The Dupes: No Trees and jute walls

But could the sun kill them and all the stench imprisoned in their breasts?

 Apart from the obvious horror which befalls the Men in the Sun, what hauntingly stood out was the dichotomy between limitless desert and the claustrophobic characters. The endless expanse with its merciless heat is daunting even when introduced, yet Kanafani accentuates the horror by continually stressing the setting each time he introduces a character. The same, scorching regardless of the character or timeline: hence the insensitive lump sum: men in the sun, 'humanity in a frying pan' and ultimately nameless white bones littering the desert. The available space, regardless of its limitless expanse, provides no shelter. Similar idea echoes in the opening credits of Tewfik Saleh’s screen adaptation, The Dupes; 'A man without a homeland will have no grave in the earth'.

Amidst oblivion that the desert is, each man battles to find shelter or to be haunted in his own bubble. For helpless like Abu Qais, it is no less than a mirage. Deluding himself into tracing the Shatt, Kanafani delves into surreal aesthetics riddling character's mind: smell of his wife's washed hair, a small bird’s heartbeat, olive shoots and trees. Yet the kaleidoscopic subconscious monologue is rudely interrupted; 'Have you forgotten where you are!', 'No trees - there are no trees'. 

This continually narrowing space and caught individual are also highlighted by fragmented plot. Much like the chaotic shifts in past and present, the author highlights the dilemma of men wondering lost through the desert or in search for a destination which promises no mercy. These scurrying ‘rats’ across the desert as defined by tourist in Assad’s past eerily recall The Wasteland’s rendition of rats and the London bridge:  dehumanization and ‘fear in a handful of dust’.

The final sequence juxtaposes the narrowing walls around individual much like the ever-growing jute walls which confine Abu Qais’s home. The relentless mockery of Abul Khaizuran and the fictitious Kawkab is unflinchingly claustrophobic considering sterility that his patriotism cost him. At a literal level, in less than a minute, heat and illusions of Kuwait take their toll on those in the tank. This dilemma of denied space, enclosing walls reaches a crescendo with a series of final haunting images. There is no sense of completion even in death: ‘scream caught forever in death’, rigid hands ‘holding on to the iron supports’, the traumatized driver and the story coming round a full circle sans destination: bones in the sand for more dupes who seek Kuwait. No homeland, no grave.