they would not listen. Finally, Shazia surrendered to the forced marriage. After finalizing her sister’s divorce, the family held Shazia’s nikah ceremony in Pakistan. Her husband arranged false travel documents for her to meet the legal minimum age of 18 for a UK spousal visa. However, Shazia said she was 16 when she boarded the plane alone, bound for the United Kingdom, to start married life. She said tearfully, “Mujhe laga jaise main kisi buray khwaab mein hoon.” (“I felt like I was in a bad dream”).
29Listening to Irum and Shazia, I was reminded of another interlocutor, Lubna, who married a close relative. She was 19 when her mother and maternal uncle arranged her marriage to a close relative. Lubna explained that her protests fell on deaf ears. One day, in desperation, she took an overdose but was discovered in time by her cousin and hospitalized. Yet, as in Irum’s and Shazia’s family, no matter how vehemently she tried to resist, her mother would not succumb because of family ties and because she had given her word. In Irum’s and Lubna’s case, they explained that they had no one to support them. However, I argue that even when others try to intervene, as in Shazia’s case, the elders remain adamant about the marriage arrangement. As Samad and Eade (2003:22) note, some parents may feel that it is their moral duty to marry off their children, an act they view as ethical and even a blessing. Similarly, Mody (2020:194) suggests that parents may interpret such decisions as expressions of care, even when their children perceive them as coercive. Mody (2015) further argues that the definition of “forced” marriage is itself contested, as these unions are often shaped by a complex web of considerations and obligations. Although individuals may experience psychological and moral pressure to conform to parental expectations, even when they are not physically coerced, I argue that my interlocutors perceived their circumstances as coercive and as leaving them with no choice.
30Finally, faced with the ethical dilemma of whether to protest to save themselves or to submit to avoid their family’s anger, Irum, Shazia, and Lubna acquiesced to marriages arranged against their will. Taken together, these practices illustrate how multifaceted patriarchal structures shape and govern both family and social relations, and can lead to a loss of control over one’s life. As Hunnicutt (2009:554–55) argues, patriarchy retains analytical value when understood through its multiple manifestations, which she terms “varieties of patriarchy.” This highlights the need to pay attention to men’s relative positioning within systems of domination, such as the dynamics between my interlocutors’ fathers and their more powerful UK-based cousins.
31Hunnicutt emphasizes that, despite advances in structural gender equality, patriarchy can persist and often intersects with other hierarchies. It is not simply a binary of oppressor and oppressed; rather, it involves “terrains of power” in which both men and women exert varying degrees and forms of influence. While definitions of patriarchy differ, it is generally understood as a system in which men, as a group, are privileged over women (Hunnicutt 2009:557).
32Shazia, for example, explained that her paternal grandmother played a key role in arranging her marriage and exerted a strong influence over her father. And Irum and Lubna’s cases reveal similar dynamics. Applying Hunnicutt’s (2009) more nuanced understanding of patriarchy, I argue that both marriages were embedded in family structures in which authority was shared across genders, particularly between fathers and paternal grandmothers. These cases reflect the “varieties of patriarchy” that Hunnicutt (2009:545) describes, in which power operates through overlapping and situational roles.
33Moreover, Hunnicutt draws on Hill Collins (1991:225) to argue that individuals can simultaneously occupy positions of both oppression and dominance, irrespective of gender. In this context, older women may wield significant influence. Kandiyoti (1988:279) notes that older women often regard their sons as a key resource for long-term security, which may motivate them to exert control over their sons’ marriages. Shaw (2001:325–26) likewise highlights the authority older generations, particularly women, exercise in arranging marriages. I suggest that grandmothers exert considerable power, shaping marital outcomes and reinforcing patriarchal norms through intergenerational authority.
34I contend that, in these cases, age-based hierarchy shaped subordinate women’s experiences, leaving them with little or no personal independence. Although research shows that younger women often try to resist patriarchal control (Aboulhassan and Brumley 2019; Momesso 2020; Salem and Yount 2019; Selamat and Endut 2020; Tønnessen 2010), my interlocutors, despite their attempts to negotiate, were ultimately unable to alter the outcome. Confronted with ethical dilemmas and strong familial pressure, both acquiesced to the cousin marriages they were forced into. Shazia reported that her brothers threatened to kill her if she refused, and she complied out of fear of male kin authority. I argue that these women’s experiences were shaped by their personal encounters with carceral power dynamics within their family’s patriarchal practices. They were controlled and confined in harmful ways that thwarted their personal aspirations.
35This study shows that, unlike the UK-based parents of women in Charsley’s (2013) study, my interlocutors’ husbands and in-laws were UK-based and held higher economic and social status. This created a relational hierarchy that enabled them to impose conditions and demand deference from poorer family members and brides back home, leading to cycles of control and disadvantage.
36After Irum’s nikah in Pakistan, her husband and in-laws left. Irum stayed behind to await her UK spousal visa. Speaking of this, her voice filled with anger as she described how her in-laws ordered her to stop studying, to stay indoors, and to focus on domestic duties. Frustrated, Irum received no support from her father, who refused to intervene. Similarly, once betrothed, Shazia’s in-laws withdrew her from school, much to her disappointment. She explained that her schoolteacher also came home to persuade her parents to let Shazia continue her education. Shazia angrily said, “Kisi ne un ki baat nahi suni aur main bohot mayos ho gayi” (“No one listened to her, and I felt very hopeless”). Instead, her parents confined her to household chores. Both women were disappointed that their parents accepted and enforced these restrictions. Shazia’s and Irum’s attempts to resist failed because their parents and grandparents refused to challenge the in-laws’ authority. As Shaw (2001:325–26) notes, families often limit young women’s autonomy through early marriage, prioritizing kinship ties and obligations over daughters’ well-being. Samad and Eade (2003:31–32) also observe that their Bangladeshi and Pakistani interviewees reported strong expectations to marry within the family; failure to do so caused conflicts among parents and siblings.
37Denying these women an education, as imposed by their in-laws, as well as expectations that the former manage life in the United Kingdom with no English language skills, illustrates how patriarchal family practices operate as mechanisms of control, deliberately and systematically curtailing women’s agency and post-migration prospects. Scholarly works on gender norms in South Asia offer insights into these behaviors. The authors of the edited volume Separate Worlds: Studies of Purdah in South Asia (1982) argue that the practice of purdah (literally “curtain”) signifies the division of labor, female seclusion, and the creation of separate worlds through gender roles performed by Hindus and Muslims in South Asia. It serves to uphold family honor, limiting women’s intrusion into male-dominated spheres within family and community life. Though social systems influence the degree of independence women experience (Jejeebhoy and Sathar, 2001:707–8), this can vary greatly (Haeri 2002). While a combination of factors, such as greater participation of women in the workforce, youth culture, rise in the use of technology, and new laws, has caused gender shifts in South Asian families (Bhandari and Titzmann 2017), in rural areas, poorer and less-educated communities often maintain strict purdah practices, thus enforcing gender segregation (Haque 2008; Reed 2022). These practices are embedded within a social system reinforced by cultural and religious values, linking women’s seclusion to arranged marriages, restricted movements, and fertility control (Derné 1994; Jeffery 1979; Rozario 2006:368).
38Like Irum and Shazia, a study of women in consanguineous marriages in rural Sindh, Pakistan, highlights how they are compelled to submit to their parents’ will (Agha 2021:91). Agha (2016:7) reports the common belief that female literacy would make women rebellious, empower them, and challenge male authority. Young and uneducated, they also yield to these pressures, viewing submission as their best survival strategy (Agha 2016:9).
39A major difference emerges however: unlike Agha’s respondents who remained close to their natal families, the women here in transnational cousin marriages were forced to stop their studies and to migrate to the United Kingdom. After migrating, their limited education and lack of English and digital skills hampered their social integration, increasing their dependence on their in-laws. For example, both Irum and Shazia explained that they were never allowed to attend doctors’ appointments alone, and that their limited language skills meant they could not read noticeboards or pamphlets about available help, such as the domestic abuse helpline, or about voluntary work, or free English classes. They could not read letters from the UK Home Office regarding their spousal visas. They were completely reliant for these important issues on their in-laws whom they did not trust.
40Therefore, a lack of education left these women highly vulnerable and more prone to abuse (see Ghimire, Axinn, and Smith-Greenway’s (2015) study, which shows that education reduces the risk of domestic abuse). I argue that such dependency led to conditions of spatial and psychological confinement, in which their confidence, understanding of their rights, and ability to deal with immigration matters were adversely affected. Their vulnerabilities led to anxiety and a loss of confidence, hindering their ability to understand life in the United Kingdom, to seek support, and to settle down.
41On the one hand, in-laws restricted women’s education through their hierarchical position, and on the other hand, they determined when these brides could migrate. In transnational marriages, only the UK-based spouse and their family can initiate a spousal visa application; the non-UK-based spouse must wait for their spouse to apply. This demonstrates how, through punitive bureaucracy and coercive familial intentions, women can be controlled across both time and space. This means that not only do they miss out on educational opportunities, but they also face community gossip and feelings of shame and insecurity.
42I met Razia, a young petite Bangladeshi woman, through Farah, another interlocutor. Razia explained that her mother died when she was very young, and that her father passed away when she was 12. Raised by her stepmother, she married at the age of 18 to her UK-based first cousin, her father’s brother’s son, at a nikah ceremony in Bangladesh. She then waited three and a half years for her spousal visa, which was delayed by her husband’s ongoing unemployment. They were unaware that this prevented him from applying. Her stepmother, a single woman with no male backing in the family network, could not press for the spousal visa to be expedited without jeopardizing family ties. She had little choice but to wait, leaving Razia to face the consequences of the delay.
43Similar delays occurred in Irum’s case, with her in-laws repeatedly making excuses for not arranging her visa, even though they continued to support her family financially. During this period, Irum rarely spoke to her husband because her mother-in-law answered most of her phone calls. Irum explained that she could not insist on speaking to him, fearing that doing so would upset the mother-in-law and damage their relationship. Her father, as the poorer relative, was unable to make forceful demands on his wealthier cousins. Irum’s in-laws deliberately delayed her application, while Razia’s husband’s unemployment prevented him from applying.
44Both women explained that being married, yet forced to remain in their homeland because of spousal visa delays, created a profound sense of anxiety and insecurity. Irum felt she was wasting her time, especially as she was deprived of an education. They both also constantly wondered whether their spouses would ever apply for visas and when they would migrate. Irum explained, “I was technically married, but I could not live a married life. I saw my friends getting married and settled. I, on the other hand, was in limbo; there was no marriage to build together, no family to start, no shared future to look forward to.” Razia explained that there was so much social pressure. She said, “Wherever I went, people asked why I was still there. You face gossip and embarrassment, a reminder that life is moving on without you moving with it.”
45Furthermore, the women’s parents appeared unconcerned about the risks of obtaining spousal visas for the United Kingdom, a major issue for the British families whom Charsley studied (2006). Charsley’s (2006) study reveals that, to minimize the risk of visa rejection, the bride’s parents defer the couple’s cohabitation after the nikah until the husband has migrated to the United Kingdom. Yet these brides cohabit with their husbands from the wedding night, even though there is no guarantee of legal residency under UK immigration rules.
46As I listened, I realized that, unlike the cases described by Charsley, these women faced the risk of becoming pregnant. I wondered how they would have managed if they had conceived and then been forced to remain in their homeland for years, waiting for a visa, with no certainty about when, or even if, their in-laws would apply for their spousal visa. In such circumstances, they would have had to endure stigma, gossip, and the embarrassment of being questioned and taunted about being left behind despite being married.
47As a result, the combination of immigration policy and kinship ties of honor and control, rooted in patriarchal norms within their cousin marriage, led them to endure years of uncertainty, stress, and fear, casting doubt on the viability of their marriages and exposing them to community gossip. Although they profoundly aspired to a successful marriage, they were in a state of flux, caught between being married in name yet unable to live as married people, unable to move forward successfully with no education, or to create the family or stability they had imagined. They endured constraints in time and space, carceral conditions that significantly limited their potential and aspirations.
48Irum and Shazia faced restrictive conditions imposed by their in-laws, whose greater economic and social status established a hierarchical relationship between the two families, shaping multiple aspects of their lives.
In Shazia’s case, she explained that her parents arranged for their younger daughter to marry their older daughter’s 42-year-old ex-husband, who was of a higher social and economic standing and regularly sent money to her brothers. Although the amounts were modest for him, these funds enabled her family in Pakistan to build a sturdy home with electricity, plumbing, and furnishings. Shazia said, “Mujhe laga ke mere family ko mujh se zyada paise ki fikr thi” (“I felt that my family cared more about money than about me”).
49Shazia observed that while this arrangement enhanced her family’s standing in their local community, it also meant that she was expected to be obedient and defer to her in-laws, who believed they had the right to control her movements, to force her into domestic work, and to forbid her from going out alone or from having money for personal needs. As a result, from the age of 16, Shazia felt increasingly isolated and scared. When she sought help from her parents, they refused to intervene in order to protect family honor. Instead, they told her that if she misbehaved, they would refuse to speak to her, and they insisted that she could not bring shame upon their family as her older sister had through her divorce. Shazia said dejectedly, “Baji, kisi ko meri parwah nahin thi” (“Older sister, no one cared about me”).
50As previously mentioned, Irum’s in-laws also provided her father with financial support. Irum described her father’s difficult economic situation, explaining that he earned very little from running a roadside stall. He would never agree to challenge or to stand up for Irum’s rights. It seems that the families of these women were influenced by societal values, community ties, and financial hardship. They consequently made marital choices that compromised their daughters’ wishes and safety.
51Both Agha’s (2021:92–94) study of cousin marriages and Donnan’s (1988:126–28) study of the Dhund community in northern Pakistan emphasize the importance of economic factors in the decision to marry close relatives and highlight the economic hardship faced by the families involved. However, in these studies, families work together to bear these financial burdens. In this context, consanguineous marriages provide financial incentives and stability for both parties, as recognized by the women themselves. This also enables women to maintain close ties with their natal kin, an outcome they cherish.
52My cases serve as a counterpoint, highlighting how, in transnational cousin marriages, economic and immigration hierarchies create additional power imbalances shaped by honor-based sibling obligations and kinship bonds. Here, families were complicit in arranging cousin marriages, where kinship obligations are complicated by the economic subordination of poorer families, who depend on financial support from wealthier UK-based cousins. While this fosters unequal family relations, it also raises the families’ status within their local communities, which they value highly. UK-based cousins also gain a higher status within the immigrant community through their ability to help family members attain upward social mobility back home. Likewise, the successful migration of relatives heightens the respect accorded to their families in their local communities. Research indicates that high rates of cousin marriage persist due to slow economic development and high fertility rates (Shenk, Naz and Chaudhry 2024). My study emphasizes that such dynamics can create a carceral context detrimental to daughters, undermining their well-being and opportunities.
53Thus, the convergence of an economic hierarchy, migration dependency, and extended family control created carceral conditions in which women’s movements, finances, and relationships were strictly regulated. Their poor education and lack of parental support left them further confined and controlled, both physically and emotionally. These carceral conditions are therefore the result of pressures and constraints inherent in their kin-based family relationships, combined with immigration and economic hierarchies, burdens that ultimately weigh more heavily on women.
54These marriages, though beneficial for the parents, led to other carceral conditions for women upon their arrival in the UK. Here, they were isolated and confined within the domestic sphere. Their poor education limited their opportunities to develop socially, economically, or personally, or to settle as fully participating members of UK society.
55In the United Kingdom, Irum noticed unusual behavior in her husband, including a lack of interest in sexual or emotional intimacy, frequent arguments with others for no apparent reason, messy, childlike eating habits, and poor conversation skills. He was unemployed and mostly followed his father everywhere. His behavior was disturbing. To Irum, he seemed to have some form of mental impairment. She felt isolated and deeply distressed in her in-laws’ home. Speaking very little English and unaware of her spousal visa rights, she was completely under her in-laws’ control. Unlike their other daughter-in-law—British-born and in employment—, Irum was made to cook and clean and was rarely allowed to go out alone.
56When she confided in her parents about her situation, they told her never to leave her in-laws’ house, warning that doing so would bring shame and stigma to the family. They even threatened to cut off all contact if she left. Feeling trapped, Irum eventually confided in her sister-in-law (her husband’s brother’s wife), expressing concern about her husband’s behavior and seeking support. Hoping for help, she was instead betrayed: her sister-in-law reported the conversation to her father-in-law. He reacted with rage, accused Irum of undermining the family, and held a knife to her neck, threatening to kill her if she “spread rumors” about his son. Irum recalled, “Mai bohot dar gai; kya ye log muje mar dein ge?” (“I was terrified; would these people kill me?”). I argue that her case exemplifies how coercive power operates behind closed doors.
57A few days later, while at home with only her sister-in-law upstairs, Irum faced a dilemma: whether to stay and endure abuse and a life with a husband showing signs of psychological imbalance, or to leave and protect herself. Still afraid, she fled the house with only her handbag and passport, unaware of the potential consequences. Anitha’s (2008) study is relevant here, highlighting the fact that migrant spouses who flee abusive relationships often do so with no understanding of the implications regarding their immigration status; this was undoubtedly true for Irum and others in my study.
58Irum managed to reach a local police station and, with the help of an interpreter, gave a detailed account of her experience. When she phoned her parents, they urged her to return to her in-laws to preserve the family’s honor and avoid shame. When she refused, her parents cut off all contact with her and told her never to reach out again. At this point, Irum’s family disowned her. As previously discussed, Irum’s failed transnational marriage placed her at risk of deportation under UK immigration rules. Returning to Pakistan was not a practical option; she could not return to her family home or seek support from UK-based relatives because of the complexities of kinship and family ties. I argue that this illustrates the carceral potential of consanguinity, in contrast to Charley’s (2013) positive cases.
59Irum described feeling utterly alone and profoundly frightened. She said, “Main apne sasural wapas nahin ja sakti thi aur na hi apne ma baap ke ghar aagay ja sakti thi” (‘I could not go back to my in-laws and I could not go forward to my parents’ home’). Likewise, Lubna explained that when she ran away, her parents, as well as her siblings, disowned her. Her sister said that because of Lubna, her marriage prospects were now ruined, and she never wanted to speak to Lubna again. Lubna, whose mother sent her to live with her uncle when she was very young, said in a bitterly disappointed tone of voice, “Sab log apne maa-baap par bharosa karte hain. Meri zindagi mein, main kabhi apne maa-baap par bharosa nahi kar saki”. (“Everyone trusts their parents. In my life, I was never able to trust my parents”).
60I argue that Irum and Lubna were caught in a web of carceral conditions: restrictive immigration laws and ostracization by their birth families, all worsened by the expectations linked to honor-based obligations ingrained in kinship structures. Irum was eventually relocated to a women’s refuge, where she reported, as corroborated by her medical records which she shared with me, that she was suffering from severe mental health issues, including self-harm. Lubna was moved into a house in multiple occupation provided by the UK Home Office.
61The United Kingdom’s immigration rules, which mandate the deportation of migrant spouses when their transnational marriages end, allow UK-based in-laws to control women’s residency, to subject them to abuse, and to threaten them. In these consanguine marriages, marital breakdown also leads to women being disowned by their families, leaving them isolated, lonely, vulnerable, and susceptible to further exploitation, as seen in the cases of Razia and Shazia.
62One day, Razia asked for help in understanding her tenancy agreement for a room in shared accommodation. As I examined her documents, I found a letter from the UK Home Office informing her of her pending deportation. Her husband had contacted the authorities, requesting the termination of her spousal visa, claiming that she had married him solely to gain entry to the United Kingdom.
63When I expressed concern, Razia confessed that she was devastated by the letter. She believed her husband’s mental health issues had contributed to the deterioration of their marriage, but she hadn’t wished for its breakdown. Razia explained that returning to Bangladesh was not an option; her stepmother could not support her financially, and the stigma of divorce carried profound family consequences. On her stepmother’s advice, she contacted Mina, her stepmother’s sister, who agreed to take her in.
64Faced with the difficult choice between challenging the threat of deportation and returning to a place where she was not wanted, Razia chose to stay and fight for her rights. With Mina’s help, she found a legal aid adviser. Seeing Razia’s vulnerabilities and poor mental health, Mina exploited her, taking her money, passport, and possessions, which she never returned. As Anitha (2008) notes in her study of migrant women in the United Kingdom, immigration laws often exacerbate existing power imbalances within marriage, especially for those experiencing domestic abuse. Razia’s case demonstrates how the United Kingdom’s punitive immigration system can be used by in-laws to control spousal movements and residence, thereby legally and spatially restricting women. It shows how women shoulder this fragile status across a range of contexts, rendering them vulnerable to further exploitation even within trusted networks.
65This underscores how carceral conditions persist across time and space, even after an individual has left an explicitly carceral situation. Women like Razia remain entrenched in overlapping familial and legal forms of control, which limit their prospects for stability and restrict opportunities for personal and social advancement.
66In Shazia’s case, despite her elders’ reassurances that she would be treated differently from her sister, who was badly abused by them, she was forced to cook and clean every day. She was prevented from eating with the family, was not allowed to go out alone, and her legal documents were kept from her. When Shazia explained her situation, her parents claimed that because her in-laws sent money home, they were good people, and accused Shazia of causing marital problems. After nearly four and a half years, she could no longer endure the situation. When she expressed her concerns, her mother told her that even if her husband was cruel, she must stay to uphold the family’s honor. The family could not bear the shame of another daughter’s divorce. Twice, Shazia took an overdose to cope with her emotional pain, was revived by her in-laws, and the abuse continued.
67After living with her in-laws for five years and three months with no support from her family, her husband handed her over to the police, accusing her of theft and of threatening to kill him. She was taken in for questioning, terrified and uncertain of what lay ahead. Leaving with no documents or belongings, she never returned. Like Irum, Shazia could not go back to Pakistan because her parents had disowned her, which further confined her spatially. She reported domestic abuse to the police and was placed in a women’s refuge. Her domestic abuse, disownment, fears and isolation led to poor mental health. In Shazia’s case, we see not only control but also how the law can be instrumentalized to remove women, highlighting the calculated strategies in-laws may employ when pursuing punitive objectives.
68These cases illustrate the accumulation of multiple overlapping adversities in transnational cousin marriages. Experiences often begin with forced marriage and extend to domestic abuse, coercion to maintain toxic relationships to uphold family honor, police involvement, marital breakdown, threats of deportation, self-harm, overdosing, and total isolation following familial rejection. For these women, the ability to build married life, live freely, or realize their potential is severely constrained. The effects of carcerality therefore persist long after the event.
69The cases of cousin marriage described in this paper, based on my research into UK-South Asian transnational marriages, highlight experiences of forced marriage, domestic abuse, ostracization, deportation threats, loneliness, and poor mental health. These starkly contrast with common anthropological views of cousin marriages as “favored” (Shaw 2001, 2006, 2014), safe (Charsley 2013), and as mechanisms for fostering positive emotional bonds between consanguineal and affinal kin (Shaw 2006). From such perspectives, cousin marriage is believed to promote trust, support, and suitable matches through kinship morality and family pressure. It is also thought to protect women from harm and to reduce the likelihood of a spouse absconding after acquiring British citizenship (Shaw and Charsley 2006; Gardner 2006). However, these studies were conducted primarily before the implementation of the UK’s stricter 2012 immigration laws and focused on British women marrying men from “back home” or on men migrating to the United Kingdom through spousal settlement.
70My research, on the other hand, was conducted under the 2012 immigration regime, which extended the probationary period for spousal settlement from two to five years. This change significantly increased the vulnerability of immigrant spouses to abuse or marital breakdown. If the relationship fails during this extended period, the threat of deportation becomes very real. Within this context, I utilize Moran et al.’s (2018) definition of the carceral, highlighting subjective experiences of intent, harm, and spatiality, particularly where harm is experienced even when not intentionally inflicted. Carcerality, in this context, is the active enforcement of constraints and coercion that result in lost opportunities or unrealized potential.
71Within the framework of UK-South Asian cousin marriages, I argue that family practices carry intrinsic potential for carcerality because they intersect with legal systems. The pressures of honor, kinship duties, and immigration hierarchies lead parents to arrange marriages for their daughters with UK-based cousins, sometimes accepting delays in spousal visa applications due to economic dependence or power dynamics within extended families. These marriages often involve young women whose education and English-language learning are interrupted, leaving them with limited language skills to face life abroad. Once in the United Kingdom, some women face domestic abuse and later false accusations that result in police involvement, marital breakdown and deportation. When natal families disown them, women are essentially left with nowhere to return to.
72I further argue that experiences of carcerality in these marriages are exacerbated by a layering of successive adverse life events. Forced marriage, domestic abuse, abandonment, and the threat of deportation create long-lasting stigma, shame, isolation, mental health issues, and even destitution. This harm persists long after the immediate events, imposing enduring restrictions on women as they endure destitution, poor mental health, and loneliness until they finally gain legal rights to remain in the United Kingdom, learn English, and achieve economic stability through paid work or benefits.
73The case studies presented here demonstrate that cousin-marriage practices in some families, far from offering security and trust, can, in specific contexts, operate as mechanisms of carcerality, producing harm through confinement, seclusion, the thwarting of possibilities and the curtailment of people’s capacity to thrive.
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