by Crystel Hajjar
It was a cold October morning when I boarded a small bus from Kiev in the direction of Chernobyl, a trip that I’d been planning for a while. Chernobyl, the infamous symbol of nuclear disaster that is now a 30 kilometre exclusion zone, the epicentre being the ill-fated Reactor No. 4.
It was at 1:23 on that fateful April morning in 1986 when an explosion rocked the Soviet Union and the rest of the world as a safety test went wrong and Nuclear Reactor No. 4 exploded. The initial damage and ensuing fallout would result in thousands of deaths and the displacement of over 100,000 more.
When on Sunday, April 27, two days after the explosion, 49,000 people were evacuated from the city of Pripyat alone, the Soviet Union’s dream city, they were told to bring some valuables and enough food for three days. Everyone involved sincerely believed they would be back by the end of the year. At the time the accident happened, its magnitude was not understood and the dangers and duration of its effects were highly underestimated. While the authorities acted to avoid immediate dangers, the long term consequences were not really considered at the time.
When I walked into Pripyat on Oct. 27, 2016, it had been over 30 years since the evacuees last saw their homes and embarked on a bus taking them into an unknown world, a journey that we now know will last beyond their lifetime.
“The explosion of reactor No. 4 caused nuclear fallout to spread across most of the northern hemisphere.” The geiger counters available at the time could not measure the radiation levels that were being released. Virtually nobody knew what the implications were, nor was there full knowledge of the damages that this disaster could cause. Out of the four nuclear reactors in the area, two remained functional until 2000. In the 14 years that followed, many workers still had access to the sites, less than two weeks at a time, though with very strict safety conditions.
Entering Chernobyl was like entering a different country altogether. The security procedures included scrutiny of our passports and luggage, which felt like a trip back in time. Large roads with no cars, many uninhabited houses, untouched white snow everywhere. Every now and then, geiger counters would go off, a gentle reminder that this is no ordinary city, no ordinary environment. The story of this region is one that is unique and apocalyptic.
When we first entered the 30 kilometre zone, we were in a cluster of villages where farmers lived in individual houses, owned at the time by the Soviet Union. Many of those villages were built to cater to the needs of the cities that were to be centred around the burgeoning nuclear energy business that would come up in the future. Now they are simply old houses that the forest has reclaimed. Many houses were destroyed and buried three meters under the ground as a way to contain the radioactive pollution absorbed by the wooden structure of the buildings.
Much of Chernobyl was forest before 1970. The area was being developed by the Soviet Union to realize an idealized lifestyle . Even one of the three Soviet radars that used to spy on the U.S. was in the region. Ironically, it is the only one still standing today. Thirty years ago, the information held there could have sparked another world war; now, it is just so much worthless paper disintegrating under the influence of time and weather.
Pripyat, the city closest to the nuclear reactors, a mere three kilometres away, was built in 1970. Its architecture was pretty simple. It was formed of four different districts, each with its own school and clinic. It also had a hospital, a fire station, a hotel, a cinema, two theatres, a restaurant near the city center, Lenin Square, an amusement centre, a community services centre (a shopping mall) and a supermarket. I mention this because a supermarket was a revolutionary concept in the Soviet Union; there were five in the whole country and one of them was in Pripyat. Ironically, it was expected to open on May 1, had the the meltdown not occurred only a few days earlier.
Thanks to nuclear energy, Pripyat was a thriving city with facilities and privileges that were unimaginable in the Soviet era. Districts 5 and 6 were in the process of being built and the plan was to increase the population up to 90,000. It is hard to imagine that dream could ever be realized now.
On that October day, as I walked through the city, it was so peaceful yet so dangerous and so treacherous. I would not even have the time to feel comfortable and safe before my geiger counter would begin to beep, alerting me to the unseen danger that still lingers in the emptiness of the space.
After the accident, Pripyat’s buildings were cleaned with abrasive chemicals in order to mitigate the radioactive contamination. As a result, there are spikes and hotspots areas where radiation has accumulated. The abrasive chemicals destroyed the outer layers of the buildings and, over the years, has caused the disintegration of the roofs and walls. Walking through Pripyat was like no other place I had been to. The city is more desolate than ruins, more lifeless than a city ravaged by war yet everything in it still stands.
Everything looked as though it should still be functioning. Even though there is no electricity, in the light of day, I was still expecting someone to walk out from a building, or children to play in the gym or life to pick up where it had so suddenly left off. Of course, this did not happen and at a certain point, that starts to feel strange. The only life was trees that have grown as high as apartment blocks. They are taking back their habitat. Stray dogs also came around every now and then, wildlife reclaiming its home despite the high radiation levels. Perhaps, it was that unique mixture that made us humans uncomfortable. It was like saying “You messed up once, that’s enough! You’re no longer welcome here.”
The emptiness in Chernobyl is so loud. There is so much to learn, observe and absorb yet there is no life. Other than the group I was with, there was nobody to talk to in Chernobyl; nobody was there to tell the tale. Yet the tale survives in this region that no longer exists even in administrative books. The exclusion zone can be likened to a Soviet time capsule. While the signs of Soviet life have virtually all disappeared, in Chernobyl they persist.
This article first appeared in the Leveller Vol. 9, No. 6 (Spring 2017).
