“They say, ‘Tell to us everything.’

I say, ‘What everything?’

They say, ‘What they did? What they said? Are they happy? Are they sad?’

I say, ‘My God, sirs, please. I don’t know all these things. How I can know all these things?’”

Kalyani’s anxiety over sharing her knowledge with the police helps establish The Subjectivity of Truth as one of the novel’s main themes. Her assertion that she doesn’t know the things that the police want to know stresses that the speakers in the novel only possess fragments of the truth (and fragments often shaded by opinion, bias, etc.).

“There’s nothing in it. A man gets in a taxi, and he never gets out. I need to do something for my family.”

This passage characterizes Rahmat as an ambitious man. The metaphorical framing of the taxi as a trap emphasizes the exhaustive yet unfulfilling nature of the work that his friends are encouraging him to take. His final statement underscores this by implying that taxi driving will do nothing for his family. He will not allow himself to settle for anything of that scale.

“And if you care about that kind of thing—and I had a feeling Mr. Sharaf very much did—there’s an undeniable prestige associated with it. At the time, it was home to half a dozen cabinet members, including the Secretary of State. It’s no wonder, given that the White House is just eight miles away, on the other side of the river. Foreign dignitaries, professional athletes, business titans—a lot of big names live out there.”

This description of Riverside cements the Sharafs’ elevated social status and their achievement of the American dream, which their Riverside house symbolizes. The list of the important social figures who populate Riverside suggests that Rahmat now belongs to their milieu. It also underscores Rahmat’s longstanding desire for prestige, which he associates with success and the ability to provide for his family.

“‘When they’re all finished with college and have nice jobs and are married and happy in their own homes. Then I’ll rest,’ she said.

‘Everyone says tomorrow and tomorrow,’ I said. ‘But tomorrow never comes. Blink, and that’s the whole of life.’”

This exchange between Maryam and Sara foreshadows the tragedy that defines the Sharaf family. Maryam’s self-assurance echoes Rahmat’s confidence in their elevated socioeconomic status, which informs her predictions about her children’s adult lives. By contrast, Maryam’s remark that “tomorrow never comes” strikes a prophetic and ominous tone, foreshadowing Zorah’s death as a teenager.

“For years they sat on two feet, just waiting to drink his blood. But when she did what she did—when she cut his nose off and rained the world down in pieces on his head—then, finally, their hate blisters popped and cooled.”

Ustad’s statement exposes the Afghan American community’s implicit bias against Rahmat. The graphic metaphor that compares the community’s hatred to blisters emphasizes the spiritual pain that these people’s envy and resentment cause them to feel. This informs their judgmental sentiments toward Zorah and the Sharaf family.

“The money wasn’t the problem. The money wasn’t the issue. From the first to the last it was about one thing and one thing only: They forgot who they were. They tried to be what they weren’t. They became more American than the Americans.”

The Afghan American community’s resentment of Rahmat and his family extends to their cultural assimilation. The novel’s suggestion that it’s a problem to become “more American than the Americans” hints at The Xenophobia of American Culture, as the Sharaf family ends up surrendering their cultural values yet are never fully accepted by their non-Afghan peers.

“For good people, name is everything. The beginning and end. Once my good name is lost, it’s lost forever. As long as men live and have memory, my family’s name is stained. Then my father in his grave is shamed and my brothers are shamed and my sons are all shamed. Their eyes are lowered in front of the whole world. My other daughters, even if they’re pure themselves, are ruined all the same. Forever after, our heads will be bowed before the taunts, silent or said, of all people. The shame of it is worse than death.”

This passage illustrates Social Status and the Fear of Public Opinion as a theme. Zarghoona uses hyperbole to stress the importance of reputation within their peer community, comparing shame to death. This association implicitly highlights the possibility that the Sharaf family, if not their entire peer community, conspired in Zorah’s death.

“They’re saying I was spreading the word? Let me tell you one thing about these people. These fatherless dogs would slander the Holy Prophet’s own daughter if they could. Yanih, that’s the kind of people they are.”

Torpekey’s defensiveness develops the theme of social status and the fear of public opinion. Her aggressive retort to the claim that she has been spreading gossip reveals how much she values her own reputation. This sentiment recurs in other speakers’ chapters, as they turn against each other whenever someone accuses them of disreputable behavior.

“Even your good girls that don’t get pregnant when they’re fifteen and sixteen can go with ten or twenty or a hundred men before they marry—if they marry at all—and you accept it. You don’t see it as bad. Because it’s your culture. Those are your ways. And that’s why we don’t judge you for it.

But those aren’t our ways. That isn’t our culture. We don’t accept those things. And why should we?

But because we don’t, to you we’re barbarians.”

This passage drives the xenophobia of American culture as a theme. Zarghoona uses a direct contrast to highlight the bias against Afghan cultural values. The contrast emphasizes the perception that Afghans are “barbarians” because they have a different moral code than the Americans.

“I don’t know. After that day in the bathroom when she told me what they were doing to her and how they were treating her ’cause of that guy, I thought it was so messed up. I was so mad at her mom and dad. But seeing him like that made me kind of sad for him…for her whole family.”

Fiona’s perception of Rahmat when he reveals that Zorah has run away complicates his characterization; she perceives him both as a tyrannical authority figure and as an object of pity. This complexity contributes to the ambiguity that surrounds his actions on the night of Zorah’s death, raising the possibility that he could have played a role in what happened to her while also truly grieving for her.

“Of course no one’s naïve enough to think that just living here could protect you from everything. But it’s the truth that things like that, whatever that is, just don’t happen here.”

Margaret’s defense of her neighborhood ironically exposes her naivety. She claims that her affluent neighborhood isn’t the kind of place where crime occurs. However, regardless of what happened to Zorah, the neighborhood ends up becoming such a hostile environment due to public harassment that Margaret herself is forced to move.

“No one dies of sorrow. No one dies of loss. That’s just in films. If they did, all we Afghans would have died by now. Somehow, you live. God gives you a way.”

Aziza’s commentary on grief reminds the reader that Zorah’s death is likely not the Sharaf family’s first experience with tragedy and loss. Aziza’s allusion to the unreality of films lends an element of metafiction to the novel; it hints that the story will subvert conventional patterns, especially in terms of its resistance to conflict resolution.

“Yes, I went to the police. Yes, I told them. But did he say it [that he would kill Zorah] or not? He said it in front of a hundred people that day! In front of all of them! That they won’t come forward themselves because they wouldn’t give a countryman into the hands of the Americans—out of their great Afghan honor—is a whole other word.”

Sayed’s accusation against Rahmat functions as a partial red herring, as it suggests that there’s credible proof of Rahmat’s guilt. The novel presents Rahmat’s accusations before revealing the facts of his longstanding grudge against Rahmat. While the novel never fully exonerates Rahmat, it clarifies that Sayed’s statement cannot be taken at face value.

“Long recognized as one of the most successful defense attorneys in the country, Ward became a household name as the lead attorney for Keith Scheffler, who was acquitted in 2013 of first-degree murder in the death of his missing wife, whose body has never been found, for which the prosecution had sought the death penalty.”

The initial characterization of Richard Ward encourages readers (of both the novel and the fictional news article) to believe that Rahmat is guilty of killing Zorah. By first mentioning Ward in the context of defending clients in suspicious murder cases, Sabit leverages assumptions about guilt and innocence so as to ultimately challenge them.

“Just think on it. The kind of man you’d have to be to believe that could even be possible. But the problem was, Sharaf really had become American. He believed money could buy everything. He thought he could buy back his name with his millions. That people would look the other way because in this country there’s always in all things a difference between a poor man and a rich man. Or maybe he was just like the bird that buries its head in the sand.”

In this passage, Nader frames Rahmat’s entitlement as his fatal flaw and describes it as a uniquely American trait, reinforcing the novel’s suggestion that Rahmat’s achievement of the American dream is ultimately his undoing. Nader alludes to the story of the ostrich burying its head in the sand to describe Rahmat’s failure to reckon with the reality of his humiliation. This character trait paves the way for his conflict with Sayed and the increased scrutiny he faces after Sayed accuses him of being guilty.

“Multiple witnesses claim that not long after her return, following an altercation that took place during a party at the family home, patriarch Rahmat Sharaf threatened to kill her in front of all his guests. Three months later, Zorah Sharaf was dead in a mysterious car accident.”

Sabit’s deployment of news articles throughout the novel hints at the ideological biases they may present while reporting the news. In this case, The Washington Standard uses the juxtaposition of two disparate facts to imply a logical connection. The diction contributes to the effect, as well; the description of Rahmat as the family “patriarch” implies an anachronistic—even archaic—degree of male authority, while the reference to the “mysterious” accident verges on sarcasm, as the article clearly doesn’t regard it as mysterious at all. Without any concrete evidence, they encourage their readers to presume Rahmat’s guilt.

“Ustad, what did I want with this country? I should have stayed in Kabul and let the rockets finish us. At least then we would have all died one time, together, instead of dying like this, every day.”

Rahmat’s lament in this passage speaks to the irony of the immigrant experience in the US. His assertion that it would have been better to die once in Afghanistan than to suffer persecution every day in Virginia underscores the prejudice that defines his and his peers’ experiences.

“Amanda Sherman was shocked when she saw the residence on TV. ‘I was like, oh my God, I know that house! I run past it every morning. Literally every day. There’s a trail all the local runners train on that starts a little past their place. I always thought it was such a pretty house. But I honestly had no idea who lived there. I saw the cars in the driveway but never any people. It was so bizarre. They could’ve been ghosts.’”

Without concrete evidence to link the Sharafs to Zorah’s death, publications like The Washington Standard rely on emotional arguments to drive their thesis. In this passage, the quote that they publish offers no concrete facts about Zorah’s case. Instead, it relies on a passerby’s impression of the house’s ominous mood to suggest ill intent.

“I’m not saying they weren’t upset with her. In the end they were human too. But children are such terrible things. To have them is to know nothing of your own pride. She was their child. They couldn’t cast her from their door any more than they could cast her from their hearts.”

Asma’s defense of the Sharafs hinges on a larger insight about the experience of parenthood. Asma paradoxically describes children as being “terrible,” but only because parental love supersedes all other considerations. This contradicts what is said elsewhere about the importance of reputation in the Sharafs’ lives and persuades Asma that Rahmat and Maryam really forgave Zorah once they took her back in.

“But this is their great big witness. This is their hard proof. The midnight imaginings of a child, for God’s sake, who destroyed a family and turned a mother and father and brother into murderers of their own daughter and sister.”

Ustad questions Jacob Waller’s eyewitness account by putting emphasis on the unlikelihood of his claims and the outsized impact they have on the Sharafs’ lives. His argument also undermines the voices that accept Jacob’s claims at face value, beginning with his mother, Melanie, and extending all the way to Christine Hodge.

“Now—excuse my great ignorance—but just when exactly did it become a crime in this country to be successful? Mr. Sharaf and his family are the American story. They epitomize the American Dream […]

But we’re in a new era now. Where it’s politically incorrect to be successful. Where people are demonized for economic achievement and shamed for daring to enjoy the fruits of their labor.”

Richard Ward explicates the Sharaf family’s representative function in the context of the American dream. Notably, he doesn’t address the racism and Islamophobia underpinning the hostility toward the Sharafs; instead, he attributes that hostility to economic resentment, drawing on political narratives about “class warfare” and the supposed demonization of the wealthy. Whether Ward believes that this tack will garner more sympathy is unclear, but his rhetoric underscores how thoroughly the truth has been buried by politicization.

“A mother is a different kind of thing. There’s nothing in the world like the tie between mother and child. When you carry a child for nine months and bear the agony of birth and the grief and sacrifice and love of caring for and raising that child, it’s anguish to even think about harm coming to their little finger, leave alone harming them yourself.”

Asma doubles down on her defense of the Sharafs by focusing on Maryam and the experience of motherhood. Her point about the strong bond between mother and child challenges the claims that Maryam was a willing participant in Zorah’s death. This suggests that those who believe in Maryam’s guilt overlook her reality as a mother.

“But they were making it like we get up and kill our daughters the way people slaughter chickens for soup! So then let’s tell the truth: It was only after we came here that we could believe people can hate their own children and even kill them.”

Asma’s critique of the depiction of the Sharafs in the media points to the racist hypocrisy that associates violence with immigrants. The analogy implies that mainstream American society views such violence as a matter of course, when, Asma asserts, the opposite is true: It is only in American culture that such violence is normalized.