“but I did ask what would have happened if I had assessed the situation correctly. Dead just the same, by the time the rescuers got there, as happened half the time. Unless it was dead perhaps, in which case between dead perhaps and dead for sure there was an irreducible gap that from now on would always stand between me and innocence.“⁣
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From: 𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘉𝘰𝘢𝘵 by Vincent Delecroix, tr by Helen Stevenson and Jeremy Harding⁣
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International @thebookerprizes longlist #5⁣
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Thank you @peepaltreepress for the gifted copy!⁣
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Oof. This was devastating. A skilled portrayal of western negligence and careless disregard of the refugee crisis. Unfortunately, you could swap out refugee crisis for too many other glaring world issues and it will still be true, but the fact that it was used here with one specific, very real incident, made it all the more powerful to me. ⁣
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Yes, going in, I felt a certain level of unease about the fact that a white man was writing about this horrible tragedy from the perspective of the white radio operator that willfully did not send a rescue ship to a dinghy with 29 migrants in the middle of the Channel, even though their dire situation was painfully obvious from their phone calls, and this led to the death of 27 of them. I was afraid it would be another story not giving voice to the victims. ⁣
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In the end though, it seemed a deliberate choice to write it like this to emphasize society’s role in these tragedies and I must admit that it was that uncomfortable feeling of being inside the head of that radio operator making her sickening arguments, alongside the actual human calamity, that hammered its message down and it even started to feel more appropriate coming from this white author than when he would have written from the victims’ point of view. ⁣

I read that the author is a philosopher and that does make sense: here he explores collective guilt versus individual blame. Although sometimes the radio operator’s reasoning felt a little too “sophisticated” or philosophical - for lack of a better word - for this specific character, it was all helping to make the point. In the end I think the detachment of the victims’ inner lives is a portrayal of how the radio operator got to her reasoning. The dehumanization and generalizations of the lives of refugees by the media and politicians on a daily basis, is part of what makes it so easy for so many people to just look away.⁣
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All in all, I thought this was a very thought-provoking read and it is one that I keep wanting to talk about with people. I think this is an important read and I am very happy it gets more widely read due to it being longlisted.⁣
📚 📖💙

This book was not on my radar before it was longlisted for the International Booker prize but I am so glad that the prize added it to my reading for this year. Small Boat was a short but impactful look at immigration in Europe.

The introduction to Small Boat explains how the story is based on a real incident that happened in the English Channel in 2021, during which 27 people died. Delecroix takes on the voice of a female Coast Guard in France, the one who was in contact with the fictionalized boat during the evening of the disaster.

In the first part of the book, the Coast Guard grapples with her role in the incident as a police officer interviews her about her responsibility. She does not feel that she is at fault, being desensitized to the disaster; she gets distress calls every shift from similar boats. Delecroix, a philosopher, uses her perspective to unpack the idea of guilt. Who is truly at fault when a boat of asylum seekers sinks off the coast? Is it the government or its citizens who should take responsibility for them? Delecroix does well at riding the line between exploring this question without being moralizing, even in the last part of the book, where the tone shifts.

The middle interlude puts us on the small boat, from when the asylum seekers leave the shore to their untimely demise in the middle of the channel. While the rest of the story is told in the first-person stream of consciousness, this middle section takes a more distant view while still empathizing with the plight of these people.

I think the choice to title this “Small Boat” rather than “Shipwreck,” which gets closer to the French “Naufrage,” was an interesting translation choice. The French title gives us more of a dual meaning that can apply to the way the Coast Guard officer feels, overwhelmed by the ‘migrant crisis,’ as well as the event itself.

Overall, I really loved the reading experience of this book. Delecroix is a skilled writer and Helen Stevenson a skilled translator.

I didn't expect this novella to be so brilliant?

The story revolves around a woman who was on duty the day a boat carrying migrants sank. It's not clear if she was really guilty of what happened, but she was being judged and for a reason.

There's so much philosophy in this book. The woman was constantly torn between completely denying her guilt and trying to justify her actions. Maybe she was not guilty at all? She listened impassively to the cries for help, perhaps did not answer immediately, and didn't actually care what would happen next.

This book explores the lack of empathy in people.

This woman is a typical person you can meet any other day on the street. She excuses herself, saying that boats with migrants arrive every day, and they all call for help. She didn't force them to make this dangerous journey. It was their choice, so how is she to blame? She adds that there are already too many refugees in the country and insists it is not her fault that there is war, famine, and other global issues. She says she was in a bad mood and was annoyed that she was being called when there was nothing she could do. But suddenly, it's not about what she did or didn't do, but what she said.

Of course, none of these events actually took place, but recordings of conversations between the migrants and the guards in 2021 became public. It was complete indifference, coldness, and even sarcasm that prompted the author to write a book about inhumanity, ethics in crisis situations, and the banality of evil. The same people who act so unempathetically toward migrants could be our friends, acquaintances, and relatives. They are everywhere, and it breaks my heart.

Thanks to the author, publisher and Netgalley for a free arc in exchange for an honest review.

Small Boat is best experienced in one sitting. You are in a woman’s mind, she did something that had terrible consequences, and you are asked to judge her. But how will you judge her? Especially because judging her requires, to a degree, that you judge yourself. This book made me feel sad—sad for her, sad for those impacted by her inaction, and also sad for humanity, especially for the ways privilege shields us from others’ vulnerabilities, particularly when those others exist at a distance. This book is chilling in its depiction of life and death, it will make you feel ice cold like the sea in winter, and it will make you question the (in)significance of borders, what they dictate and what they dupe us into believing, for we are conditioned, and that becomes part of the point.

This was the most frustrating, anger inducing, morally ambiguous book I’ve read in ages. And I loved it.

Our narrator is the most unreliable I’ve ever encountered. She truly doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong- how could it be her fault that a boat of immigrants drowned on her Coast Guard watch?

After all, she didn’t ask them to leave.

As she tries to explain how she’s not a bad person, because her ex is an anti-immigrant racist, and she broke it off with him, along with a whole passel of excuses, her circular logic begins to become something of a mirror for the privileged world.

The author brings in philosophy, religion (often interchangeable here) and ethics. In the process, he creates a character who may be the most morally warped ever: ourselves.

GM Gilbert said that evil is a lack of empathy. The narrator of Small Boat represents those who have lost their empathy, their compassion, and their commitment towards their fellow humans.

This book represents the best kind of literature: it holds up a mirror, and makes the reader want to change for the better. I will think about this book for a long time, and revisit it when I need to remember who I should strive to be.

Thank you to NetGalley and Hope Road for the ARC.

A powerful and haunting little book. It expertly forces the reader into a position to consider the ethical and mortal ambiguities of the main character, and by extension, their own complicity.

An affecting novella giving a fictionalised account of real live events when one night in 2021 a boat carrying asylum seekers capsized in the English channel, with around 30 people losing their lives. We see a lot of this through the eyes of a coastguard on duty that night, and her retelling of events to authorities.
She is almost numb to what is happening as she tells the desperate people calling for help to calm down, believing she is acting with professionalism. And it's frustrating, but intentionally so. It shows just how numb it is possible to become to awful things happening to real people, and how bureaucracy can be utterly hampering.
There are also parts of this book where we focus on that night from an asylum seeker's point of view and it is utterly harrowing.
I won't say that every part of this book worked for me, but it was powerful and feels very much like required reading.

The author does a good job of luring in the reader with some quite potent arguments laid out by the narrator, so that we sympathise with some of her opinions, while also being repulsed by others. Clearly, there is a fine line between humanity and hypocrisy, or honesty and lack of empathy.
The second part is an account of the actual sinking and the despair of the passengers who realise they are about to die – this is written in far more dramatic, poetic prose, and was the most moving part of the book for me.

The first and third parts were wonderfully Houellebecqian in their relentless dedication to showing us the banality of evil. I could have done without the middle part, though. I wanted to stay longer with the main character, not to try to understand the situation (as if that would be possible), but just to stay a little longer, though I wonder if I needed more than I got, considering that these people are as ubiquitous in everyday life as air.

Small Boat tells the real-life tragedy of an inflatible dinghy carrying migrants which capsized on its voyage from France to the UK, sadly resulting in the death of 27 people, including one child.

Vincent Delecroix expertly tells this story from the point of view of the French Navy officer who answers the dinghy's distress call and then from the fictionalised view of those on board in their final terrifying moments. In the days following the disaster, the world wants to hold the officer accountable for her actions, or lack thereof. The officer refuses to be held solely accountable for these deaths. It was her who answered the numerous distress calls, her who eventually admitted to the migrant on the other end of the line that help would not be coming, but is she only to blame?

Small Boat asks deeply philosophical questions of the reader namely, who is at fault? Is the officer more responsible for these deaths than the wars that force the migrants to flee their homes? Is she more responsible than the policies in place, than the resources available to the French and UK governments to send help? Mostly, is she more responsible for these deaths than the powerful, unpredictable ocean that swallowed them up?

A fascinating read that really makes the reader consider their own responsibility in regards to social issues and one that I certainly will not forget. Small Boat is truly thought provoking and important in our current climate.

Thank you to NetGalley and HopeRoad for the opportunity to read this arc. I am not surprised at all that this translation has been longlisted for the International Booker Prize and goodluck to the author.

<i><blockquote>So with all this going on, this ongoing shipwreck, why bother? I asked... And the one you save will perish tomorrow or the day after, here or elsewhere. So why bother?</i></blockquote>

This is a short and important read but one which I expected to be more sophisticated than it is. Based on a real-life tragedy of asylum-seekers drowning in the English Channel when their boat capsizes, this features the woman on the French side who took the emergency calls, who didn't summon up a French rescue boat that was just twenty kilometers away, who tried to pass it off to the British coastguard who did send a rescue ship but couldn't find this capsized dinghy without more information, and who, when another French ship saw bodies floating in the water and called her for instructions, told that ship to ignore the emergency and pass on by. She then took calls from the increasingly desperate people who were drowning for three hours and just got increasingly annoyed with them for bothering her. Twenty seven men, women, and children drowned that night, and just two survived. But the narrator doesn't feel any sense of responsibility.

Structurally, this is a triptych with the first and third parts from this French narrator: the first is her interview with an appalled police officer; the third her post-event meditations; the centre is an 'objective' description of the drowning of these people abandoned at night in the Channel, watching their families and loved ones die.

I guess from the reviews I expected this to raise more problematic questions but actually what this reminded me of most, right from the start, was those testimonies of 'normal' people who worked in the Nazi concentration camps who claimed they were just following instructions and therefore were not culpable in genocide.

For all her claimed unemotional testimony, the narrator lets slip that she is not neutral on the crossings or the fate of asylum seekers: 'I didn't ask you to leave [your homes]', 'every day I have the dregs of the earth spilling out before my eyes', she calls them 'parasites', her ex says 'once you've fished them out, why don't you send them straight to Africa' despite refugees being Kurds, Iraqis, Afghanis and others, and she reconstructs the narrative to one of 'these people... and their obsession with flinging themselves into the water in search of I know not what'. And, at the heart of the issue for me, is the fact that this woman is employed by French naval services to 'monitor maritime traffic and co-ordinate rescue', something which she simply fails to do.

The third section does raise some of the issues that I expected about the systematic and structural issues that have lead to this crisis, not least the closure of legal asylum routes, but this book isn't really operating in that space, I think. Yes, of course, this tragedy and all the other similar cases are not solely the fault of a single person but, in this book, the cynical refusal to even bother trying to summon nearby patrol boats and the actual turning away of a boat that would have stopped to rescue people are unambiguously culpable actions from someone paid to do the opposite. It's that closing down of the questions of social and political complicity and guilt, replacing it with the shocking inhumanity of someone who took desperate calls from drowning people for three hours and was just irritated by them rather than concerned which ended up making this feel straightforward and rather one-note to me.

An important book, nonetheless, given the absolutely contemporary nature of tragedies like this.

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