Years Later, Chernobyl Still Casts a Poisonous Shadow

["Sandy Perle" <sandyfl@earthlink.net>]

Years Later, Chernobyl Still Casts a Poisonous Shadow
Ukranian Government Will Close Reactor on Friday

By EFREM LUKATSKY
The Associated Press

CHERNOBYL, Ukraine (Dec. 10) - My friend Yaryna has never 
been to Chernobyl, but it's had a bigger impact on her young life 
than any place she's managed to visit.

Yaryna, who's 21, suffers from thyroid cancer that doctors say is 
an aftereffect of the 1986 explosion and fire at the nuclear power 
plant at Chernobyl. She was operated on recently, just a few days 
before I went to the plant for a last visit ahead of its scheduled 
shutdown this Friday.

There is no need to travel to Chernobyl, 90 miles north of Kiev, to 
suffer from it. More than 14 years after the disaster, people living on 
the land that was swept by a cloud of radioactive fallout are 
Chernobyl's hostages.

Every day, Ukrainians worry about the air we breathe, the water we 
drink, the food we eat - and how it will affect not only us, but those 
who come after us.

The April 26, 1986, explosion that ripped through Chernobyl's 
reactor No. 4 spewed a huge radioactive cloud over Europe. The 
then-Soviet republics of Ukraine and Belarus were the most 
affected, and they continue to bear the deepest scars.

For me, along with millions of other Ukrainians, the Chernobyl 
catastrophe has become a part of everyday life. And as the 
radiation claims more victims among friends, the tragedy isn't 
fading - it's getting ever closer.

Statistics tell part of the story. In Ukraine alone, at least 4,365 
people have died of radiation-related diseases contracted after 
taking part in the cleanup effort organized by the Soviet government 
after the explosion. That's just a fraction of the overall toll among an 
estimated 650,000 ''liquidators'' who came from all over the Soviet 
Union.

In all, about 3.4 million of Ukraine's 50 million people, including 
nearly 1.3 million children, were exposed to radiation from the 
disaster.

Thyroid glands attract radiation, and thyroid cancer is gradually 
claiming victims. While no cases were registered in Ukraine in 
1981-85, 1,217 people who like Yaryna were children or 
adolescents at the time of the explosion were operated on for 
thyroid cancer in 1986-99.

According to Ukrainian government figures, 70,000 people in 
Ukraine alone have been disabled by radiation.

The no-entry zone around the Chernobyl plant covers 1,040 square 
miles of the most poisoned land on Earth. About 120,000 people 
used to live in the 90 villages within the then-flourishing region. Now 
it is a high-security zone behind coiled razor wire, protected by 
some 800 guards. No one can enter without special permission.

The biggest town in the zone is Pripyat, which once housed the 
Chernobyl workers. In 1986, it had a population of 48,000 - mostly 
young families who had come from all over the Soviet Union.

The fire could be seen clearly from the windows of the town's 
apartment towers, but Soviet authorities didn't bother to alert 
residents to the danger hanging in the air. As the fire burned three 
miles away, people went about their preparations for the May Day 
holiday - a Soviet-era occasion for picnics and long meals 
punctuated by toasts over vodka.

Pripyat was evacuated 36 hours after the explosion, three days 
before May Day. People left in a hurry.

Today, yellowed newspapers with May Day slogans still blow about 
the town. Limbless dolls and other discarded toys litter the cots 
where children in day-care centers used to take their daily naps. 
Someone left behind gas masks.

The surrounding district was once one of the most picturesque 
regions in Ukraine, and the beauty can still be seen in the rich pine 
and birch forests, full of berries and mushrooms. Wolves, boars 
and elk prowl the woods, while huge catfish swim the rivers - 
doomed by the plutonium and cesium that are lodged in their 
organs.

Scientists have found unusual mutations in mice in the area. Pine 
saplings have sprouted sickly brown branches, a sign of 
morphological change resulting from radiation.

Several spots inside the exclusion zone are particularly dangerous: 
As I approached them, the Geiger counter emitted high-pitched 
whines and showed a radiation level dozens of times higher than 
the safe upper limit.

Among them is a sprawling graveyard for abandoned equipment - 
1,350 vehicles that were irradiated during the cleanup operation. 
There's row upon row of red-starred military helicopters, armored 
vehicles, tanks, trucks, bulldozers, fire engines and ambulances.

I thought of the people who used to work on these vehicles. Some 
of them worked for only about 20 minutes shoveling radioactive 
debris. All the same, many have died of radiation poisoning.

The most dangerous spot is the huge gray sarcophagus that 
entombs the ruined No. 4 reactor. Slapped together hastily after 
the explosion, it's a monstrous construction: 700,000 metric tons 
of rust-streaked steel and 400,000 tons of concrete that cover an 
unknown amount of nuclear fuel.

The radiation level inside is so high that plant employees, most of 
whom are prohibited from entering the structure, joke that it's the 
biggest microwave in the world.

Despite the danger, I jumped at a chance to tour inside the 
sarcophagus. Only a handful of journalists had ever been inside, 
and there has been very little information on what is going on inside 
the structure. I considered it my professional duty to go there, 
particularly now that the final operating reactor at the plant is 
scheduled to be shut down for good.

I signed disclaimer forms and put on two layers of thick white 
cotton clothes, protective rubber boots, special hats and a helmet, 
padded jackets, gloves and a mask for my face. My guide, Artur 
Korneyev, recommended I be very careful with my camera and be 
sure not to touch anything with it - otherwise I'd have to leave it 
forever inside the sarcophagus.

I put a fresh roll in, covered my camera with plastic as thoroughly 
as I could, and followed him through high-security checkpoints into 
the sarcophagus.

Some 100 yards inside, our Geiger counters showed a radiation 
level 600 times the normal background level for non-irradiated site. I 
tried not to take any deep breaths as we weaved our way through 
dark passages filled with broken concrete beams and other 
wreckage. Finally, we reached the old control room, long and 
poorly lighted, with its damaged machinery.

This was the place where it all happened at 1:23 a.m. on April 26, 
1986, as Soviet engineers began testing a rapid-intervention safety 
system. They threw a power switch, and the explosion followed 
immediately.

The switch they used has disappeared, as have numerous other 
buttons. Souvenir-hunters stole them, leaving holes in the control 
panel.

We bent our heads to get through the dark, narrow labyrinth of 
passages leading to the center of the sarcophagus. The walls are 
covered with lead plates intended to decrease radiation levels, and 
the floors hold piles of lead and boron powder dropped by 
helicopters in an attempt to suppress the nuclear reaction.

I stole a glance at my Geiger counter, which registered about 
80,000 microroentgens an hour - 16,000 times the safe limit.

The beam of my guide's flashlight picked up the sparkle of dust 
slowly whirling around us, and suddenly there were second 
thoughts:
''What the hell am I doing here? I know I can't make a hit picture, 
whose action or beauty will be appreciated afterward. If just a 
speck of radioactive dust were to enter my body, it could kill me.''

I took a long, hot shower as soon as I got out of the sarcophagus. 
When I got home, I tore off my overcoat and boots, unscrewed my 
lens filter, threw it all in a garbage bag and carried it to a rubbish 
heap before entering my apartment.

After my visit, colleagues told me I was crazy to have gone inside. I 
don't think so. It is an important story for Ukraine and elsewhere.

The danger Chernobyl poses to humanity is the reason Western 
governments and environmentalists pressured Ukraine for years to 
close the power plant, and the government finally agreed.

That won't put the danger to rest. The zone will be off limits for 
ages because of its contamination.

EDITOR'S NOTE - Associated Press photographer Efrem Lukatsky 
has visited the Chernobyl power plant dozens of times since a 
1986 reactor explosion caused the world's worst nuclear accident. 
On his latest trip, shortly before the plant's scheduled closing this 
week, he got a rare look inside the concrete shell covering the 
wrecked reactor. He reflects on the catastrophe that continues to 
haunt him and his nation.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sandy Perle					Tel:(714) 545-0100 / (800) 548-5100   				    	
Director, Technical				Extension 2306 				     	
ICN Worldwide Dosimetry Service		Fax:(714) 668-3149 	                   		    
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Personal Website: http://sandyfl.nukeworker.net
ICN Worldwide Dosimetry Website: http://www.dosimetry.com
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