On 26 April 1986, at 1:23 am, the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant’s reactor # 4 blew up after operators had botched a safety test, triggering an explosion and a fire that burned for 10 days. The radioactive fallout spread over tens of thousands of square miles, eventually driving more than 350,000 people permanently from their homes. From day one, Soviet officials downplayed the damages of the disaster. The dispute over the number of victims continues. While a United Nations report claims that as a result of the accident an estimated 9,000 people will eventually succumb to cancer-related illnesses, reputable environmental organizations state that more than 100,000 people have already died as a result of the accident.
Over the past 20 years, I have visited the area many times. The failed Chernobyl Power Plant sits inside a restricted area known as the Exclusion Zone. Radioactive remnants continue to smolder inside the so-called sarcophagus, a concrete and steel encasement hastily erected after the accident. Only intended to be temporary, it is leaky and structurally unsound. If it gives way, it will shake loose enough radioactivity to cause a second disaster of similar magnitude.
Now a New Safe Confinement is being constructed, estimated to cost 2 billion dollars. The 29,000 ton metal arc is 350 feet high and 850 feet across and will slide over the reactor to lock in the 200 tons of molten nuclear fuel rods, keeping the lethal remnants from endangering the globe. As I recently learned, its completion date has been pushed back because of lack of funding due to the conflict in Ukraine.
On assignment for National Geographic Magazine, I ventured deeper into the reactor than any western still photographer. After donning my protective gear, state-of-the-art Geiger counter, dosimeters and an extra layer of 3-4 mm thick plastic overalls, I followed a group of six workers into the belly of the beast. The workers, who were assigned to drill holes in the concrete to stabilize the roof, wore gas masks and oxygen tanks. We had to move fast. The radiation levels in this area are so high that, despite our protective gear, access was limited to a maximum of 15 minutes per day.
It was the most challenging photographic situation I’ve ever encountered. The space was dark, loud, and claustrophobic. Near the deserted control room where the fatal mistake occurred, other masked workers passed us like specters in the dark. This ghostly encounter was only a prelude to the palpable anxiety as we rushed through dimly lit tunnels strewn with wires, pieces of shredded metal and other debris. I struggled not to trip. While photographing, I needed to dodge the spray of sparks from the drillers in highly contaminated concrete dust, and I knew that I had less than 15 minutes to capture images of an environment that few have ever seen, and that I might never access again. The adrenaline surge was extraordinary. To exacerbate the situation, just halfway through the allotted shift, our Geiger counters and dosimeters began beeping – an eerie concert reminding us that our time was up. In these challenging last few minutes, torn between my natural instincts to survive and my desire as a photographer to stay longer, it was challenging to stay focused and work efficiently and fast, but without haste. In a situation like this, it is mandatory that I can fully trust my equipment.
In the 1970s, the town of Pripyat, less than 3 kilometers away from the reactor, was constructed for the plant’s personnel. Once a beautiful town by Soviet standards, its 50,000 inhabitants were evacuated only 36 hours after the accident. Today a chilling ghost town, its buildings bear witness to the hasty departure. I found dolls scattered on the floors of abandoned kindergartens and children’s cots littered with shreds of mattresses and pillows. Now, nearly three decades after the catastrophe, nature reclaims the town: trees grow through broken windows, and grass pushes up through the cracks in dormant roads – but the town remains unfit for human habitation for hundreds of years to come.
On several occasions I spent time with some of the few hundred elderly people who have returned to their village homes inside the Exclusion Zone. Ignoring radiation levels, they wish to die on their own contaminated soil instead of a broken heart in anonymous city suburbs.
An estimated 800,000 liquidators participated in containing the reactor and the gargantuan clean-up efforts following the nuclear catastrophe. Many of those I photographed received high doses of radiation, resulting in cancers and other exposure-induced diseases, still flaring up decades after the event.
70 percent of the fallout drifted into southern Belarus, contaminating nearly a quarter of the country. Even though the government is downplaying the role of Chernobyl, scientists who dare to speak openly see a clear connection between the health problems and the radioactivity released by the disaster. In Minsk I documented the despair of those suffering from thyroid cancers. International charities fund several institutions for mentally and physically disabled children. Women exposed to the fallout as children have now reached childbearing age. I witnessed mothers giving birth in fear. Their worry is how radiation may have affected their genes, afraid to have babies with congenital defects. While some in the scientific community question that such results are directly attributable to the disaster, noted scientist Alexei Okeanov has described the health effects of the accident as ‘a fire that can’t be put out in our lifetimes’.
As engaged photographers, we often report about human tragedies in the face of disaster, and take our cameras to uncharted areas with the understanding that our explorations are not without personal risk. We do this out of a deep commitment to important stories told on behalf of otherwise voiceless victims. While covering this story, I met many courageous people who allowed me to expose their suffering solely in the hope that tragedies like Chernobyl may be prevented in the future. In light of Fukushima, my project also is a reminder that accidents like Chernobyl are a possible outcome of nuclear power – anytime, anywhere. Ultimately, it stands a warning to future generations of the deadly consequences of human hubris.
All photographs and text ©Gerd Ludwig, for use on the Adorama Learning Center
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The Long Shadow of Chernobyl “This book…. documents the worst nuclear disaster in history with sobering but stunning images,” writes John Vidal in The Guardian.Opening with an essay by Mikhail Gorbachev, the last head of state of the Soviet Union, quotes from Svetlana Alexievich, and (until recently classified) documents from the CIA, Department of Defense and others, it is also an important voice in the political, environmental and economic debate about nuclear energy. It was named the 2015 Photo Book of the Year by POYi. Signed copies are available from hiswebsite(http://www.gerdludwig.com/store/). Gerd Ludwig Essay by Mikhail Gorbachev 11×12 inches, 252 Pages, 123 Photographs English, German, French Hardcover, Slipcase Published by Edition Lammerhuber, Baden, Österreich ISBN 978-3-901753-66-4 |
