A Review of Char: The No Man’s Island by Saurav Sarangi
Char… The No-Man’s Island presents an intimate portrait of Rubel, a young teenaged boy whose struggle for survival and desire for education collide with the harsh economic and political realities of growing up on a disputed stretch of land, where the rhythms of daily life are constantly shaped by uncertainty. The film is set in fragile and barren island terrain that acts as the international border between India and Bangladesh and is patrolled by security forces from both nations. This is where Rubel’s family settled down along with a herd of homeless people, years after their home was eroded by the same river.
Watching Char: The No Man’s Island is a bit disorienting at first. There’s no clear structure, no guidance on what to focus on. You’re simply placed within the world of the chars—those small, temporary islands formed between the shifting channels of the Ganga—and slowly, the instability of that world begins to sink in. Not just physical instability, but emotional and social as well. The visuals play a big role in creating that feeling. They are often jarring, sometimes switching between different kinds of shots and camera angles, never letting the eyes settle, mirroring the landscape itself, uneven and unpredictable. The river has already swallowed so much, that the film doesn’t treat loss as an event. Instead, loss of land and loss of life: all exist together quietly in the background, almost as a given—something people have already learned to live with rather than react to.
One of the most striking sequences in the film is the sight of people breaking their own homes to collect bricks and rebuild them elsewhere. This is difficult to watch and process, because rebuilding usually suggests hope; but here, it feels different. One wonders: where they are relocating to? The river has already taken everything once, and there’s nothing stopping it from doing so again. So, the act feels born less of hope and more of necessity, like trying to stay one step ahead of something you can’t control, something that is inevitable. The river itself begins to feel less like a backdrop and more like a devouring snake, in the way it slithers and consumes, refusing to stay still. It can change everything without explanation, quietly deciding what stays and what disappears.
The presence of the Indo–Bangladesh border shapes everyday life in ways that feel both visible and invisible. Smuggling becomes crucial for survival. Whether it’s cattle, small goods, or substances like Phensydyl, it doesn’t come across as “crime” in a conventional sense; rather, it feels like the only dire option available for subsistence. When we hear from a character (Sofi) about his father being shot while smuggling cows, we realise the danger of this reality. But what also stands out is the matter-of-fact treatment of this revelation—it is nothing extraordinary, rather fully absorbed into daily life. Hearing statements like “you need guts to live at the border” doesn’t feel motivating, but like an acknowledgement of the exhaustion of survival. Even hearing something like “10kg for 10 rupees” highlights the reduction of the value of labour and existence itself to small transactions, as if life itself is constantly being negotiated, measured, and exchanged.
A constant sense of state control throbs in the background of Char. Police detainment appears almost normalised, something people expect rather than question. At the same time, the community too enforces its own rules. The instance of a marriage being forced upon a couple simply because a boy and a girl were seen together reveals how closely people are watched. Even in a place defined by instability, there is very little personal freedom.
The idea that people here are “refugees on their own land” becomes hard to ignore. They haven’t crossed borders, yet they are displaced by river erosion and receive no compensation. They rebuild, move, and repeat the same cycle, largely on their own, without recognition, without support, and without any real sense of permanence.
Some of the most striking images in the film are also the quietest ones. People carrying electricity across unstable terrain feels almost surreal: like development vaguely exists, but doesn’t really change anything fundamental. It’s there, but it doesn’t solve the instability of land or life. In the same way, the presence of a Mother Ganga statue doesn’t feel overly symbolic; it just feels real, like something people hold on to quietly when everything else keeps slipping away. Such faith doesn’t promise change, but it offers a kind of continuity, a belief in the steadfastness of something that remains in a life otherwise ruled by constant transition.
By the end of the film, the sentiment that “on borders, there are no humans” no longer feels exaggerated. We have seen how larger social, political, and economic structures push people to risky movement and labour for survival. But the film still holds on to small moments that resist that erasure, in the way people hang on, adjust, rebuild, and carry on despite everything. What stayed with me most is that the film doesn’t offer resolution. It leaves you with a sense that life here continues in the same uncertain way, without pause or closure.
And within that, Rubel’s hope stands out. His desire to study is not presented as something grand or transformative, and the film never suggests that it will definitely change his life. But it remains. In a place where almost everything is temporary, where land, homes, and stability can disappear at any moment, the fact that this hope still exists feels significant. It’s small, but it’s persistent. The film ends without answers, only with a lingering sense that “someday it will happen.” When that “someday” is and what it holds are unclear, but maybe that uncertainty is exactly what defines life on the chars, always waiting, always adjusting, never fully secure, and yet continuing to survive.
–Written by Diva Jain, 1st year, B.A. Hons. Journalism and Media Studies