Boy Overboard

“It’s not what I thought. It’s not an angry man in black robes with a long beard and an even longer swishing cane. It’s something even scarier.”

The “angry man” alludes to a member of the Taliban, the despotic regime that enforced its extreme interpretation of Islamic law on much of Afghanistan from 1996 to 2001 (and, more recently, from 2020 to the present). The “swishing cane” is a weapon of torture used to punish Afghanis, especially girls and women, for supposed infractions, which can be as small as leaving one’s ankles uncovered. “Scarier” than this apparition, to Jamal, is his sister’s boldness in dribbling a soccer ball in public, a severe violation of the Taliban’s gender-specific laws. This moment introduces the theme of Cultural Displacement and Identity, as it showcases how everyday activities—like a girl playing soccer—can become acts of rebellion in a world where identity is rigidly policed.

“Without slowing down she sidesteps Aziz, weaves past Mussa, and flicks the ball between my legs.”

Nine-year-old Bibi shows her natural talent at soccer, shocking Jamal, who is no match for her. The verbs “sidesteps,” “weaves,” and “flicks” create a sense of swift movement, emphasizing her athleticism and skill. In another setting, this would be a humorous, positive development. In Boy Overboard, however, it sets up a serious conflict since Bibi’s enthusiasm for the game and pride in her skill may lead her to endanger herself and her family. This moment foreshadows the novel’s broader exploration of Family Unity and Sacrifice, as Bibi’s defiance of gender norms is not just personal but tied to the family’s struggle for survival.

“‘Girls playing football is a big crime,’ I say. ‘Almost as big as Mum and Dad running an illegal school at home.’”

Under the Taliban regime, women and girls are denied virtually every freedom they take for granted in other countries, including the right to play sports and get an education. Here, Jamal reveals the double hazard that the regime poses to his family: In addition to a soccer-loving daughter, his parents also teach neighbor girls in a forbidden school they secretly run out of their house. The phrase “big crime” is particularly striking, as it highlights the absurdity of a world where learning and playing are treated as dangerous acts. The casual tone of Jamal’s remark further underscores how normalized oppression has become in his life.

“I remember what Mum has told me about her ancestors. Fierce brave desert warriors, tall and proud in the saddles of their mighty Arab steeds. She also told me about Dad’s ancestors, honest hard-working bakers, baking bread so that those fierce warriors had something to mop up their gravy.”

In light of a religious oligarchy that banishes women to the kitchen and forces men into battle, the lineage of Jamal’s parents hints at the absurdity of state-enforced gender roles. His father, it turns out, comes from a long line of bakers, while his mother has the blood of valiant warriors in her veins. The juxtaposition between the two ancestral lines—one linked to power, the other to domestic labor—undermines rigid gender expectations and reinforces the theme of cultural displacement and identity. The siblings mirror this dichotomy: Bibi in her natural athleticism and Jamal in his skill at baking bread.

“‘I bet Manchester hasn’t got landmines,’ she says bitterly. […] ‘It might have,’ I whisper to her. ‘They might just not show them on satellite TV football coverage.’”

Jamal and Bibi get most of their knowledge of the outside world from international soccer coverage since their neighbor’s illegal satellite hookup can only pick up the sports channel. This passage explores The Power of Hope and Dreams, as the siblings’ vision of the outside world is shaped almost entirely by the escapist fantasy of sports. As such, it is hard for them to imagine that other countries are not fraught with many of the same hazards as their own; perhaps the TV cameras merely hide the landmines. The metaphor of landmines—both literal and figurative—reflects their uncertainty about the world beyond Afghanistan. Growing up in a time of continual warfare has led them to think that it’s a universal part of the human condition.

“‘We’ve got to get out of the house,’ he says. ‘Tonight. And we can’t ever come back.’”

Jamal and Bibi’s father breaks the news of the novel’s first crisis: The government has found out about their illegal school, and now the family must abandon the home that has been theirs for generations. This moment develops the theme of family unity and sacrifice, as Dad makes an impossible choice between security and survival. As the later scene at the soccer stadium demonstrates, the Taliban makes no secret of the deadly penalty for teaching girls. The abrupt, clipped sentences reflect the urgency of the situation, mirroring Dad’s fear and determination.

“The candlestick’s been in Mum’s family for hundreds of years. Her ancestors used to burn a candle before they went into battle. Mum has always told us that as long as we’ve got it, we’ll be safe.”

Mum’s prized possession, an ornate candlestick, is a family heirloom that connects the family emotionally and spiritually with past generations. Also, as members of an ethnic minority in their country, they cherish it as a totem of tribal identity. The candlestick serves as a symbol of resilience, linking the past to the present in the struggle for survival. To Jamal, the continuity that it represents is indistinguishable from magic: He believes that as long as they keep it safe, no harm can come to them. This foreshadows the moment when Mum must sell the candlestick, reinforcing the theme of cultural displacement and identity—a painful acknowledgment that survival sometimes requires sacrificing even the most sacred parts of one’s past.

“If I can become the star of the Afghanistan national football team, perhaps that’ll make all of us more popular, not just me and Mum and Dad and Bibi. Perhaps none of us will ever be threatened or bullied or killed again, not by the government or anybody.”

Jamal, whose visions of a bigger, freer world derive from the soccer coverage he watches on his neighbor’s TV, comes to see mastery of that game as a way of winning respect for his people in a country that regards them as second-class citizens. His dream is both deeply personal and tragically naïve, as it suggests that success in sports might be enough to erase generations of oppression and ethnic persecution. Like American children who dream of triumphing over poverty and prejudice by becoming sports stars, Jamal and Bibi (somewhat naïvely) aspire to rescue their ethnic minority from the Taliban and others through soccer, highlighting the power of hope and dreams.

“Our house is gone. Where it was is just a dark gap between the other houses. Rubble is lying where Dad used to park the taxi.”

The Taliban, never fans of tedious due process, have closed the family’s illegal school by simply blowing up their house, not caring whether there was anyone inside. The stark contrast between the past and present—what “was” and what “is”—emphasizes the brutality of their displacement. Jamal sees how wise his parents were to evacuate the family that night. The generations-old house, along with most of the family’s possessions, is gone in a flash. The phrase “just a dark gap” is a striking image that symbolizes more than physical destruction; it represents the erasure of history, security, and identity. This moment directly ties into the theme of cultural displacement and identity, as the family is now permanently severed from the place that once anchored them. The rubble where the taxi used to be also underscores the loss of livelihood, as their father’s taxi was not just a mode of transportation but a symbol of self-sufficiency. With their home and possessions reduced to debris, the family must now navigate a future where everything familiar has been stripped away, clinging only to each other for survival.

“Suddenly one of the women breaks away from the soldiers and runs towards our end of the pitch. All the spectators in the stadium start yelling at her. […] There’s something about the way she’s running.”

In the city, Jamal and Bibi have disobeyed their father and snuck into a soccer stadium, convinced that it will be like the European stadiums they see on TV: a venue for team matches and tryouts. They do not know that under the Taliban, stadiums have become arenas for public executions. The structure of the passage builds suspense, with short sentences and ellipses that mirror Jamal’s dawning realization. The fleeing female prisoner, screamed at by bloodthirsty spectators, evokes a grotesque parody of a soccer match. With rising horror, Jamal recognizes the prisoner as his mother. This moment powerfully reinforces the theme of cultural displacement and identity, as what should be a symbol of unity and celebration—sports—has been twisted into a tool of terror.

“The taxi goes into a broadside skid and slams into the two soldiers, sending them sprawling, their guns sliding away across the pitch.”

Jamal and Bibi’s father, a hitherto peaceful man from a long line of bakers, shows that he, too, can be a warrior, like his wife’s ancestors. The vivid action verbs—“slams,” “sprawling,” “sliding”—convey the sudden chaos of the moment. Years of driving a taxi in war-torn Afghanistan have given him the reflexes and agility to maneuver his car like a guided missile, saving his wife from her ragtag would-be executioners. This moment is a dramatic reversal of traditional gender roles, reinforcing how extreme circumstances force individuals to adapt beyond societal expectations.

“‘Mum and I have decided,’ he says, ‘that we should all live as far away as we can from the government. We’ve decided to try to go to Australia.’”

Jamal’s parents arrive at a momentous decision: to get as far away from Afghanistan as possible and make a fresh start in Australia, a vast country with a relatively small population and a democratic, egalitarian government. The use of “as far away as we can” underscores the totality of their disillusionment—there is no compromise left, only escape. A drawback is the great distance of the journey (about 6,000 miles) and its many dangers. This passage develops the theme of family unity and sacrifice, as the parents are willing to risk everything to secure a future for their children.

“It’s not Mum or Dad or Bibi, it’s the boy who tried to steal my ball. […] He’s really strong for his size. He must do goalkeeper training. Perhaps that’s why he looks so gloomy. Goalkeepers live under a lot of pressure.”

At the refugee camp, Jamal encounters Omar, who coincidentally will become his and Bibi’s companion on their voyage to Australia. Jamal’s escapist tendency to read all people and events through the lens of soccer provides much of the novel’s dark humor. Here, he attributes Omar’s gloominess to his possibly being a goalie, rather than to growing up in a warzone. His childlike interpretation is a defense mechanism, highlighting the theme of the power of hope and dreams—his belief that sports can explain and even fix life’s biggest problems.

“Dad turns to me. ‘Those policemen,’ he says, ruffling my hair. ‘They know people who can get us to Australia.’”

Convinced that his father was being arrested, Jamal is relieved to hear that the policemen were simply making a deal with him to help smuggle the family to Australia. This passage reveals the uncomfortable reality of refugee smuggling: Survival often depends on corruption and morally gray areas. The smuggling of refugees, a lucrative trade in war-torn countries and refugee camps, is often facilitated by corrupt officials.

“This sick feeling I have as I grab Mum’s rucksack. And feel desperately for the hard shape of the candlestick. And discover it’s not there.”

Jamal, who earlier wondered how his father got all the money for their voyage, discovers that their precious heirloom and lucky talisman is gone. The fragmented sentence structure reflects his panic and grief. His parents have, in a sense, sacrificed the past for the future. However, Jamal takes this loss as a very bad omen, and the events that follow do little to change his mind. The candlestick was a symbol of the family’s cultural identity, and its loss represents the painful erasure of history that refugees must endure.

“I try to get to her but I’m too giddy and I’m still staggering towards them as the sailor throws Bibi over the side of the boat.”

Trying to save Omar, who has fallen off the dock, Bibi’s warrior blood rises, getting her in trouble with a sailor who has ignored her pleas for help. Bibi’s fearless nature, previously a strength, here becomes a liability, showing the cruel reality of their situation. When she kicks and bites the sailor, he simply throws her overboard, showing the crew’s complete disregard for the refugees they are illegally transporting.

“It’s a teenage girl. All she’s wearing is shorts and a T-shirt with a sparkly pattern on the front. Her arms are bare. Her legs are bare. […] She’s wearing makeup. She’s got black stuff on her eyelashes and her lips are green.”

On the people-smuggling boat, Jamal encounters someone whose appearance is far removed from his daily experience: a teenage girl wearing makeup and revealing clothes. The listing of physical details—“bare arms,” “bare legs,” “green lips”—emphasizes how shocking she appears in Jamal’s world. Back in Afghanistan, these fashion choices would have been punished with torture, if not death, by the Taliban, who also force teenage girls to stay indoors. Even on this boat, far from Afghanistan, she is ostracized for her appearance: The smugglers refuse to give her a portion of soup, proving that cultural norms follow the refugees and highlighting cultural displacement and identity.

“Something, I realise with a jolt of excitement, more precious to us right now than gold or Manchester United season tickets. […] Flour.”

The girl, whose name is Rashida, has brought along a bag of flour: a priceless commodity in the hands of someone like Jamal, who learned baking from his father. The ironic contrast between “gold” and “flour” emphasizes how dire their situation has become. Using the boat’s engine as a makeshift oven, Jamal can now make bread for the hungry passengers. This moment reinforces the theme of family unity and sacrifice, as even a simple act like baking bread becomes an act of survival and care.

“I wait for the smugglers to fight the pirates. […] They don’t. […] Instead, they greet the pirates with big grins.”

The ever-trusting, hopeful Jamal finds, yet again, that many adults will follow their own greed and prejudice rather than help their fellow humans. The smugglers who were paid to protect the refugees have conspired with pirates to rob them. This betrayal serves as a grim commentary on the exploitation of the powerless.

“The smugglers have abandoned us. We’re alone in the middle of the ocean, a boatful of starving wailing people and three scared sailors. […] This is it, I think. It can’t get worse than this.”

After being betrayed by the smugglers, who have also kidnapped many of the female passengers, the refugees now have no money, no food or water, and little hope since they are still days away from Australia. The phrase “boatful of starving wailing people” creates an auditory image of their suffering, reinforcing the sheer desperation of their plight. Jamal’s final thought—“It can’t get worse than this”—is an example of dramatic irony, as the readers understand that things are likely to deteriorate further.

“‘Hey,’ I say to the others. ‘Let’s explore. Let’s go and see all the things Andrew’s been telling us about. Shopping centers with fountains. Cinemas with fourteen movies showing at once.’ […] Then I notice Andrew is giving me a strange look.”

After weathering a storm, the refugees are pulled from their sinking boat by an Australian warship, one of whose officers, a kind man named Andrew, tells the children about the freedoms and rich amenities of his country. Jamal’s eagerness to experience this new world highlights his persistent optimism, a core aspect of the theme of the power of hope and dreams. Once they are ashore, Jamal, who assumes that they are now in Australia, wants to explore. However, Andrew’s “strange look” suggests that more bad news is in store. As usual, the ever-optimistic Jamal misunderstands the importance of his look. The juxtaposition of Jamal’s excitement with Andrew’s silence creates a moment of tension, emphasizing the contrast between expectation and reality.

“I spin round. […] Mum and Dad are standing there. […] ‘The warship didn’t see us,’ says Mum. ‘And then they did.’”

Throughout Jamal and Bibi’s long journey, good news and disaster follow one another. The abrupt sentence structure—short phrases separated by ellipses—captures the stunned disbelief of the moment as Jamal struggles to process that his parents are alive. After discovering that they are not in Australia, but rather on a small island that is being used as a refugee camp, the children are unexpectedly reunited with their parents, who they feared had drowned when their boat sank. This reunion reinforces the novel’s core theme of family unity and sacrifice—after all their suffering, the simple act of being together outweighs any hardship. Jamal’s “relief and joy” make up for a lot of the bad things that have happened.

“But I don’t understand. Here’s a man who’s as kind as can be, from a country where people’s hearts are bigger than warm loaves, and yet some people there don’t want us. […] Why?”

Jamal’s warm, trusting nature is ill-equipped to deal with the prejudices of people who hate and fear those who are different from themselves, not to mention the cynical politicians who exploit those fears. The metaphor “people’s hearts are bigger than warm loaves” is a childlike image of generosity, connecting Jamal’s perception of goodness to the act of sharing food—something deeply ingrained in his upbringing. Due to a recent election in Australia, the country’s refugee policy has changed, and now the family might never be allowed to live there. This passage directly engages with the theme of cultural displacement and identity as Jamal grapples with the reality that acceptance is not as simple as escaping danger. Though millions of Australians, like Andrew, sympathize with their plight, they can do little about it.