A provocative novel about an immigrant family that achieves the American dream. After fleeing the horrors of war in Afghanistan, the Sharaf family resettles as refugees in Northern Virginia. After many years of hard work, the father has become a millionaire. Now they live in the most exclusive neighborhood, their growing family attending the most prestigious schools. And Zorah, the eldest daughter, is the apple of her father’s eye. When an unthinkable tragedy strikes, the family is left reeling.; But there is talk that the Sharaf happy family was anything but and soon the veneer of the model immigrant family starts to crumble.;; Told through multiple points of view and set against a backdrop of Islamophobia and xenophobia, the novel is riveting, provocative, and unforgettable. <Good People< is sure to spark ongoing conversation with its urgent storytelling, daring structure, and nuanced look at some of the most pressing questions of our time.

Autorentext

Patmeena Sabit was born in Kabul a few years after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. When she was a month old, her family fled the conflict and became refugees in Pakistan, joining the millions of other Afghans that had sought refuge there. They later moved to the United States and she grew up in Virginia. She currently lives in Toronto.

Klappentext

“A thrilling tour de force of a novel. I’ll be recommending this book to everyone.”—ANN PATCHETT
“[A] gorgeous and powerful debut.”—TOMMY ORANGE, The New York Times
“A stunning read.”—KHALED HOSSEINI
“Utterly addictive, Good People will have everyone talking.”—PAULA HAWKINS

In a haunting debut novel that reads like true crime, told through a kaleidoscope of perspectives, a private tragedy thrusts one family into the court of public opinion as the media—and their own community—dissect every aspect of their lives.

ONE OF THE NEW YORKER’S BEST BOOKS OF 2026 SO FAR
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Zorah Sharaf could do no wrong. Zorah Sharaf brought shame upon her family. What’s the truth? Depends on who you ask.*

The Sharaf family is the picture of success. Prosperous, rich, happy. They came to this country as refugees with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. And now, after years of hard work, they live in the most exclusive neighborhood, their growing family attending the most prestigious schools. Zorah, the eldest daughter, is the apple of her father’s eye.

When an unthinkable tragedy strikes, everyone is left reeling. There is talk that behind closed doors the Sharafs’ happy household was anything but. Did the Sharaf family achieve the American dream? Or was the image of the model immigrant family just a façade?

Like a literary game of ping-pong, Good People compels the reader to reconsider what might have happened even on the previous page. It’s a riveting, provocative story of family—sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, and the communities that claim us as family in difficult times.

Leseprobe
Qandi Gul

Sharaf family friend

. . . And our eyes fell on the children. Little flowers born in war and grown in war, who of all the world knew only the things war brought and the things it took. Then we said: God, You have brought this on our heads and made us endure and we have endured. In Your great wrath at we know not what sins of ours, You have doomed this dirt and turned it into a graveyard for the living and the dead. But even You—­even You have no right to these children.

So we fled. Leaving all. The bones of our mothers and fathers. Home. Honor. Hope. Sister away from sister. Brother from brother. Our people blown like ash to the four corners of the earth. Barbad barbad. Some of us, by what hand of fate, brought here. To this strange country that before the wars came we had never even seen in a dream of a dream of a dream. . . .

August 30

Margaret Hoffman

Former Sharaf family neighbor

I remember it clear as yesterday.

I was up with the birds, like always, puttering around the yard all morning, trying to get at the crabgrass before it got too hot out. We have someone who comes in every week to take care of the lawn and flowers and things, but in the summer the crabgrass shoots up like fire. Leave it alone for even a couple of days and just the one little spot’ll send off a zillion seeds. Ruins the whole yard before you can say go.

James doesn’t understand why I bother. He’s always saying we should just nuke the whole thing and start over. But all it needs is a little patience and effort. It’s a shallow grass and pulls out easy, and the whole trick is to scuff it up and lay down a bit of bark or pine straw where it used to be. Cut off its light and it’s gone for good.

I remember I was out there a little longer than usual that day. We were having a big cookout over the weekend and I wanted everything looking nice and neat. It was about midmorning by the time I finished up with all the weeding and watering, and after I turned the sprinklers off I went around and gave everything a once-­over, you know, just checking the nets for critters and the leaves for beetles and mites.

It was already broiling out. All summer long, we’d had the most glorious weather—­warm, sunny days and clear, cool nights. But toward the end of August it just started burning up. It hadn’t dipped below a hundred in a week straight, and they were blaring heat wave warnings day and night, going on about it being the hottest August in Fairfax since God knows when.

Well, my knees were starting to act up and I was more than ready to call it a day, but the hydrangeas had come in so gorgeous, I wanted to get some for the house before I went in. So I got my clippers and a little bucket of water and came around front. That’s when I saw them, right there across the street.

The two older kids were out in the driveway with their dad. There was a heap of bags just sitting there, and it looked like the kids were helping him fit everything into the trunk. The little ones were chasing each other around the yard, shouting their heads off and having the time of their lives, from the sound of it. And mom—­she was just standing at the front door, talking on the phone. She saw me and waved and I waved back.

To be honest I didn’t really pay much attention to them after that. I just wanted to get the heck out of the sun and put my feet up with something cool to drink. I cut a few bunches of flowers as quick as I could and went on inside.

It was about half an hour later when I came back out to check the mailbox. And by then they were all gone.

Ustad Khairyar

Sharaf family friend

That was in ’97 or ’98 when they came. In the winter.

One day we heard there was a new family in Arlington, a man and his wife and little son, come just a few days before, who didn’t have anyone here.

By that time, those of us who fled in those first years after the Russians invaded had been here for sixteen, seventeen years already. We’d made a little community. People of our own we could sit and stand and come and go with.

It’s true they were strangers to us and we to them. But that didn’t mean anything. Those of us who came before always tried to help the new ones any way we could. Because even if we lived here a hundred years more, we could never forget how those first times were like Judgment Day itself. How it wasn’t like coming to a new country but to a whole new world, and coming to it like penniless deaf-­mutes at that.

If nothing else they were our people. Our fathers and grandfathers were buried under the same black soil. That was enough. …