In September, seven young female writers—selected from among 153 applicants—were awarded the WBF-funded “Štefica Cvek” literary prize.
This prize celebrates the collective impact of feminist and queer literature that challenges conventions, encourages critical thinking, and offers fresh perspectives on the pressing issues of our time.
One of the winners is the young author Tea Tulić, with her novel Vultures of the Old World.
She was interviewed by Naratorium.ba shortly after receiving the prize. This is an English translation of the original interview (originally written in Bosnian, available [here).
The competition was organized by our grantees Naratorium (Sarajevo), in partnership with Obunjene Čitateljke (Belgrade), Koalicija Margini (Skopje), and Booksa (Zagreb). Writers from across the Western Balkans were invited to participate.
We can start with the metaphor alluded to in the title. The central metaphor of Vultures of the Old World is, in fact, the vulture, a predatory bird. It’s a metaphor that shapes many of the novel’s characters. Who are these vultures?
That became clear to me only at the very end of the book, when I still didn’t have a title. I didn’t like the working title, and I knew I needed something else. My characters live in the Rijeka area and fish in the Kvarner Bay. Griffon vultures, our vultures, nest on the nearby island of Cres and spend much of the year there. Since I wanted to write about them, I had a moment of realization: “Oh, my characters are like them in a way.”
Soon after, the idea came to restore some dignity to vultures, or strvinari, as we call them, since the term “vulture” often carries negative connotations, implying someone unpleasant or predatory. Symbolically, it fits, but I still felt uneasy with it. Because once I got to know these birds better, I realized they are actually very fragile. They’re not predators, they simply wait for something to die in order to survive.
This is a conscious anthropocentric approach I often take toward animals, I project human traits onto them. Just like I’ve always disliked how seagulls seem opportunistic, again, a human-centered view. I was deeply moved by vultures, especially the griffon vultures. They reminded me of my characters: people rejected by society, sometimes by choice, sometimes due to injustice. You could call them “losers”, two people who might not be likable, tidy, or fragrant. In that sense of rejection, both social and linguistic, I found a symbolic parallel with vultures.
There are several moments in the book where I reinforce this metaphor. For instance, the main character believes that every fish they catch is, in a way, already dead, due to ecological threats and climate change. And just like the griffon vultures belong to the Old World (continentally), my characters belong to the old, analog world.
I often say, in conversations with friends and colleagues, that we’ve been abused for decades by the policies of our states. Abuse causes trauma, even when a person’s material well-being isn’t directly at risk. Over time, this kind of state-inflicted abuse can make people passive, they begin to “play dead” within society.
Tea Tulic
The novel primarily follows the narrator’s upbringing and her relationship with her father, though her connections to her deceased mother and a friend also play key roles. The heroine and her father live on the edge of poverty, representing the “losers” of the post-Yugoslav economic transition. How do personal traumas and social marginalization intertwine in the story?
These circumstances mirror what’s happening in our region. I often say, in conversations with friends and colleagues, that we’ve been abused for decades by the policies of our states. Abuse causes trauma, even when a person’s material well-being isn’t directly at risk. Over time, this kind of state-inflicted abuse can make people passive, they begin to “play dead” within society.
This results partly from capitalism, but especially from how democracy in our region often feels like a simulation, with occasional success. Here, as in life more broadly, personal and social traumas are deeply connected. Crises spill into private life. Family bonds break under debt slavery to banks. The personal seeps into politics.
My characters have felt how the transition, combined with their inability to adapt, has shaped their private lives. The heroine’s mother lost a finger in a sawmill, and due to economic hardship, couldn’t find better work. They’re part of a failed society, one that once valued solidarity, the right to work and rest, and access to culture. Now, even the hope of living with dignity seems utopian. As a result of trauma and societal failure, they carry shame, which drives their isolation.
The apartment where the heroine grows up, and the boat she fishes from with her father, both serve as spaces of introspection and memory. She’s emotionally attached to them, especially the apartment, yet economic hardship prevents her from leaving. Are these places safe havens or forms of captivity?
Both, and that’s part of the trauma. Like human relationships, our ties to physical spaces can be comforting and painful. The apartment is full of clutter they’ve accumulated. The heroine even feels compassion for these objects, she doesn’t want to throw them out. She imagines they have their own lives and fears leaving them abandoned. In a way, she inscribes herself into those objects.
That’s hoarding, excessively collecting things. Psychologically, it often stems from loneliness. People who hoard don’t want to be alone in empty spaces; they want to feel surrounded and safe, especially when they can’t rely on others. But those same objects can suffocate. The space becomes claustrophobic.
In contrast, the boat offers balance and perspective.
The novel is composed of short, loosely structured chapters, snapshots from the narrator’s life or introspections. Why did you choose this form?
My first characters were dead heroines who needed to be given life by living heroes. That idea already shaped the structure. When I mapped out the story, I envisioned it as a portrait, even visually, of a life or a life stage.
I don’t plan structure rigidly. At first, I write intuitively, relying on the atmosphere the text creates. Later, once most of the content is in place, I give it shape. For this novel, I wanted fluid, flowing sentences. I enjoy fragmentation, though this book is less fragmented than my last one. It came naturally. The content leads the form. Introspection was essential, my characters live lives that permit and require it, though it’s often unpleasant. Trauma locks you inward.
The theme of violence surfaces multiple times in Vultures, twice in the city of Rijeka, and once through the father’s memory of war trauma. Is there a connection between war and everyday violence?
To an extent, yes. But capitalism has intensified it. Violence often stems from poor upbringing, dysfunctional families, or greed. Many people lack healthy ways to express emotion and end up releasing it through anger.
But yes, much of the violence is also a legacy of war, amplified by political rhetoric based on fear. Life has become a survival game where “only the strong survive,” and capitalism constantly reinforces that mindset. That’s its engine.
Capitalism and economic transition are major themes. You depict a coastal city overwhelmed by tourism, hinting at gentrification and the neglect of locals like your characters. Why was this important to include in a coming-of-age story?
While writing, I spent a lot of time in Split and saw firsthand what unregulated, aggressive tourism does. Kvarner has hosted family tourism for over a century and it never disrupted local life. In fact, it made us feel connected to the world.
But today’s tourism is different, and global. Rijeka hasn’t suffered as much yet, though tourism has grown. In Split, people feel like second-class citizens. They can’t even rent homes. Basic services like healthcare and utilities are already stretched thin, so when 100,000 tourists arrive, it’s as if a second city appears overnight. The cultural, ecological, psychological, and economic damage is enormous, few profit, most suffer, and prices soar.
I included this as a warning. For example, “Novi List’’, Rijeka’s daily newspaper, publishes articles praising cruise ships, huge polluters, or promoting glamping on Cres, a wild island and a sanctuary for the protected griffon vulture. That hits me personally. So I wove this issue into the novel, as a warning against tourist devastation in Kvarner.
Your novel was selected for this year’s Štefica Cvek Award, recognized for its thoughtful, feminist storytelling. How did it feel to receive this recognition?
I’m incredibly proud. The concept of the award aligns with my values. I appreciate that several books are recognized, not just one. I’ve been a finalist in other awards, and while I do enjoy the recognition, and the financial support, it always comes with that competitive edge I dislike. Art is a marathon. It celebrates a love for so-called “losers.” I value camaraderie more than competition.
This award isn’t political, and I hope it stays that way. I’m especially happy that younger readers connected with my work. That shows it resonates with them.
So, thank you again for this recognition. I’m truly happy. It feels like people really noticed the award this year, it gained importance quickly, and that’s wonderful.
