Radiation

by Steven Duckett (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Ukraine

I don’t have much melanin in my skin. So, I wear long sleeves and trousers on hot June days in Europe to avoid burns from the sun’s radiation. Though also, because today I was in the 30-kilometre exclusion zone in Northern Ukraine – the site of the Chernobyl disaster. Exposed skin is at risk of possible contamination from loose radioactive particles, and it is a condition to cover up as part of the tour company I was with. Though in 33 degrees Celsius heat it meant I endured sweat soaked clothes. Chernobyl had always made me curious. As a child, people referred to it in mythical tones, though I was never taught about it at school. Bizarre really for such a major event in European history. Anytime radiation or nuclear energy was discussed by teachers, parents or television programmes, Chernobyl was mentioned as a joke or a warning. Or both. Thus, as I grew taller, the mystery about the nuclear disaster grew deeper. After volunteering in southern Ukraine for several weeks in 2016, I was in Kyiv for a week before flying back to the UK, so I seized the chance to visit my childhood intrigue. We made our way out of the city centre at 8 am along verdant, Roman-straight roads to the exclusion zone. Once past the 30-kilometre checkpoint, our tour group visited deserted old houses and homes hidden in the forest. Natasha, our tour guide rationally informed our group how it was safe. Yet, I still felt dread every time leaves brushed my shoulder, or dust gathered on my shoes. What was I doing in a radioactive exclusion zone? After this prelude, we made our way to the main event – getting close to the destroyed reactor four of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant. The tour bus pulled up a mile away from the reactor so we could take our photos with it in the background. As we alighted, I saw the red and white striped cooling tower atop the nuclear power plant, that was not covered by the sarcophagus. In the hot bright day, it stood ominously. We then boarded the bus and set off to the destroyed reactor. Natasha tells us through the microphone: “We can only stay near the reactor for 3-5 minutes or so because at such a close distance to the reactor, our exposure to gamma radiation is magnified.” I can only half hear her, as the steel sarcophagus is screaming at me as we approach it. As we stop and clamber off again, I strolled up to the sarcophagus standing behind the security fence. I quivered. Here was history. The 30-year-old mish-mash of concrete and steel was eerie to look at. Ugly and mundane in any other context, but now invoking a simultaneous sense of awe and terror. It entombed the most dangerous source of gamma radiation on the planet, which had cost many men their health or lives to construct. Dosimeters beeped a monotonous song around me, reminding me of the invisible danger I was in. You don’t stare at the sun, yet here I was staring at a highly dangerous source of radiation. “Scientists have found fungi growing on the irradiated walls of reactor 4, with a high melanin content which allows it to survive.” Natasha pointed to the walls. “They use it in space research to see if it could help protect astronauts.” I pondered about how nature thrives where humans fail. Nearby Pripyat had been reclaimed by the forest, and wild animal populations in the zone had soared since humans absconded. When humans cause catastrophe to the environment either by nuclear disaster or perhaps global warming, it is our survival that is at risk. Nature will carry on if we are here or not. Our few minutes were up, and we retreated back onto the bus to leave. I longed to stay a few more minutes to gaze at this enormous human catastrophe yet was relieved to escape from the reactor’s high radiation. But also, that of the blazing midday sun.