Phoebe Greenwood’s Vulture is a darkly satirical and unflinching debut that dissects the moral rot at the heart of war journalism. Set during the 2012 Gaza–Israel conflict, the novel follows Sara Byrne, an ambitious young British journalist desperate to make her name as a foreign correspondent. She’s stationed at the Beach Hotel, a bizarre sanctuary for the world’s press amidst all the devastation. Sara’s story is both a critique of media voyeurism and a character study of ambition untethered from empathy.

The Beach Hotel, with its buffet breakfasts and sea views, stands as a grotesque symbol of privilege against the destruction just beyond its walls. It’s where reporters trade gossip over cocktails while locals lose everything. Sara’s fixation on securing a front-page story leads her to manipulate her fixer, Nasser, and take reckless risks with Fadi, a young man from a militant family, setting in motion events that spiral far out of her control.

Greenwood’s background as a journalist gives the novel its sharp realism. She captures the absurd logistics of war reporting – the scramble for Wi-Fi, the moral detachment behind casualty counts, and the competition for the ‘juiciest’ story. Yet beneath the satire runs a deep unease: that those tasked with documenting suffering often exploit it instead. Sara’s descent into paranoia and moral decay feels both exaggerated and chillingly plausible.

While the novel’s tone shifts from razor-edged humour to bleak despair, the transition feels earned. War, Greenwood suggests, strips everyone bare – reporters and victims alike. Vulture doesn’t offer redemption or clarity, but it does force readers to confront the complicity of media spectacle.

Timely, provocative, and painfully relevant, Vulture is an uncomfortable but essential read. Greenwood skewers the self-importance of Western journalism while reminding us of the human cost it so often glosses over.