In November 2021 27 migrants lost their lives in the English Channel while attempting to cross from France in an inflatable dinghy. This slim little novella explores that real-life event through a fictional lens in three main sections, two of which are from the point of view of the radio operator of the French rescue centre who received their distress calls, while the middle section is from that of the migrant making the calls.

The author is a philosopher, and I think that shows clearly in this thought-provoking and often confronting read. I was amazed and a little horrified by how often I found myself agreeing with some of the points made by the radio operator in her interview with the police. Yes, she may have been attempting to obfuscate and minimise her own failings, but did that negate the validity of some of the points she was attempting to make? She may have had a large role to play in the proximate cause of the arguably preventable deaths, but the ultimate causes are more wide-ranging and often less comfortable for readers to face.

The structure was very clever - and also a little opaque. Did the first and second sections actually occur, or were they all in the mind of the radio operator? If the latter, then she clearly showed more self-awareness and empathy than the policewoman (another side of the operator herself?) gave her credit for. And this issue of empathy, of presenting in a way that others judge acceptable, really gave me pause, particularly when I consider court cases where an incorrect verdict has resulted, largely due to the evidence of the accused or a key witness being discounted because they did not behave or present in a way that others judged correct given the circumstances, something that is particularly problematic and troublesome when things like autism are factored in.

This was a small but mighty book whose unlikeable narrator poses some uncomfortable questions that readers should continue to ponder (before hopefully taking action) long after the book's covers have been closed.

Small Boat by Vincent Delecroix, translated by Helen Stevenson (Longlisted for the International Booker Prize, out 4/23/25 thank you @hoperoadpublishing @netgalley for the #gifted eARC)

In November 2021 around seven thousand asylum seekers attempted to cross the Channel from France to the UK using small boats that did not always make it across. One specific boat that launched on the 23rd resulted in the largest single loss of life in the Channel since migrants began using this pathway in 2018. The events of this night are the basis of this fictional account centered around an inquiry into the staff on duty, one radio operator in particular, as they look into suspicion that there was a failure to assist persons in danger.

I want to start by sharing I had a difficult time connecting with this book for the first 20 or so percent, which I attribute largely to the fact that I read the full introduction. The factual information that set the context for this work of fiction was valuable, but the analysis in the later part of the intro made it difficult for me to become invested. I felt like I was being told how to interpret the book and what conclusions to draw. I loved the analysis, but favor forming my own impressions of a work before reading analysis and insights from others. If you’re like me maybe consider skipping the second half of the intro until after you read it. I’m worried the following thoughts could give too much away for those who like to draw their own conclusions so proceed with caution but do go read this and come back to tell me what you think.

Thank goodness I persisted; as this book progressed I became more invested and blown away by the depth this simple-seeming novel contains. I have a significant interest in understanding how extensively the systems we exist in influence our lives. We are so deeply embedded into the environment around us; the influence of the people we live and work with, the institutions surrounding us, and the policies that shape the society we live in. It is difficult to separate ourselves from this, to see and understand where our own agency begins and ends. I adore books like SMALL BOAT that attempt to tackle how this plays out. Delecroix explores individual responsibility, how policy plays out on the ground including resource constraints, how we are influenced by others, the meaning of borders and boundaries, privilege, and so much more in such a unique and interesting way.

I also love a book that elevates the themes it explores through its form. The interrogation style format of the first part that involves heavy use of repetition coupled with the constant and consistently wavering internal monologue of the person being queried reinforces the detachment of the character and their experience in a world that wears you down and chips away at you in a way that removes objectively and warps values tied to things as fundamental as the value of human life. The fact that everything is done in the dark adds to the veil that covers everything. The language of disassociation is used constantly throughout the narrative: those people, them, they (both the people in the water and the bigger “they” that includes all of us). The introspection of the narrator who is talking to herself made me wonder about her reliability and as we progress through the novel we realize that things may not be what they seem. The way this was constructed as a narrative coupled with the story being told add so much to this book’s big impact.

As I read Part 1 I thought a lot about the novel Clean that was also eligible this year. I thought Clean was an excellent work of fiction, and seeing similarities in the approach used by both books (a seemingly one sided interview with an interrogator) left me asking why this one was selected over the other. While I appreciated both books, after completing this I can see why this one was given the nod. In many ways these novels deal with similar issues, but the deeply nuanced exploration found within SMALL BOAT along with the way it is constructed is really exceptional.

This was the first book (and only book so far) that I have read from the International Booker longlist and it made me eager to read more and hopeful the other listed books will be of this caliber.

I read this book a week ago and it has been in my thoughts relentlessly since. At just 160 pages, Small Boat, achieves a biting accurate portrayal of what the world is allowing to happen today.
In November 2021 and inflatable dinghy carrying 29 migrants across the channel from France to the UK, sinks resulting in the loss of 27 lives. Despite numerous calls to help, French authorities insist ( incorrectly) the boat is in British waters and not only does not send rescue but actively directs a French boat from the area. The book is a fictional account , set in three sections with the first and third , from the perspective of the woman who answered the calls. When questioned by police, the women refuses to take responsibility for she is just one small cog in a system that has allowed the death by drowning of thousands and thousands of migrants.
The middle section is narrated by one of the men on the boat, it is a harrowing read, that has run in my head vividly for the last week.

This is such a brutal and devastating read. I have myself, more so in the last two years than any other point in my life,, questioning what has become of humanity. This book offers an understanding of why we are witnessing almost constant horror in the media, of the waters of Europe, the destruction of Gaza, the war in Ukraine, the devastation in Syria to name just a few. We watch in horror, we might attend a protest march, sign petitions, send some emails and wring our hands. We are standing by and continuing to watch.

This book will be uncomfortable reading in so many ways, an important read and would be a timely and worthy winner of the 2025 International Booker Prize for which it is nominated.

4.5- 5 stars.

This was such a powerful story told in a unique way. I really loved being inside the narrator’s head. A truly devastating story done in a thought provoking and clever manner. I thought the whole book was utterly brilliant.

I was honestly worried after looking this one up and seeing the ratings from French readers on GR. I went in with an open mind and was totally sucked in (I would suggest skipping the second half of the introduction until you finish the book). A fictionalized imagining of a real life tragedy, a dinghy carrying migrants sinks in the English Channel; confusion on who’s responsible emerges.

The book doesn’t focus on the migrants journey, instead we’re in the mind of the radio operator working that night after the fallout of, to some, callousness or, to her, calmness. In her mind she was just doing her job, which requires her to be rational and logical, to treat every boat equally. There’s just enough wiggle room, enough evidence, enough defensiveness to doubt her. Stream of consciousness is used to stellar effect. The repetitiveness, the rumination, the self-interrogation weigh her down.

We all need to look hard into the mirror Delecroix is placing in front of us. It’s easy to put it all on one person, to be outraged by the death of 27 people in one night. And yet, what about the daily apathy to what is right in front of us, the homeless in our towns, the daily atrocities in the news, the alternate reality most of us seem to be living in. When and where does our complicity begin?

This was a thought provoking and propulsive story. One that makes us ask ourselves deep questions rather than provide easy answers. The framing, the narrative voice, the migrants voices receiving the shortest section; these were some risky choices here, but the payoff was worth it.

“I didn’t ask you to leave, I said. It was your idea, and if you didn’t want to get your feet wet, love, you shouldn’t have embarked. I didn’t push you into the water, I didn’t fetch you from your village or field or ruin of a suburb and put you in your wretched leaky boat, and now the water’s up to your ankles, I get it that you’re frightened, and you want me to save you and you’re impatient. You’re counting on me. But I didn’t ask you for any of that. So you’ll just have to grin and bear it and let me get on with my job. And apparently these thoughts were so strong that I actually spoke them out loud.”

Longlisted for the International Booker Prize 2025, Small Boat, Vincent Delecroix’s first novel masterfully translated into English by Helen Stevenson—originally published in French as Naufrage in 2023—lays out a harrowing portrayal of the widely reported tragedy of a migrant boat that sank in the English Channel. Set against the backdrop of a record number of attempted crossings—around 7,000 migrants in 2021 alone—the novel delves into the moral dilemmas and questionable protocols faced by coastguards tasked with monitoring and responding to emergencies in the English Channel.

The narrative is fully realised, meticulously exploring the ethical complexities surrounding the tragedy. A distressed migrant dinghy, carrying twenty-nine people, sent out a desperate plea for help. Fourteen times in total. The protagonist, a self-absorbed coastguard officer, is portrayed brilliantly through Delecroix’s sharp and incisive narrative. She serves as a device to explore complex questions of morality, convoluted protocols, and jurisdictional boundaries, all aligned with her lack of moral compass and unreliability, forcing the reader to confront philosophical questions about the systemic xenophobia embedded within society.

As a philosopher, Delecroix exposes the stark reality of emotional detachment required in some professions and the bureaucratic inertia that, exemplified by the protagonist’s initial reluctance to act due to technicalities that hinder the rescue operation raising ethical questions, ultimately leading to the death of twenty seven migrants. “I had no more opinion on the migrants than I did on migration policy or the right to asylum, relations between North and South, problems, solutions, the woes of the world, injustice: I was not required to have an opinion on the migrants.”

Her dispassion is striking as she rationalises her inaction by emphasising the boat’s proximity to British waters while a French vessel is only minutes away from the rescue spot. Her self-absorbed cynicism is evident in passages where she recounts the calls between the victims and herself. I often found myself baffled by the protagonist’s absurd rhetoric and appreciated the challenge it posed to my own moral principles. “You can’t see the harm in this?”

This book raises profound moral and philosophical questions, particularly through the protagonist’s internal monologue as she grapples with her role in the tragedy. Her justifications, often laced with sarcasm and a disturbing indifference towards migrants, reveal the insidious nature of dehumanisation in the migration crisis. Delecroix skilfully exposes systemic xenophobia—widely prevalent in France—through the protagonist’s observations of societal attitudes. The powerful metaphor of the sea as Leviathan, devouring the vulnerable, emphasises the book’s exploration of deep-rooted forces at play, bigger than one individual alone. “Their sinking didn’t start in the Channel; it started the moment they left their homes. Maybe they even started to sink the day they got the idea in their heads that everything would be better elsewhere, when they started to want supermarkets and child support, when they heard about Social Security or when a cousin living in London told them you could become a billionaire doing the washing up in a Tamil pop-up. You could say, I repeated, that all their problems stem from their inability to stay sitting quietly in a room.”

At a pivotal moment, the book shifts perspective, offering a harrowing account of the tragedy through the perspective of an unnamed survivor, adding a deeply emotional depth to the narrative. Since Jeremy Harding provides a thorough account of the events in his foreword, some readers may find this section redundant. However, it ultimately enhances the novel’s impact, reinforcing its themes of loss and injustice.The final section of this remarkable novella is astonishing and compelling, demanding both attention and sensitivity from the reader.

Small Boat is a powerful, timely, and necessary novel. It challenges readers to confront uncomfortable truths about migration, empathy, and the human cost of bureaucratic negligence. Delecroix’s skilful use of language and narrative structure creates a haunting and unforgettable reading experience. Highly recommended for those seeking a deeper understanding of the complex issues surrounding migration and human suffering.

Short novel based on true events. A sinking dinghy full of desperate people, a naval officer trying to do her job, culpability and accountability. Food for thought.

Small Boat is Helen Stephenson's translation of Naufrage by Vincent Delecroix, the translator's second appearance on the International Booker list after Black Moses. The novel is published by Small Axes, the imprint of HopeRoad Publishing run by Pete Ayrton (founder of Serpent's Tail, who also feature on the longlist) and distributed via their partnership with another wonderful small independent press, Peepal Tree Press. Peepal Tree and Hope Road have both previously featured in the Republic of Consciousness Prize.

It opens:

"I didn’t ask you to leave, I said.

It was your idea, and if you didn’t want to get your feet wet, love, you shouldn’t have embarked. I didn’t push you into the water, I didn’t fetch you from your village or field or ruin of a suburb and put you in your wretched leaky boat, and now the water’s up to your ankles, I get it that you’re frightened, and you want me to save you and you’re impatient. You’re counting on me. But I didn’t ask you for any of that. So you’ll just have to grin and bear it and let me get on with my job.

And apparently these thoughts were so strong that I actually spoke them out loud, the first bit, at least, certainly if the recordings are to be believed and there’s no reason not to believe them. I accept that."

The original:

"Je ne t'ai pas demandé de partir, avais-je dit.

C'est toi qui l'as voulu, et si tu ne voulais pas te mouiller, mon coco, il ne fallait pas t'embarquer. Je ne t'ai pas poussé à l'eau et ce n'est pas moi non plus qui suis venue te chercher dans ton village ou dans ton champ, dans ta banlieue en ruine, pour t'arracher de là et te mettre dans ton foutu bateau qui prend l'eau, et maintenant tu patauges et je veux bien croire que tu as peur, et tu m'appelles à l'aide comme si c'était de ma faute, tu me demandes de te sauver et tu t'impatientes. Tu comptes sur moi. Mais moi je ne t'ai rien demandé. Alors laisse-moi faire mon boulot et prends ton mal en patience.

Et il faut croire que je l'avais pensé tellement fort, tout ça, que je l'avais dit à haute voix, la première phrase en tout cas, si l'on en croyait du moins les enregistrements et il n'y avait pas de raisons de ne pas les croire, je veux bien l'admettre."

The novel, although fictionalised, is based on the tragic real-life case of an inflatable dinghy, carrying at least 33 migrants across the English channel, which sunk in the early hours of 24 November 2021, with just two survivors. Twenty seven boides were recovered and at least 4 are still missing. The tragedy occured in part due to a lack of clarity between the English and French coastguards as to whose maritime territory the boat was in, and who should be responsible for the rescue.

The independent Craston enquiry into the events from a UK perspective is underway in London during March 2025, as I was reading the novel, and the Opening Statemen this week on behalf of the families of the bereaved and one survivor makes for a harrowing but necessary read. It opens:

"Shortly after sunset on 23 November 2021, at least 33 people left dilapidated camps in Northern France. Many were exhausted, having already endured arduous journeys just to get there. They walked slowly under cover of darkness along abandoned train tracks to the long beach at Plage de la Digue du Braek, from where they would embark on what would be – for all but two – their final journey. The men, women, and children who crammed on to a small, unsafe boat that night were fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters; peoples’ loved ones; peoples’ friends. All made the journey in hope for the future. Kazhal Ahmed Khidhir Al-Jamoor left with her three children, Hadiya, Mubin and Hasti. Mhabad Ali Ahmed took a photo of herself and her friend Maryam ‘Baran’ Noori Mohammedameen, and sent it to her mother in Kurdistan: two young women smiling, just as anywhere else, sending a message of reassurance to a parent. These are just two examples. None could have possibly known the fate that would await them that night. This Inquiry will hear directly from our clients – the families bereaved by the events of the night of 23/24 November 2021 – of the profound impact of their loss. And it will hear from our client Issa Mohammed Omar, one of just two who survived, of the ordeal he suffered over 14 hours in the bitter, freezing, waters of the Dover Strait.

A few hours into the journey, the boat began taking on water. Those on board made urgent distress calls to emergency services in the UK and France. One of the victims on the phone with His Majesty’s Coast Guard (“HMCG”) pleaded “they are in the water... We are dying, where is the [rescue] boat?”. A Mayday Relay was issued, but a nearby French Navy vessel failed to assist. A Border Force Cutter was sent to rescue the boat, but abandoned its search having recovered three other boats, none of which matched the level of distress or desperation heard on the calls made by those on board. UK and French authorities failed to act with the urgency and coordination required to save lives. Systems were overwhelmed, calls were missed, and assumptions were made. How many of those on the boat had perished by the time the search was abandoned and how many remained alive can never be known.

Such uncertainty magnifies grief. In the words of Hussein Mohammedie, the father of Mohammed
Hussein Mohammedie: "Imagine your child gets into trouble in the water, and you are not there and cannot help him. Imagine he stays in the water for 12 hours, and no one comes to his rescue. This is what we are always thinking about. It always stays in the front of your mind; the effect is there always. It makes life more difficult; when you lose someone you will always remember the grief."

Notably from the records of the enquiry, little information has been received from the French side on their account of the night, and one suspects vice versa in the French enquiries. But this novel draws on the records from the French side, particularly recordings of calls and conversation, which caused outrage for their apparent callousness.

But while the enquiries into the actions of the coastguards, and how they can better coordinate to save lives are vitally important, they can allow us to ignore our wider complicity in the tragedy. Why do we allow a world where asylum can only be sought by undertaking dangerous journeys, and indeed a world where so many need to seek asylum.

And the brilliance of this novel is it asks those questions, by not asking them, but by refusing to provide answers and leaving the reader to examine their own conscience, beginning with the epigraph, from Lucretius (given here in an expanded form - the novel stops at 'joy'):

"Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another's great tribulation; not because any man's troubles are a delectable joy, but because to perceive you are free of them yourself is pleasant.

Suave, mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis, e terra magnum alterius spectare laborem; non quia vexari quemquam est iucunda voluptas, sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave est."

This novel could have been an account of the events of that night from the perspective of the victims, but we have their testimony for that (see above). The middle of the book contains one, just 16 pages long, which does provide context, but which is, I think, meant to be read explicitly as a feat of imagined empathy on behalf of the policewoman (see below).

It could also have been an account of what did go wrong that night, or even a confession by those involved, but it is not that either. Or rather that what the unseen interlocutor, a policewoman, wants to hear from the our first person narrator she is interviewing, the young woman who was on duty that night a the CROSS (centres régionaux opérationnels de surveillance et de sauvetage) monitoring centre in Cap Griz-Nez, and who received a series phone calls from those on the boat seeking help, and whose recorded words - see the quote which opens my review - are played back to her.

But our narrator refuses to provide a confession, or an analysis of what went wrong, insisting that the policewoman is asking the wrong questions, and instead examines the issues through an unemotional, and philosophical lens, fond of quoting Blaise Pascal from Pensées, particularly "Vous êtes embarqué" and "Tout le malheur des hommes vient d’une seule chose, qui est de ne savoir pas demeurer en repos dans une chambre", translated here as "All of humanity's problems stem from our inability to sit quietly in a room".

She insists, to an increasingly incredulous, frustrated and angry interviewer, that she was not responsible for the plight of the refugees, and that far from needing to show more emotion and compassion, in her job is was important to stay calm, rationale and, yes, detached.

When asked to examine the events of the night she argues they started well before they embarked on the dinghy in the evening of 23 November 2021 (and note how this passage incorporates the Pascal quote and also ends with the opening line of the novel, the callous words she is on record for having said to the drowning refugees):

"Their sinking didn’t start in the Channel; it started the moment they left their homes. Maybe they even started to sink the day they got the idea in their heads that everything would be better elsewhere, when they started to want supermarkets and child support, when they heard about Social Security or when a cousin living in London told them you could become a billionaire doing the washing up in a Tamil pop-up. You could say, I repeated, that all their problems stem from their inability to stay sitting quietly in a room.

But it’s because they have been turned out of their room, isn’t it, or because their room has been destroyed, she said.

But then who is drowning them? I asked. Who is banishing them, blowing on them, scattering them across the surface of the earth, and sweeping them towards the sea, where they vanish like dust shaken from the coat tails of humanity. What gigantic storm rises somewhere behind them, what gigantic sweep of a broom in Africa or Bangladesh or Afghanistan? One thing’s for sure, I’m not the one holding the broom, sweeping them across the earth’s surface and throwing them in the rubbish bin of the Channel. In short, you could ask: Who’s asking them to leave? Not me."

The narrator's voice is brilliantly done, highly compelling and even though the prose can seem circular the reader is grabbed and caught up in the tide - this was a novel I could have happily read for 500 pages, but equally pleased that Delecroix chose to keep it to such a short book, heightening its intensity (again the end of this passage takes us to Lucretius):

"Between these two, what with questions I’ve since forgotten or gave up listening to, and answers which, as we went on, I made increasingly laconic, with the uncomfortable feeling that I was repeating the same thing over and over, I felt I was circling round and round the deflated dinghy, equidistant from the roles of victim and executioner, between amoral passivity and culpable intent. I saw myself sent back to my earlier lookout post on the top of the cliffs, with its stunning view of the Migrant Tragedy, contemplating the storm and the shipwreck from the windows of my station, shielded from the wind, shielded from feelings, indifferent, no, worse than that: getting secret pleasure from the spectacle, perhaps, glad to be there at my post, and not suffering the pitiful death throes of the reckless, contentedly murmuring Suave mari magno"

And the narrator increasingly realises what she is being asked - which is not to help save those lives that were lost or future such lives, not even to accept her guilt, but to provide comfort for the rest of us:

"I know people would have liked me to say: You’re not going to die, I’ll save you. And not because I would have actually saved them, done my job, done the necessary, sent rescue. Not because I’d done what you’re meant to do. They wanted me to have said it, at least to have said it, just to have said the words.

On aurait voulu que je dise, je le sais bien, on aurait voulu que je dise : Tu ne mourras pas, je te sauverai. Et ce n’était pas parce que je l’aurais sauvé en effet, pas parce que j’aurais fait mon métier et que j’aurais fait ce qu’il fallait : envoyer les secours. Pas parce que j’aurais fait ce qu’on doit faire. On aurait voulu que je le dise, au moins le dire, seulement le dire.

That was what the investigator was waiting for anxiously, for everyone to hear, to hear their own voice in mine in these recordings. The voice of each of us saying I will save you. Each one in my place. The voice of the whole of humanity reassured to hear itself saying, uttering the words: I will save you; you will not die – not actually saving, no one cares about that, not acting, not even helping. But at least saying it, because to fail to say those words is to be less than human. In the end, whether they drowned or not didn’t matter; what mattered were my words. What mattered was not that they were saved; it was that I should be saved, and the whole world with me, through these words. Saved by my own words, not condemned by them.

But I said: You will not be saved.

Mais moi j’ai dit : Tu ne seras pas sauvé."

Phew, this was good. A woman working for the French Navy responds to the increasingly frantic calls from a group of 29 migrants as their dinghy taking them across the English Channel begins to take on water. For one reason or another, the woman really can’t be bothered to do much to assist, telling various lies and half-truths to the migrants, the English rescue services, and a French trawler in the area. 27 of the 29 migrants die.

Split into three sections, the first finds the woman speaking to a police investigator who attempts to get to the bottom of why these decisions, or lack of decisions, were made. The more she inserts her own personal judgements, the more defensive the woman becomes about her culpability.

Her line of thinking throughout the novel is circuitous and becomes philosophical as she tries to explain that it is impossible for just her to be responsible for this tragedy, that if she is guilty, then those who caused the migrants to be displaced also share in the guilt, the smugglers and the migrants themselves, who she watches enter the water night after night and call for help night after night, are not entirely innocent, that the people who sit on their couch and call her a monster and later walk by the homeless person sitting outside their office are just as guilty as she.

The second section gives voice to the migrants in the dinghy that night, who at first also aren’t too eager for a French rescue that will put them back at square one, but who, of course, become desperate for any intervention at all as their situation becomes dire.

The third section puts us back in the mind of the woman before she took herself to the police, though it makes the reader question whether the first section occurred in reality or was an imagined interrogation.

This was fantastic and really well done. The urge to cast off the woman as an immoral lunatic, as the policewoman and those watching the news have essentially done, is understandable but misplaced. Because she’s not entirely wrong and it’s never really that simple. We squirm in our seats as we take our turn on the stand and assure ourselves we would do the right and moral thing every time, never faltering, never failing to save a single life. But that’s not true because we haven’t, we continually float while others sink, and often, they sink because we float.

So happy the International Booker put this one on my radar. For me, it’s the hidden gem of this year’s prize

How charmingly our text books talk about being Global citizens of one world. But we know very well that there is no equality b/w a Palestinian 'bint' & American girl child, British mom & Syrian 'Umm', Afghanistani Baba & French 'pere'. The lines of class, religion & colour are not merely marked on maps but are deeply etched in peoples heart

Based on a true event ( events) where a dinghy overfilled with immigrants attempts to cross the Channel but gets capsized. The frantic 14 calls by the victims to CROSS ( French rescue team) falls on deaf ears of on-duty female officer

An easy target she is held accountable for the death of 27 people of dingy, whom she could have easily helped but chose not to by saying that they were in English waters
When interrogated by her look alike she says her training precisely abhors her from showing emotions

"I have no problem listening to the recordings of that night and hearing my own voice, because it’s not the voice of a monster or a criminal on the tape – it’s the voice of all of us"

Divided in 3 parts, this distinctive story is told not from the POV of victims but assailant...ASSAILANTS

After half way mark I was worried that will the next half be a similar cycle of contemplation, philosophical analysis, but the shift from Part 1 to Part 2 (shows real time events faced by immigrants in the boat & trust me it chokes you) took this work notch higher

Part 3 is more of a dialogue of the protagonist with herself. How once she was her child's hero & how her ex husband is supporting her, more so coz of his own anti-migrant beliefs

"The voice of the whole of humanity reassured to hear itself saying, uttering the words: I will save you; you will not die – not actually saving, no one cares about that..But at least saying it, because to fail to say those words is to be less than human. In the end, whether they drowned or not didn’t matter; what mattered were my words"

This satirical piece shows both sides in equal light putting reader on spot. One moment the narrator is the culprit, the very next moment author puts reader in the witness stand

Translation is absolutely well done

Read it coz it's a very timely & unique read

Thank you Netgalley and Hope Road Publication for advance copy

A novel about the bystander effect and an examination of our collective desensitisation in respect to everyday horrors. For a short work quite recursive, and offering an ending which even the author himself calls something from a B movie.
There is no shipwreck without spectators

Featuring the death of 27 out of 29 migrants in their crossing of the Channel, we spend most of Small Boat not from their perspective, but rather in the mind of an unnamed officer from CROSS. Already the Wikipedia article on this agency shows the bureaucracy versus personal ethics tension at the heart of the novel: In France, the seven centres régionaux opérationnels de surveillance et de sauvetage (Regional Operating Surveillance and Rescue Centres; French acronym CROSS) coordinate maritime security and surveillance. CROSS conducts their activities under the authority of the maritime prefects in mainland France and government representatives for state action at sea in Overseas France.

While Vincent Delecroix his writing is good, I did expect more, and even for just over 120 pages, the book at times felt very repetitive. Maybe this is reflection that we can't progress and seem to be stuck in a loop of looking away, but I found Of Cattle and Men by Ana Paula Maia a more effective meditation on the same topic of how we as society look away from ethical questions, and just outsource them to invisible fringes of society. The main character makes a link with homelessness and despair being all around us, yet we can close ourselves off from this immediate suffering, let alone from more distant events that appear at times to be no more than accounting or newspaper headlines.

Section II, the briefest of the 3 parts the book is divided into, hammers home how people are literally dying every single day for the dream of working in a grocery store, but in a safe country.
The cargo ships passing by to deliver our luxuries makes this section poignant and I was reminded of a quote which I associate with one of the books of R.F. Kuang or N.K. Jemisin on how every amenity and luxury in a capital is predicated upon the exploitation and misery at the edges of the empire, in this case the Western world exploiting labour of undocumented migrants for the most menial jobs.

The last section, featuring Léa, the young daughter of the narrator and Eric, her ex with Front National ideologies and finally Julien, a co-worker with philosophical, and in particular cynical, tendencies, is unfortunately much less impactful in my view.
An important topic, and worthy in how it serves as an J'Accuse...! in respect to our complacency and acceptance of tragedies, as long as they don't hit people like us.

Longlisted for the 2025 International Booker Prize

It is translated from the French “Naufrage” (2023) by Helen Stevenson – the change in title from the much more neutral “Shipwreck” I think deliberate to give the book more political resonance in England and note that the journey from French to English is here deeply symbolic of the novel which centres on the death on 24th November 2021 of 27 migrants attempting to cross in an inflatable motorised dinghy from France (near Dunkirk) to England.

When they realised they were in trouble the passengers repeatedly contacted CROSS (the French Regional Monitoring and Rescue Centre at Cap Gris-Nez), but were told they were in English waters even at the same time the same CROSS radio operator confused the English border forces, a French rescue boat and a nearby French trawler none of who ultimately came to the rescue – and voice recordings of that operator caught her saying off microphone “It wasn’t me that told you to leave”.

And it is in the fictionalised/imagined inner voice of that narrator that the main part of this short novella is set – as she, under suspension, has agreed to be questioned by the police (a policewoman she sees as an almost mirror likeness).

It is a questioning she pushes back on – told she should have shown more feelings for migrants she pushes back strongly that her professional training is precisely not to allow emotions to bear. Further though she argues, mainly to herself, that while it might sound callous, she was indeed right to say that the origination of the deaths of the migrants was not in her own potential negligence on that night, but started not just with their decision to make the crossing, but in the geo-political situation which causes them to migrate and also to risk the dangerous crossing to England.

Her own situation we realise is difficult – a single parent having felt forced to leave her young daughter’s father, and the bodies of the migrants do seem to haunt her imaginings – but there is little empathy for her from the policewoman who seems shocked at her lack of both emotion and admission of culpability and apparent attempts to deflect things into a wider philosophical discussion. And I think – and can see from many of the Goodreads reviews – of the original French that many readers may react the same (I have also seen French mainstream media reviews which lament the author’s insistence on giving a voice to what is in effect a perpetrator rather than in their views appropriately majoring on the stories of the victims).

But I think this is to miss the point of the novel. The author – also a philosopher - has said of his use of fiction here “Mon but, c’était d'introduire du trouble dans le jugement, d'apporter des hypothèses fictionnelles qui permettent de suspendre le jugement moral immédiat qu’on peut avoir sur ces situations-là. Ce qui m'a frappé, c'est la coïncidence topographique entre la position du sage et celle du criminel : les deux sont à distance, sur le rivage." which in my own attempt at a non-literal translation would be: “My goal was to make judgment difficult, to use a a fictional approach so as to allow us to suspend the knee-jerk moral judgement we make in such situations. It struck me that the person making those judgements and the people traffickers are in the same situation, both observing at a distance from the shore.”

A second section does indeed capture the voice of one of the passengers on the boat – the passenger who made in total 14 phone calls to the CROSS radio operator – and tells a stark story of the boat’s engine failure, followed by it shipping water, then sinking and his own lengthy drowning.

The third part of the passage returns to the radio operator – going for a beachside jog: we learn of her feelings about the fearful and implacable power of the sea; her discussions with her young daughter about the migrants and their fate – and with her ex-husband (who has strong anti-immigration views); we wonder if the first Section was in fact entirely an internal interrogation and the policewoman a literal mirror image; we see her raging at the sea as well as thinking she is being approached by the two surviving migrants and we also see her returning to her themes of wider culpability as the book reaches its philosophical conclusion.

Overall I found this a powerful book – one which takes a deliberately unusual and uncomfortable approach by using the voice of a potential amoral and definitely philosophising bureaucrat to pose difficult questions, rather than the more conventional approach of centring the victim’s voices – but which as a result was for me more thought provoking and confrontational.

Small Boat is like a bucket of cold water, slowly pouring over you as you question society's moral code. The stream-of-consciousness writing style draws us into the introspective thoughts of the narrator - the woman who took the SOS calls - a perspective many will find reprehensible.

As I read, I was reminded of society’s apathy toward crises, the kind we witness on the news: human trafficking, sinking boats, drowning migrants, and wars that drive people to desperate solutions.

The central question for the narrator is clear: Why didn’t you send help?
Yet, no answer is presented, instead, this is the kind of novel that urges readers to consider multiple perspectives and form their own reflections on the issue at hand.

The first part introduces the crisis, provoking frustration and distress.
The second part stirs empathy, weighing heavily on the heart.
The third part offers a final perspective, a loose end that ensures the questions continue to linger in the reader’s mind.

A small page count, but a profound impact.

I have read a few accounts of small boat crossings and was interested to read this one because of the different viewpoints, however I found the book incredibly difficult to follow. Aside from the obvious, tragic event at the centre of the story, I am not entirely sure I know what happened. The haphazard use of punctuation didn’t help. Having said that, I strongly feel that any book that brings attention to this subject and highlights the absolute desperation of people forced to make this journey, is worth persevering with and deserves all the promotion it can get.

3.5*
I was aware of the true events that occurred which inspired 'Small Boat' but didn't know that much about it so was excited to find out more as I usually like books based on true storied. I enjoyed the contents and how it was split up into different parts and switched between the two POVs. However, I did find the writing style difficult to follow at times especially when they were being interviewed as there were no speech marks and I kept having to re-read parts to make sure I understood what was going on and not miss anything when different people were talking. Overall I did enjoy it and found it to be a moving read and I would have rated it higher if the style flowed better and I didn't have to stop and start. I would recommend this book and will look out for more from the author in the future.

Emotional and based on unfortunate true events, this book was difficult to read, as something of this calibre should be. I did find the story interesting and very important but I struggled with the narration and writing style. It was hard to fully invest in this book, I was on the edge of being pulled in but never quite felt connected. But still, an important story.