From Cairo’s backseat: Ramadan through our Cabbies’ eyes

There’s a timeworn Egyptian saying that courses through the very marrow of this city—our blood runs like water, and no flood could ever swallow it whole; that the Egyptian heart, grander than any calamity it faces, will continue to hold its ground no matter what. Maybe that’s why the hands that steer Cairo’s fate – the over 310,255 registered taxi drivers along with the many unacknowledged laborers—were never those born into comfort. The true stewards of this ancient, revered land are the men and women with callused hands and hearts made humble after years of laboring for baksheesh within an economy so focused on chasing the dollar, it’s lost sight of who’s really kept the wheels in motion.

Our taxi drivers are those who inhale Cairo’s ceaseless fumes by the minute and exhale a collective breath of battered fatigue by end of the night. Inside can smell of a marriage of Cleopatra cigarettes, diesel exhaust and sweat-soaked collars. Our cab drivers are those who gulp their iftar down in a matter of seconds. Each bite is a reluctant bargain traded against a future they say is out of reach for them, but hope unflinchingly that their children can acquire. They are after all, the hard working custodians running Cairo’s frenzied streets – many of whom brought each journey of mine to a halt without so much as a hint of expectation in return.

Inside Cairo’s infamous white taxis that may have lost their prime but never their purpose, I felt the weight of hands too tired to reach for payment, with voices too deferential to ask, even despite such adverse circumstances. Instead, the drivers below sealed each ride off with their usual generosity. Rooted in their uncompromising faith, I listened: ‘Mafeesh talab, kolloh ‘ala Allah’ (there is no tab, it’s all in the hands of God). They were always putting their trust in the mercy of God and the belief that all good deeds will ultimately carry their own return.  

Their reprieve is as fleeting as the minutes between fares — each moment of pause a chance to calculate: how much longer before they hit their daily goal of 200 LE (roughly $4) to give their children a decent meal tonight? 

Today, the white taxis — first introduced in 2009 as unfamiliar newcomers, have largely replaced the signature black cabs that for decades, ruled Cairo’s asphalt. And while Islamic faith has always been an unmissable guide to the streets of Cairo’s 10 million populace, its’ clarity felt much more intentional this year. Today, we look at a only shred of the history of Ramadan in the ancient heart of the Arab world, lived and told through the eyes of some of Cairo’s cab drivers — where each moist glance seems always to be loaded with a conversation of its own. Many of whom, too, shoulder the nostalgic cargo of a once booming metropolis.

They had the late 20th century, golden era of Fawazeer Ramadan—a cultural media masterpiece that consumed Egypt’s airwaves entirely with its blend of riddles, performance art, and dazzling theatrics. From Samir Ghanem’s unmistakable entertainment presence to the comedic triad of familiar faces: Fattoota, Sharihan, and Nelly, whose slapstick antics of mischief in the ‘80s and ‘90s cemented themselves into the collective memory of a nation…… Fawazeer was so much more than mere entertainment to our cab drivers. It was, in their eyes, the bygone trademark of the sacred season, where families gathered, mind-bending puzzles were solved and dozens of prizes awaited at month’s end.

Fast forward today, where 900 new bridges and 35+ luxury developments stretch across a now digital-first city. Algorithms process charity and transactions at a click, and many of our cab drivers feel outpaced—still routinely relying on good old-fashioned memory, maps, and human intuition. As many race toward automation, some of Cairo’s taxi drivers continue to reel harsher aftershocks, craving the warmth of pastimes where genuine connection, generosity, and care reigned all throughout. For them, the ageless spirit of Ramadan lives best only when left untainted, be it by spectacle or fad.

Yet even still, they lift life long after the last Ramadan cannons are fired by children come nightfall. They do so not out of obligation, but an unconditional love for their city and its people. As Eid’s light spread across Cairo, Dazed MENA honours the taxi drivers who form the lifeblood of one of the world’s oldest Islamic cities and the many generations of sun-scorched streets and bridges they’ve navigated. Their thoughts wander back to the golden days of their childhood, when Ramadan’s essence was not measured by short-lived gestures, alluring outfits, or glowing grandeur, but by the fadl that defines our very mercy “Rahman” tables.

fadl: a form of kindness that is freely given, rich with heart and meaning.

Youssef Abu-Ahmed, 48

“The air was alive, weeks, sometimes as far as a month in advance, with the anticipation of the holy month.”

Now, as traffic snarls and prices soar, it’s the simple act of receiving a meal from the gradually fading mercy tables that sustains Youssef’s exhaustive 20-hour shifts.

“Someone just gave me two meals, I didn’t even ask for them. I simply parked the taxi and wiped the beads of sweat off my forehead with a towel and suddenly found two cartoons of chicken, tahina and Mkhalil (pickled vegetables) being handed to me. I ate one and kept the other,” he tells me with cheeky gratitude, “But, you see? I didn’t even ask for it and surely others may be in more desperate conditions.”

But it’s the intrinsic soul of the Egyptian people that’s hardened over time, Youssef observes. “We all see the daily street fights. Egyptians are arguing over meaningless things. They’re bickering, over nothing and everything, and this is disappointing to see. But ultimately, it reveals the undercurrent of their bottled-up frustrations. That it happens so often even during Ramadan is what makes it all the more shocking. “Ma3oola?” (Is that possible?) 

His shoulders square, the 48-year-old father of four confidently states: “But nonetheless, the Kuwaitis, Saudi Arabians and others from Gulf region who visit and journey in my car… they all tell me there is no other place to be in Ramadan than right here in el umm el dunya,” adding, “It gives me great pride in knowing that I get to be a part of this great ancient civilization that all Arab people love to visit during the most sacred month, even if our spirits are extra down this year.” 

A wise laugh escapes Youssef, who’s smile remains a constant companion throughout our ride together: “Today’s Ramadan spirit is not an accurate reflection of the average Egyptian’s heart, but look around,” he tells me, pointing to a band of children lighting fireworks and beating tabla’s, as seen flanking the streets of Downtown Cairo, “Egyptians will always find a reason to celebrate this life that God blessed us with, even amidst a multitude of hardships your generation will never understand.”

Hassan Abdelaziz, 65

Nothing compares to homemade kahk, 2atayef and kunafa cooked under the same roof and dished on one kitchen table for Hassan. “All the children in the alleys would come together, working side by side, each of us helping the other. Our mothers and wives would gather, their hands deftly kneading the dough, then placing it into the trays. Once ready, the men would gather to carry them to the nearby bakery, where the scent of freshly prepared bread would fill the air. We’d wait with anticipation as the baker worked his magic, slowly guiding it into the oven. It was a time full of warmth, of connection—a time long past, but cherished. It felt simpler then… kinder, even. It was a time when life felt richer. But now, everything is swapped for store-bought convenience.”

The 65-year-old Alexandrian adds: “Back then, our desserts were even more delicious because we cooked it from scratch…. Just imagine a mother’s love and a wife’s romantic touch served in a cookie.”

Decades ago, the streets were bubbling with shared and unrestrained laughter, now they murmur the solitude of pent-up struggles and strains, Hassan notes.

“Before Ramadan, there was this real sense of happiness, something you could feel even before the month of Shaaban ended. It was the anticipation, the excitement that built up, knowing what was coming. You’d start getting everything ready—the dates, A’raaq Soos, the Subia beans, and of course, Amar Al Din. It wasn’t just about the food; it was about the feeling. The whole process gave us this warm, almost childlike joy. Even the smallest preparations felt significant. The anticipation alone made us happy.”

Hassan adds: “But today, things have changed. Everything has become so expensive. You go to buy a small package of Amar Al Din, maybe 450 grams, and it costs you 150 pounds (roughly $3). You can find cheaper versions, but the taste isn’t the same—it’s just not as good. I need to work a few days to be able to spend that much, outside of my own bills. Even the raisins, the mixed nuts, the walnuts, everything that used to be so familiar and comforting—it’s all overpriced now. What used to be a simple joy is now a reminder of how much harder it is to enjoy those traditions. And it’s not just the prices; it’s the feeling that something once so cherished has started to slip away until it gradually becomes impossibly expensive to purchase. And just like that, our childhood Ramadan traditions will die.”

As he leans in, Hassan’s words begin tumbling out with an intensity that only nostalgia and time can foster. “A long time ago, there was something really special on the radio,” he recalls. “It was a program hosted by Fouad Mohandes, Ya Allah, I can still hear his voice.  Every night, it was a game—different from anything we have now.  You’d hear his voice, and he’d ask a question. Then he’d go around, offering clues, little charades that made you think…. It was a guessing game, like a riddle. You’d write down your answer at the end of each night, and by the end of Ramadan, you’d send in your guesses. If you got all 30 right, you’d win a really big prize. We don’t have that anymore, if it exists, maybe it does in your generation, but it is out of reach for us.”

As if reliving the glory joys of pastime, Hassan cries out: “The beautiful… beautiful time. The Ramadan we all called the most beautiful… That was a long time ago. The one and only Ramadan that will live forever in our hearts. I remember the Mesa7araty, the man who roamed the streets at night, waking everyone up for Sohoor. He’d call us by name—“Ya Hussein, Ya Hassan”—a personal touch that made it feel like a true community. It was a beautiful, unforgettable time.” Hassan’s emerald-green eyes flicker with longing, as if reaching for fragments of time that have long escaped his surroundings.

Mohamed Abdou, 30

Come early dawn, or Fajr, Mohamed Abdou, 30, originally from a city on the east bank of the Nile, Qena, is seen cleaning his car instead of sleeping. Despite his day job, he takes to the streets near Khan Al-Khalili market each night, practicing his trade as a cab driver. He catches barely enough sleep to be back out the door just before Iftar. It took a lot of tiring miles to put food on the table today, and keep the roof afloat for tomorrow, he tells me. After all that, there isn’t enough pennies left to make him a husband or a father.

“Ramadan used to feel like a journey—split into three parts, each with its own rhythm. The first ten days were sacred, a time to gather around the family table, breaking fast together in the comfort of home. The next ten days brought a sense of warmth, welcoming guests, sharing the evening meal with friends and neighbors. The final ten days, the city would hum with excitement, a frenzy of last-minute preparations for Eid. The streets were alive and the air thick with anticipation and joy for new clothes and gifts.”

As we drive past the centuries-old Mosque of Sayyida Zainab, his gaze lowers, and a crushing glance of sadness takes over his expression. “But those days feel so far away now. The prices, they’ve soared beyond what anyone can keep up with. I spend my days driving, hustling just to make enough to survive. I don’t have time for anything else—my parents don’t even see me when I come home. Ramadan has become a time of exhaustion, not celebration. I used to break my fast outside, with others, enjoying the company, the laughter, the food. That is what Ramadan should be all about. But now… I break my fast alone, swallowing small meals in haste, because there’s no room or time for anything else.”

“I need to make 300 pounds a day just to feed my family. That’s the reality now. The joy of Ramadan, that feeling of togetherness, it’s become a distant memory that I only experienced as a child with my parents.. How can we enjoy this sacred month when we’re struggling just to keep our heads above the water?

How can you taste the sweetness of the month when all you feel is the bitterness of survival?”

Ahmed Mohammed, 58

“Now, when I open my phone, it’s all about the wars, the suffering. Every day, it feels like a new wound. Palestine… My heart aches. In my youth, we had wars, yes. We never knew peace. But we didn’t have the news blasted in our faces all day, every day. It didn’t tear us apart like this. We didn’t lose our peace of mind.” With damp eyes and a voice thick with emotion, Ahmed, originally from Tanta, continues: “Things were also never this bad. We didn’t eat Iftar thinking about how our brothers and sisters across the border in Sudan and in Palestine are enduring famine. Now, we can’t even enjoy the present, because the news keeps breaking our hearts by the hour. You can’t be a real, practicing Muslim and enjoy Ramadan while the Arab world is under attack from all angles.”

He speaks with a tone tinged with disillusionment. His wisdom comes from years of living and absorbing not just the changes in society, but in human nature itself: “It wasn’t like this before,” he says hotly, “You used to see the streets alive with Ramadan’s spirit. The decorations, the lights, the sense that something grand was unfolding, not just physically but spiritually. The way the streets used to shine, the way people greeted each other—it’s all different now. There is very little respect for the community;  for religion; for the elders, and this is all year round.  In my time, everyone would help each other, even when they had little to give. We would get hit for talking back to our grandparents, even our parents or an elderly on the street. Now, it happens all around.”

Ahmed shakes his head in bittersweet motions, as the memories all come flooding back: “I remember a puppet-based program from back in the 70’s called ‘Googoo TomTom’. It came after Iftar, and we would all sit together, watch, and laugh. Then there was ‘Fawazeer’, a kind of reality show—events and skits about society, stories of us. They reflected our truth much more. But now? It’s not the same. The soap operas and dramas took over and they don’t really reflect our conditions or our sense of humor. The streets are also quieter. People are more distant. What can I say? You had to be alive then, to know the true spirit of Ramadan that I’m really missing this year.”

The lines on Ahmed’s face speak volumes—the laughter of youth, the worry of age, and the pride of a man who’s seen his city rise and fall in ways that few could understand. There was a time when success in business meant investing in others, lifting the collective up. Ahmed says that privatization now keeps businessmen and entrepreneurs entirely to themselves. “Before, when someone opened a shop, they’d make sure the people around them benefited too. They’d employ others, share what they had. But now? Everyone is selfish. It’s all for personal gain. It’s all about the individual, and that’s not the spirit of Ramadan, nor of the Egyptian. That’s not how we lived.”

As we approach the end of our time together, Ahmed’s words linger like a prayer for the old days, back when hearts were unreserved and giving felt like second nature: “Why did the charities stop flowing during Ramadan? When did the hearts turn cold? After the Day of Judgment, your generation will be in God’s hands. He will ask you about what you did—what you gave. Not just during Ramadan, but every single day.” He looks at me with eyes that betray the tempered sorrow in his heart. “Even if you have nothing, you must give. In small ways, in any way, until you can do more. People forget this. They wait for Ramadan. But why? Giving is a way of life, not a season. Don’t forget this.”