These are stories of women who just wanted to go from A to B. But Mr Taxi, who thinks he knows everything and loves his taxi because he enjoys doing the rounds across Iraq, keeps sharing his stories, many of which are underpinned by harassment. How do women feel when they keep saying no and Mr Taxi doesn’t listen?

We all know Mr Taxi. Of course, there was a doctor who tried to marry him for his morals, and an engineer who promised to design their future home together after he married her, and an MP who told him she was ready to hand over the presidency of her office to him because he was an experienced political mind. We know the taxi driver who has heard about the deep state, who knows the real reason for the rivers drying up, who knows who appointed the prime minister, and why the university professor chose his current specialisation.  

He thinks he knows us better than we know ourselves, understanding our motives and reasons for life. He thinks he knows everything hidden in our minds.  

Here are our stories with the taxi driver who allegedly knows everything but still loves his being in his taxi because he enjoys doing the rounds across Iraq.   

The multitude of situations with taxi drivers always makes me wonder: is it normal for a stranger to talk to me about everything concerning my life? The encounters and images blend in my mind, and I still question how these taxi driver men manage to speak so boldly. One memory stands out from my experiences with a driver, which I would categorize as harassment based on my understanding of the term. I was in the car waiting for my friends so we could go home after finishing our exam. I don’t know how, but taxi drivers have a high skill level when it comes to opening new topics. They know how to ease into conversations. The taxi driver suddenly asked me: Why aren’t you married yet? I replied: The timing isn’t right, especially since I haven’t finished my studies yet, plus I have my personal reasons, and I’d prefer not to share my private life.  

I remember that we had a debate about women’s competence compared to men. I was the one defending women, while he supported men. I smiled and said, “Maybe that’s true,” to end the argument. Then he asked, “What does a man want from his wife?” I replied, “I don’t know.”  

He told me, “I’ll tell you what he wants: a clean house, a pleasant face, and a night of intimacy”. I felt a rush of shame and embarrassment wash over my face. It felt like a cold wave engulfing my features on a chilly, rainy day. What made him think it was appropriate to share such information with me? And why did I, a university student who was only focused on my exam results at the time, need to know what a man wanted? Did he ever consider what I wanted?  

At first, I didn’t want this conversation to continue. I’m sure he noticed I was embarrassed, so he tried to change the subject by asking, “What year were you born?” I answered, “2000.” He replied, “You don’t look that age; you seem younger.” I was indeed young; I hadn’t turned twenty-three yet. 

Even my friends weren’t spared from his intrusive behaviour and rudeness. He seemed determined to know everything about us, continuously asking personal questions, and when we didn’t respond, he answered them himself. It felt like a bizarre comedy, and a journey that couldn’t have taken more than an hour felt like an eternity. We spent the time wondering about how we could jump out of the car. Or use some strong tape to keep his mouth shut forever. Women and marriage were the only topics that drove his conversation; there were no other subjects. 

I remember he worked as a marriage broker, aka a matchmaker. One day, he told my friend that a young man had proposed to her – through him. He justified his claim by saying that his car was a good omen for all its passengers. He insisted that as soon as any girl gets into his car, a groom would come their way. “My car brings good luck to girls!” he declared. 

He was proud of his conversations with us, believing that his work as a matchmaker was fruitful and helpful to humanity. If only he knew that he hadn’t helped at all – he only increased our fear and disgust! Women and marriage were the only things that he talked about. 

I can’t forget the bad experiences I had with taxi drivers during my university years. When I finished my studies, I felt a sense of liberation and gratitude for being free from taxi drivers. I used to call them the “third ear,” because in every conversation inside the car, the taxi driver inevitably became the third listener or an unwelcome participant. 

One of the most unforgettable moments happened during my final days at university. Our usual driver had to leave us for a day and asked his cousin to take us to and from the university. During the long ride back, my friend and I discussed the challenges of life after graduation and how society has a superficial and limited mindset. We shared our thoughts on marriage and work after graduation, and my friend said, “It’s confusing who to trust; there are controlling patriarchal mentalities everywhere.” We were speaking softly in the back seats, trying to keep our conversation private. 

The taxi driver allowed himself to intrude on our conversation, seizing the opportunity to tell us that he lived in Erbil and that he was single. It wasn’t clear to my friend and I why he felt the need to share that. It seemed random and unwarranted. But we armed ourselves with the usual responses of an Iraqi young woman when faced with a taxi driver: “Oh, I see, yes, that’s true, what can we do, it is what it is…” because there was no other way to escape the web of conversation with taxi drivers. 

The next day, our regular driver returned, but he seemed annoyed with us. At the end of the day, he told us he wanted to quit and that it would be better for us to find someone else, because “you don’t want me!” His sudden change in attitude was strange. I tried to ask him what had changed. We discovered that the taxi driver had eavesdropped on our conversation and added his own wild fabrications, claiming that we were interested in him and wanted to get close to him, saying, “they talk about marriage in front of me and want to get involved with me.” He used this as an excuse to position himself as the beloved figure among the university students, a goal for them after graduation.  

He allowed himself to interpret our conversation about the difficulties of life after graduation and the limited options available as a desperate call from my friend and I for him to marry us, so we could live in his “luxurious” apartment in Erbil. He didn’t stop there. He told our regular driver that we didn’t want him but rather his amazing cousin, who couldn’t stand Babil and loved living in the luxurious Erbil, along with other lies that the driver couldn’t even bring himself to share with us.  

I told our driver that it was his cousin who brought up the topic of apartments, Erbil, and being single, to which he replied that his cousin was already married with children.  

After that, the taxi situation became a troubling crisis for us. We lived under the shadow of fear from the fabrications that could escalate to the point of tarnishing our honour, creating scenarios that could cost him only a fare, while we could lose our university, our freedom, or even our lives.      

In 2009, I took my three children, an eight-year-old girl, her seven-year-old brother, and their three-year-old sibling, while I was thirty-six, to visit my brother and his wife at Ibn Ghazwan Hospital where my sister-in-law gave birth to her first child. The children sat quietly, each gazing out the window at the streets. It was a tense time in Iraqi history, so we rarely left the house. 

On our way to the hospital, we stopped at an intersection for a few minutes because of a traffic officer. The taxi driver saw it as the perfect opportunity to share his hidden feelings. He asked me about my profession, and I told him I was an English teacher. That’s when the familiar line from Iraqi taxi drivers came: “I feel at ease around you; give me your number.” It wasn’t the first time a taxi driver had offered his services and expressed his sentiments, but to do so with all three of my children in the car? That was unprecedented.   

“Brother, turn your face and focus on the road, so we don’t get into an accident” I replied firmly, praying that the children hadn’t heard anything and that the windows still held their full attention. Perhaps he didn’t take my “Brother” or “turn your face” or the presence of my children as a clear sign of rejection, because he repeated his request. 

“What do you want me to do for you? Just name it… I just want your number so I can call you and chat,” he said. We were now close to the hospital; it was only a short distance until I could escape this ridiculous performance. I realized that my daughter was paying attention to the conversation, following along quietly so as not to draw my attention.   

“Thank you, I don’t want anything, just drop us off by the hospital, and God be with you.” I began gathering my belongings to make it clear that we were getting out and that this story of “forbidden love” was over. But again, he didn’t take it as a rejection. 

“Then let me wait here; I’ll take you wherever you want, whenever you want,” he offered, showing his “generosity” with his car, but all I wanted was to get the kids out. 

I looked out the window, anxiously watching every move the car made as it approached the hospital entrance. What started as a joyful day with the birth of my niece had turned heavy and bothersome. I wondered, what could no possibly mean to him? Perhaps having a man, my husband, with me would have been enough to silence him, but my husband thought that having three children with me was a ticket to safety. 

In the end, we arrived, and I quickly grabbed the kids, tossing the money onto the seat of the car. I didn’t even want the change. the crowd around the hospital, the people, the security, didn’t stop him from shouting, “Take your money back, I don’t care about it!” But I kept walking, trying to escape him, trying to get away from this nonsense. 

This wasn’t the worst experience, but it stuck in my memory, even now that I’m fifty-one. Others have expressed their love and burning emotions toward me while I was eight months pregnant. I don’t think the “affection” of taxi drivers stops at a pregnant woman or at three children, or at anything else. Not even at the no that I repeated endlessly. 

I had just left my friend’s house with my mother and sister, waiting for a taxi that would suit our needs. A taxi pulled up, and a young man got out. We took the opportunity and approached the driver to tell him our destination. 

Usually, my family and I don’t engage in conversations with taxi drivers. We prefer not to get into unnecessary discussions, also to avoid any unexpected comments that could arise from such exchanges. After a few minutes of silence, the driver told us he had a debate with the young man who had just exited the taxi. The young man didn’t agree with the driver’s views, so he wanted us to be the judges, even though the other party was absent. 

The taxi driver expressed his opinion on women working, saying he didn’t see it as a necessity and believed women should stay at home. He claimed that despite all the sacrifices and expenses men make, women fail to show gratitude for these blessings. However, the young man viewed women’s work as a priority, as well as their education, arguing that women should be independent because, as he put it, “a man can leave and not come back.” 

We didn’t feel comfortable, as we were, after all, those same women whom the taxi driver believed that education and work were luxuries for, and that gratitude wasn’t one of our traits. I, who write daily gratitude posts for all my blessings, thanking God for everything. We didn’t say much; our responses were limited to yes, maybe, uh-huh to avoid giving a clear opinion. 

He told us that his wife has two degrees, but he refuses to let her work because “she studied thanks to my support; without my help, how could she study? But I don’t have a wife who works.” In his view, he provided everything she needs. Mr. Money Man didn’t stop there. He explained that a woman’s desire to work, according to his personal analysis, was driven by the wish to leave her husband and abandon him. If his wife worked, she would naturally see herself as better than him and would leave. 

His conversation was neither civilized nor encouraging for us to participate. It wasn’t even a dialogue—it was a one-sided, uncomfortable, and repulsive monologue from someone who didn’t stop talking for a moment. 

At that time, he changed our route home. Instead of taking the path that would have gotten us home in 15 minutes, he opted for a route that took 45 minutes, using the extra time to share his opinions about women. His views were so harsh that they insulted the honour of every woman who worked, wanted to work, or even thought about looking for a job. According to him: “They’re all immoral, they’re all dishonourable; they’re only looking for a chance to fool around with men.” 

I thought, as I listened to him say, “But a respectable woman wouldn’t leave the house to work.” I felt that even walking home would be better than listening to this nauseating tirade. Before we reached the main intersection, I told him to drop us off, saying we had arrived at our destination. He kept insisting, “No, I’ll get you to your house; why are you getting out in the street? What if you don’t have money?”

As soon as he left, we took an auto rickshaw home, where the loud sound of the wind meant the driver didn’t have the space to talk to us. 

Mr. high and mighty didn’t hesitate to change his route and extend the ride to 45 minutes, just to tell three strangers that any woman who leaves home to work and seek a living is a whore. He bragged about being so exceptional that he provided everything his wife wanted. Yet he still feared she might have enough money to leave him. 

Perhaps he was afraid she might meet a man who wouldn’t spend his day trying to categorize her as either a saint or a whore.