How Does 'Cities Of Salt' Critique Oil And Colonialism?

In 'Cities of Salt', the novel dives deep into the clash between tradition and modernization, particularly in an unnamed Gulf country. The arrival of American oil companies disrupts the lives of Bedouins, stripping them of their land and way of life. The story captures the erosion of cultural identity, as people are forced to adapt or resist the rapid industrialization. The book also explores greed and exploitation, showing how foreign powers manipulate local rulers for profit, leaving the native population powerless. Themes of displacement and loss permeate the narrative—families torn apart, villages erased. Yet, there’s a quiet resistance, a refusal to completely surrender to the new order. The novel’s strength lies in its unflinching portrayal of how progress isn’t always benevolent, often leaving scars deeper than the benefits it brings.

You'd be surprised how practical rats are when you picture why colonies end up under city streets. For starters, those tunnels are basically a suite of one-stop amenities: food (leaky trash cans, restaurants, pet food, compost), steady water from pipes and drains, and insulated warmth from sewer pipes and surrounding infrastructure. All of that equals a reliably rich environment for a very adaptable creature. Norway rats, for example, love burrowing and will take advantage of voids beneath sidewalks or under building foundations, and once one family moves in it's not long before others follow because the place meets their basic needs. Their biology helps them explode in numbers fast. Rats reproduce quickly and reach sexual maturity in months, so any pocket of steady resources turns into a dense colony in a surprisingly short time. The sewer networks themselves are also highways for them — connected, sheltered, and rarely disrupted — so populations can spread laterally under blocks, jump across streets through storm drains, and recolonize areas cleared by pest control. Human behavior compounds the problem; inconsistent waste management, litter, and food waste create predictable buffets, while the lack of natural predators in dense urban cores removes a population control check. If you peel the issue back it becomes less mystical and more a combination of ecology and engineering. Fixing it isn't glamorous: seal entry points, improve trash management, plug holes in sidewalks, and combine humane trapping with targeted control where necessary. Cities that take a systems approach — sanitation, public education, infrastructure repair — make big dents in rat populations. Still, watching those tiny organized communities scuttle around, I can't help but admire their sheer urban survival instinct.

'Cities of Salt' dives deep into the upheaval Arab society faces when oil is discovered, stripping away romanticized notions of tradition. Munif’s novel shows how modernization isn’t just progress—it’s a violent rupture. Bedouins lose their lands to foreign oil companies, their identities eroded as anonymous workers in corporate towns. The book’s fragmented structure mirrors this disintegration: families splinter, elders lose authority, and the desert itself becomes a wasteland of pipelines. The irony is crushing. Wealth from oil doesn’t uplift communities; it creates hollow cities where locals are either servants or rebels. The novel’s silence around the ruling elite speaks volumes—change is orchestrated by invisible forces, leaving ordinary Arabs scrambling. Some characters adapt, becoming complicit in their own cultural erasure, while others resist futilely. Munif doesn’t offer solutions; he documents the slow, irreversible death of a way of life.

'Almanac of the Dead' tears into colonialism with the subtlety of a chainsaw. Leslie Marmon Silko doesn’t just expose its violence—she flips the script, showing how Indigenous resistance outlives empires. The novel’s sprawling narrative connects stolen land, corporate greed, and cultural erasure, framing colonialism as a rotting system. Characters like Lecha and Sterling embody survival, weaving spells and stories that defy historical amnesia. The almanac itself becomes a weapon, predicting colonialism’s collapse. Silko’s genius lies in her refusal to sanitize; she shows blood, betrayal, and the unbroken spirit of revolt. It’s less a critique than a prophecy—colonialism’s end, written in fire.

The novel 'Cities of Salt' was penned by the Saudi Arabian writer Abdelrahman Munif, a master of political storytelling. Its controversy stems from its unflinching portrayal of oil's disruptive force in the Arab world, blending myth and reality to critique Western imperialism and local corruption. Munif's vivid prose exposes how oil wealth erodes traditions, turning Bedouin communities into displaced shadows of themselves. The book was banned in several Gulf states for its perceived anti-monarchical stance, yet it remains a landmark for its poetic defiance and historical resonance. What makes it electrifying is its refusal to romanticize progress. Munif depicts pipelines as veins draining cultural identity, and foreign engineers as modern colonizers. The controversy isn’t just political—it’s emotional, capturing the grief of a people severed from their land. Critics call it incendiary; admirers hail it as a necessary mirror. Either way, its raw honesty ensures it lingers in the mind long after the last page.

'Cities of Salt' is a sprawling epic that captures the seismic shifts in a fictional Gulf kingdom when oil is discovered. The novel begins with the quiet, traditional life of a coastal village, where the rhythms of existence are dictated by the sea and the land. Suddenly, American oilmen arrive, and their presence disrupts everything. The villagers are bewildered by the foreigners' technology and arrogance, and their way of life is obliterated. The story follows multiple characters—locals, oil workers, and the emerging elite—as they navigate the chaos of modernization. The narrative exposes the exploitation and cultural erosion that accompany the oil boom. The villagers are displaced, their land stolen, and their identities fractured. The ruling class, seduced by wealth, becomes complicit in the destruction. The novel’s title reflects the ephemeral nature of the new wealth—like cities built on salt, it’s destined to dissolve. The prose is rich with allegory, painting a haunting portrait of greed, displacement, and the loss of innocence. It’s a tragic, unforgettable exploration of how progress can erase history.

Reading 'Heart of Darkness' feels like peeling back layers of a rotting fruit—what glitters on the surface hides something festering beneath. Conrad doesn’t just show colonialism; he lets you smell it, the way Marlow’s journey upriver forces you to confront the brutality step by step. The river itself becomes this eerie metaphor—the deeper you go, the more the 'civilized' mask slips, revealing Kurtz’s madness as the logical endpoint of exploitation. What guts me every time is how Conrad frames the Congolese people. They’re shadows, whispers, almost part of the landscape—which is the point. By denying them voices, he mirrors how colonialism dehumanizes. Even Marlow, who’s supposed to be 'better,' still reduces them to 'savage cries.' It’s uncomfortable, but that discomfort is the critique—showing how empires consume everyone, even those who think they’re 'just observing.'

I dug into this because 'Cities of Salt' is one of those books that sparks debates wherever it's mentioned. The novel, written by Abdelrahman Munif, faced bans in several Gulf countries, particularly Saudi Arabia and the UAE. The reasons aren't officially spelled out, but it's widely believed the book's unflinching portrayal of oil-driven societal upheaval and political corruption hit too close to home. The story critiques the rapid modernization and foreign influence in the region, which likely unsettled authorities. Munif's depiction of a fictionalized Arab monarchy's collusion with Western oil companies was seen as subversive. The book doesn't pull punches—it shows how greed dismantles tradition, leaving ordinary people displaced and angry. Censorship often targets works that challenge power structures, and 'Cities of Salt' does exactly that. Its ban reflects a fear of narratives that question authority or expose uncomfortable truths about economic exploitation.

Burmese Days' critique of colonialism is like peeling an onion—each layer stings a little more. Orwell doesn’t just attack the system; he dissects the petty, everyday cruelties that sustain it. The club scene where locals are barred? That’s not just policy—it’s the humiliation baked into tea-time gossip. What guts me is how the colonizers aren’t even competent villains; they’re drunken, mediocre men propped up by racism. The protagonist Flory’s self-loathing hits hardest—he sees the rot but can’t escape complicity. Even his friendship with Dr. Veraswami gets poisoned by the hierarchy. The novel’s genius is showing how colonialism corrupts not just societies, but souls. And the Burmese characters aren’t props. U Po Kyin’s scheming exposes how the system rewards collaboration with brutality, while Ma Hla May’s fate shows how women bear the worst of it. Orwell’s time as a cop in Burma bleeds through—this isn’t theoretical outrage, it’s the stench of lived experience. The ending isn’t some grand revolt; it’s a fizzle of despair. That anticlimax feels truer than any heroic resistance. After reading, I stared at my wall for an hour—it’s that rare book that doesn’t let you hide behind 'historical context.'

Reading 'The Wretched of the Earth' was like having a bucket of ice water dumped over my head—Fanon doesn’t just critique colonialism; he eviscerates it. The book digs into how colonialism isn’t just about political control but a complete dehumanization of the colonized, stripping away culture, language, and even personal identity. Fanon argues that violence becomes a necessary tool for the oppressed to reclaim their humanity, which is a brutal but compelling perspective. It’s not just theoretical; he draws from his work as a psychiatrist, showing how colonialism warps minds, creating internalized inferiority and psychological trauma. What stuck with me most was his analysis of the 'colonized intellectual'—those who try to assimilate into the colonizer’s culture but end up trapped in a limbo, neither fully rejecting nor embracing their roots. Fanon’s insistence on total liberation, not just political independence but cultural and psychological decolonization, feels radical even today. It’s a book that refuses to let you look away from the ugliness of empire, and that’s why it still shakes me every time I reread it.