Drinking Traditions of Afghanistan: 6 Local Beverages

Alcohol is illegal in Afghanistan under Islamic law, yet the country’s landscapes and ethnic mosaic have long shaped a quiet heritage of fermentation and distillation. In mountain valleys, steppe fringes, and vineyard belts, certain communities historically crafted low- to high-strength beverages from milk, grains, grapes, raisins, and mulberries.

Today, such drinks survive in discreet household production, among non-Muslim minorities, in remote pastoral areas, or within the Afghan diaspora. Geography matters: the grape-friendly climate of Herat, mulberry orchards in the Hindu Kush, and nomadic milk cultures in the Pamirs all inform what people drink, when, and why.

Araq-e angur is a clear, high-proof spirit distilled from grapes or raisins—an economical choice in regions where sun-dried fruit is abundant. Producers ferment crushed grapes or rehydrated raisins with water and natural or baker’s yeast, then run the wash through a simple copper pot still. Careful cuts separate heads and tails, and some makers redistill for purity. The result is typically 40–55% ABV, with a clean, slightly peppery palate and hints of dried fig, date, and grape skin.

Historically associated with urban households and craftsmen in cities like Herat and Kabul, this spirit reflects Iranic-Persian techniques adapted to local conditions. Though public sale is prohibited, family recipes persist in private settings and among diaspora Afghans. It is traditionally sipped in small glasses at winter gatherings or celebratory dinners, sometimes alongside dried fruits and nuts. In many homes, it has functioned as both a convivial drink and a base for medicinal tinctures.

White mulberries (tut) thrive in eastern and northeastern valleys, making them a natural base for a fragrant brandy. Fresh mulberries are crushed, mixed with water, and fermented by wild yeasts before double distillation in a pot still. The spirit often ranges from 45–60% ABV and carries a honeyed, floral nose with resinous, orchard-fruit depth. Kept in glass or neutral containers, it stays colorless; extended storage can lend a faint straw tint.

Mulberry brandy is rooted in mountain subsistence, where orchard trees provide both food and fermentable sugar. In districts of Badakhshan and parts of Nuristan, it appears at winter feasts, weddings hosted in narrow valleys, and small-circle hospitality. Locals sometimes rub a splash on joints as a warming liniment or add a drop to herbal infusions. With strict laws, production today is discreet, but the drink remains a cultural marker in places where mulberries are as common as apples.

Boza is a low-alcohol, thick fermented grain drink associated with Turkic-speaking households in the northern plains. Cooks simmer millet, bulgur, or wheat into a porridge, cool it, then inoculate with a starter and ferment for a day or more. The result is mildly alcoholic—typically 1–3% ABV—with a tangy-sweet, lactic taste, a creamy texture, and gentle cereal aromas. Some sweeten it lightly or dust servings with cinnamon and roasted chickpeas.

You’ll hear about boza in market towns like Mazar-i-Sharif and Sheberghan, where winter evenings traditionally bring out family recipes and neighborhood vendors. It is energizing rather than intoxicating, often served with warm bread on cold nights. In many households, boza belongs to the category of lightly fermented, nourishing drinks that straddle food and beverage. Its popularity reflects the north’s grain economy and the comfort of a bowl or cup shared close to home.

Among Kyrgyz pastoralists in Afghanistan’s high Pamirs, qimiz—fermented mare’s milk—captures the short summer when foals are nursing and pastures are rich. Fresh milk is poured into a leather or skin bag and continuously churned, encouraging lactic acid bacteria and yeasts to sour and lightly carbonate the liquid. Alcohol typically sits around 1–2.5% ABV. Expect a tangy, yogurt-like acidity, a soft fizz, and a faintly smoky, leathery aroma from the fermentation vessel.

Qimiz is served in wooden cups to guests in seasonal camps, valued as a tonic for stamina at altitude and for its thirst-quenching qualities. It is most common from late spring through summer, when herds are mobile and the day’s work is long. In cultural terms, the drink situates hospitality firmly within a pastoral rhythm: animals first, work next, then a restorative bowl shared around the hearth. Urban visitors who reach the Pamirs describe it as both an acquired taste and an unmistakable expression of landscape.

In Turkmen communities along the northern steppe, shubat—also known as chal—is a fermented camel’s milk drink. A portion of fresh milk is mixed with a bit of a previous batch and fermented in a goatskin or sturdy container until lightly sour and gently effervescent. The alcohol is minimal, about 0.5–2% ABV, but the body is fuller than qimiz, with a creamy texture and a saline, tangy profile reminiscent of salted yogurt.

Shubat suits hot, dry conditions: it travels well, hydrates, and provides calories and protein during long workdays. Families near Andkhoy and around caravan routes treat it as a daily staple in summer, served cool with bread or simple stews. While never intended to intoxicate, it occupies the same cultural space as other fermented milk drinks—a functional beverage that also codes hospitality and identity among steppe households.

Where fresh grapes are scarce or cannot be bought openly, households sometimes make raisin wine, known as sharab-e keshmesh. Raisins are rinsed, rehydrated, and fermented in glass with water and a pinch of yeast, then racked off sediment and left to settle. The ABV usually lands around 10–14% depending on sugar and fermentation time. Expect amber hues, aromas of fig, date, and caramelized peel, and a softly tannic finish from raisin skins and seeds.

This is a pragmatic urban craft found historically in apartments and courtyards in Kabul, Herat, and Bamiyan. It appears at private dinners, small winter gatherings, or on diaspora Nowruz tables as a quiet nod to pre-prohibition culinary habits. Because alcohol is illegal, production is domestic and discreet; recipes circulate by word of mouth rather than in public markets. The drink’s simplicity—pantry fruit turned into wine—reflects both constraint and ingenuity.