The bunker in Good Girl was inspired by Berlin's iconic nightclub Berghain
The bunker in Good Girl was inspired by Berlin's iconic nightclub Berghain(Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

In Between Places: Ahead of the Women’s Prize announcement, Afghan writer Aria Aber talks about her Berlin-set, shortlisted novel Good Girl

TMS talks to Aber on her Berlin-novel Good Girl, exploring identity and exile, and why the publishing world should be enriched by refugee voices
Published on

Nila is 19, defiant, and growing up in post-9/11 Berlin — a city marked by chaos, diversity, and contradictions. She parties in the city’s infamous bunkers, popping pills with her friends, while grappling with the weight of her roots. The daughter of Afghan immigrants who gave up everything — from medical degrees to financial security — to start anew in Germany, Nila longs to be accepted by the ‘cool kids’ of Berlin’s underground, yet yearns for a deeper connection to her Afghan heritage.

In Good Girl (Bloomsbury), her debut novel, Afghan writer Aria Aber explores identity, and displacement through Nila’s coming-of-age journey. Shortlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, Aber is still wrapping her head around it.

The novel was a long time coming; before that came her poetry debut, Hard Damage in 2019.  “I wanted to write a book that was centered around right-wing terrorist attacks and islamophobia, because I saw the rise of those in the post 9-11 world that I grew up in,” she says. Aber began writing Good Girl in 2020, during a period marked by terrorist attacks and hate crimes in Germany and personal grief after losing a close friend. “It was a very politically charged time. These channels of grief made their way into the text,” she says.

Author Aria Aber
Author Aria Aber

Being a good girl

The title Good Girl refers to the pressure to conform — to be obedient, succeed academically, preserve tradition, honour your parents’ sacrifices. But Nila refuses that role — the version of herself her family expects. What is interesting is that she portrays Nila full of opposites: “She wants to be a bad girl but also yearns to be a good girl. It’s a dialectic—it’s a character full of contradictions,” says the author.

Torn between her roots, ambition, and environment, Nila feels alienated from both German society and her immigrant community. Yet Aber doesn’t cast her as a sorrowful refugee. Instead, she’s a free-spirited artist trying to be seen. “Everyone has an origin story,” Aber says. “I don’t think being an exile should define your whole being — though it is the one thing that defines me.”

Though born in Germany, Aber now lives in the US. She is the daughter of an Afghan immigrant like Nila who grew up with a strong sense of exile. “I’m always in two places — Germany and Afghanistan. Even though I wasn't born in Afghanistan, I am still a second generation immigrant,” says Aber. “I remember not having a German passport. I felt transient.”

Power, desire and violence

In the novel, Nila meets Marlowe Woods, a charismatic 36-year-old American writer, in one of Berlin’s bunkers. While their relationship begins flirtatiously, it veers into more complicated terrain. The age gap sets up the classic “older man, young woman” dynamic, but Aber resists that binary. “Nila is not just a victim. She has agency. She’s being victimised, but she’s also self-destructive and is actively seeking out extreme experiences.” Aber wanted readers to understand why Nila would fall into that kind of relationship. “This isn’t a cautionary tale — it serves a different literary purpose.”  

Violence, especially the kind masked as discipline or care, runs quietly through the novel. Nila often revisits memories of her mother. She recalls times when she willingly offered her cheek in anticipation of a slap, or when a woman reminded her mother not to hit her in public — because they were in Germany now. 

Aber explores how different forms of violence — domestic, erotic, state-sanctioned,  — intersect and echo in characters' lives. “There’s an electric current of violence running from one system to another. It doesn’t come from nowhere — it’s triggered by something external that lives inside the perpetrator,” she says.   

She asks: “Why is domestic violence excused in some communities and not others? Often it comes from powerlessness, a way for those pushed to society’s edges to assert control in the only space they can—their homes.” This is why she sets the family in Berlin’s prefab housing blocks. “These places are rife with crime, disenfranchisement, and a lack of opportunity. In those environments, interpersonal violence runs rampant — not because it’s justified, but because the people living there are themselves being violated by the state, capitalism, and structural neglect,” says Aber. 

Telling refugee tales

The literary world is slowly expanding, but there’s still a noticeable gap when it comes to refugee narratives that aren’t dramatised or reduced to trauma porn.  “Maybe it comes down to the publishing landscape—who gets access, who has the opportunity to pursue writing.” She adds, “Writers need financial support, time, and security to write. But beyond that, we need change within the publishing industry itself. It’s still a very homogeneous space, and that limits the kinds of stories that are nurtured and championed.”

She draws a parallel with author Percival Everett, whose work—though not about refugees—pushes back against the pressure on African-American writers to constantly center trauma. “He’s written a lot of funny, smart, subversive books that problematise that very issue—the expectation that marginalised writers must always perform their pain,” says Aber. Because at the end of the day, it’s not just about the number of stories—it’s about what kinds of stories are allowed to be told, and who gets to tell them.

X
Open in App
The New Indian Express
www.newindianexpress.com