Skip to main content

Dimiter Kenarov

Dimiter Kenarov is a freelance journalist based in Istanbul, Turkey, and a contributing editor at the Virginia Quarterly Review. His work has appeared in Esquire, Outside, The Nation, The International Herald Tribune, and Boston Review, and was recently anthologized in the Best American Travel Writing series.


Alexander Griboyedov’s Woe from Wit, at the Crimean Academic Russian Drama Theater, three days before Crimeans voted to break away from Ukraine and join Russia.

The Theater Tsar

Winter 2015 | Reporting

Gogol’s play sounds strangely familiar, as if art and life were indistinguishable from each other. Two performances seem to be taking place in parallel: one inside the theater and another one in the streets outside, where soldiers in green balaclavas and no recognizable insignia—incognito, so to speak—have just arrived.

Edward Sawicki on his ancestral farm in the hamlet of Ogonki, Poland.

Unlikely Dissidents

Spring 2013 | Reporting

Shale gas has unlocked what may be the biggest fossil-fuel rush of the early twenty-first century. It has been called a path to energy independence and industrial revival, less polluting than coal. No other energy topic has garnered so much media attention in the last few years.

A geologist employed by the Rosia Montana Gold Corporation stands amid the mine’s waste-rock rubble. The company has proposed four new open-pit mines, which would generate 200 million tons of waste rock—and bury the nearby village.

Mountains of Gold

Winter 2012 | Reporting

The Rosia Montana mine is one of the oldest mines in the world, but now it threatens to destroy the ancient village it long ago built.

The End of the Séance

December 26, 2011 | Reporting

How an '80s-era quack, who claimed he could cure illness through hypnosis, helps explain the Russian psyche.

The Moscow Protests, Part 2

December 25, 2011 | Reporting

Our Russian writer and the photographer Maisie Crow rejoin the crowd of more than one hundred thousand in Moscow.

Back in the USSR

Fall 2011 | Editor's Desk

Twenty years ago, the most grandiose political and social experiment of the twentieth century, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, came to an end. It was a slow and painful death; there was no Soviet 9/11, no sudden implosion of illusions amid smoke and rubble.

Unapproachable Light

Spring 2010 | Essays

As recently as 2005, Camp Bondsteel was purported to be a secret interrogation site for the American military. So why does predominantly Muslim Kosovo love it so much?

Orpheus’s Error

March 18, 2010 | Reporting

“Think like the dead” should be the unofficial motto of the Iraq War. To blend in, American soldiers are feigning death.

City of Trash

March 14, 2010 | Reporting

After the elections, Baghdad is awash in political posters.

The Hurt Locker 2

March 11, 2010 | Reporting

Kenarov visits the school for training Iraq’s own Explosive Ordnance Disposal teams.

Baghdad: Election Day

March 8, 2010 | Reporting

Dimiter Kenarov reports on the violent and historic day of parliamentary elections in Iraq.

Inside the Citadel

March 6, 2010 | Reporting

Dimiter Kenarov sweet-talks his way into the most heavily-guarded building in Iraq.

Pop-Art Radovan

Winter 2009 | Reporting

Radovan Karadžić must have enjoyed being nobody. After so many years under the limelight of NATO, UN, EU, CIA, and ICTY, he was probably getting a bit sweaty and fame-weary, eager to step down from the stage and hide among the dark mass of anonymous spectators. To play “the Osama bin Laden of Europe” is not an easy role, especially when those who know you best would tear you to pieces if they chanced to meet you in the street.

The Little Box That Contains the World: Serbia After the Death of Milosevic

Summer 2006 | Essays

At the Bulgaria-Serbia border, when the train sighed to a halt between high prisonlike fences with crooked chicken wire running on top, our compartment received two official visits—first from Bulgarian customs officers and later on, a few hundred meters down the railroad, from their Serbian counterparts. Luggage was carefully probed, including the bags of the two women, but no one bothered to check mine. “What’s inside the suitcase?” a corpulent guy with beads of sweat on his upper lip demanded to know. “Personal items,” I answered, and that was that. In the ensuing silence the thump of the entry stamp fell on my passport, shattering the tension in the car. The sliding door slammed shut, and in a few more minutes the train jerked forward bearing me westward, deep into Serbian territory.