After
the Nazi Holocaust, the world accepted oral histories as the evidence of what
had occurred. This only seems natural, and it is easy to imagine the uproar
that would ensue if public intellectuals and United Nations agencies suddenly
declared that these oral histories were unreliable or based on a misunderstanding
of the true causes of the suffering. However, when it comes to Chernobyl, Fukushima,
and other nuclear disasters, oral history gets dismissed as ‘anecdotal,’ or motivated
by a desire to gain status as a compensated victim. In spite of all the
official neglect of the victims, there are a few good collections of oral
histories in books and documentary films. In these, hundreds of witnesses all
tell similar accounts that contradict the official conclusions.
One of
the best oral histories was Voices from
Chernobyl, compiled by Svetlana Alexievich in the 1990s and translated into
English in 2005. To commemorate the 28th anniversary of the catastrophe, I’ve
collected a few excerpts below, but they really don’t do justice to the full
impact of reading the whole book. Most of these voices belong to the
liquidators, the 700,000 people from all over the Soviet Union who were
conscripted into various tasks related not only to taming the reactor but also
to “cleaning up” and evacuating the exclusion zone, and many of these jobs ended
up being absurd and desperate rites of decontamination and dispossession in a
world where “the Apocalypse met the Stone Age.” (p.87) The work was lubricated
with a flood of alcohol that turned the zone into a black market with a vodka
currency, and this itself invites the question whether it was an official ploy
to make sure that the veterans of the Battle of Chernobyl would fade away into
alcoholism before their problems could be clearly linked to radiation.
What is
apparent from reading their accounts is that the rate of death and disease was
much higher than the official studies ever admitted. To this day, the World
Health Organization supports the view expressed in this statement:
According to UNSCEAR (2000), 134
liquidators received radiation doses high enough to be diagnosed with acute
radiation sickness (ARS). Among them, 28 persons died in 1986 due to ARS. Other
liquidators have since died but their deaths could not necessarily be
attributed to radiation exposure.
Voices from Chernobyl
There you are: a normal person. A
little person. You’re just like everyone else--you go to work, you return from
work. You get an average salary. Once a year you go on vacation. You’re a
normal person! And then one day you’re turned into a Chernobyl person, an
animal that everyone is interested in, and that no one knows anything about.
You want to be like everyone else, and now you can’t. People look at you
differently. They ask you: Was it scary? How did that station burn? What did
you see? And, you know, can you have children? Did your wife leave you? At
first we were all turned into animals. The very word “Chernobyl” is like a
signal. Everyone turns their head to look. He’s from there! (p. 31)
There’s a note on the door: “Dear
Kind Person, please don’t look for valuables here. We never had any. Use
whatever you want, but don’t trash the place. We’ll be back.” I saw signs on
other houses in different colors—“Dear house, forgive us!” People said goodbye
to their homes like they were people. Or they’d written: “we’re leaving in the
morning,” or “we’re leaving at night,” and they’d put the date and even the
time. There were notes written on school notebook paper: “Don’t beat the cat.
Otherwise the rats will eat everything.” And then in a child’s handwriting:
“Don’t kill our Zhulka. She’s a good cat.” I’ve forgotten everything. I only
remember that I went there, and after that I don’t remember anything. I forgot
all of it. I can’t count money. My memory’s not right. The doctors can’t
understand it. I go from hospital to hospital. But this sticks in my head:
you’re walking up to the house, thinking the house is empty, and you open the
door and there’s this cat. That, and those kids’ notes. (p.36-37)
We started thinking about it—I guess
it must have been—three years later. One of the guys got sick, then another.
Someone died. Another went insane and killed himself. That’s when we started
thinking. But we’ll really only understand it in about 20-30 years. For me,
Afghanistan (I was there two years) and then Chernobyl (I was there three
months), are the most memorable moments of my life. (p.39)
We came home. I took off all the
clothes that I’d worn there and threw them down the trash chute. I gave my cap
to my little son. He really wanted it. And he wore it all the time. Two years
later they gave him a diagnosis: a tumor in his brain… You can write the rest
of this yourself. I don’t want to talk anymore. (p.40)
There were already jokes. Guy comes
home from work, says to his wife, “They told me that tomorrow I either go to
Chernobyl or hand in my Party card.” “But you’re not in the Party.” “Right, so
I’m wondering: how do I get a Party card by tomorrow morning?” (p. 44)
After Chernobyl you can eat anything
you want, but you have to bury your shit in a lead box… The prayer of the
Chernobyl liquidator: Dear Lord, since you made it so that I can’t, will you
please also make it so that I don’t want to? (p.48)
We’re lonely. We’re strangers here.
They even bury us separately, not like they do other people. It’s like we’re
aliens from outer space. I’d have been better off dying in Afghanistan. Honest,
I get thoughts like that. In Afghanistan death was a normal thing. You could
understand it there.
(p. 50)
I’ve wondered why everyone was
silent about Chernobyl, why our writers weren’t writing much about it--they
write about the war, the camps, but here they’re silent. Why? Do you think it’s
an accident? If we’d beaten Chernobyl, people would talk about it and write
about it more. Or if we’d understood Chernobyl. But we don’t know how to
capture the meaning from it. We can’t place it in our human experience or our
human time-frame.
So what’s better, to remember or to
forget? (p. 86)
A group of scientists flew in on a
helicopter. In special rubber suits, tall boots, protective goggles. Like they
were going to the moon. This old woman comes up to one of them and says, “Who
are you?” “I’m a scientist.” “Oh, a scientist. Look how he’s dressed up! Look
at that mask! And what about us?” And she goes after him with a stick. I’ve
thought a few times that someday they’re going to start hunting the scientists
the way they used to hunt the doctors and drown them in the Middle Ages. (p.88)
The book
finishes with a long, heartbreaking testimony entitled A Solitary Human Voice, that of Valentina Panasevich, who lost her
husband to cancer after he returned from work as a
liquidator. If you think you ever loved someone with complete devotion, Valentina
might put you to shame. Chernobyl is a tale from the end of the Cold War and
the end of the communist system in the USSR. It was the end of an age when
people were expected to surrender their private life to ideology and sometimes
even die for it. It is stunning to hear Valentina’s voice, a product of this
era, speaking with total obliviousness and contempt for ideology and the
projects of state: a fitting rebuke to the system that caused the tragedy, and a fitting affirmation of the primacy of the individual to conclude this book. Love is all there is. There was nothing for Valentina besides her love for her husband.
She told the historian Alexievich:
In school, all the girls dreamt of going
to university or on a Komsomol [Communist Youth League] work trip, but I dreamt
of getting married. I wanted to love. To love strongly, like Natasha Rostov [in
War and Peace]. Just to love. But I couldn’t tell anyone
about it, because back then you were only supposed to dream of the Komsomol
construction trip. (p.223)
In the final pages of the book, Valentina recounts how she met her husband and cared
for him during his slow decline after he returned from conscripted duty at
Chernobyl. Like so many of the preceding testimonies, her account describes how
it was common knowledge among the people that the radiation had taken far more
lives, and far more of a toll on the health and DNA of the victims, than were ever
officially admitted:
One time I managed to get an
ambulance. It arrives with a young doctor. He comes over and right away
staggers back. “Excuse me, he’s not from Chernobyl [a liquidator], is he?” I
say, “Yes.” And he, I’m not exaggerating, he cries out, “Dear woman, then let
this end quickly! Quickly! I’ve seen how the ones from Chernobyl die.”
Meanwhile, my husband is conscious, he hears this. At least he doesn’t know, he
hasn’t guessed, that he is the last one from his brigade still alive. (p.229)
Further
reading:
"Svetlana Alexievich wins 2015 Nobel prize in literature," The Guardian, October 8, 2015.
"Svetlana Alexievich wins 2015 Nobel prize in literature," The Guardian, October 8, 2015.
One of
the more compelling testimonies from Voices
from Chernobyl (not excerpted above) was
published in full in The Paris Review,Winter 2004.
Alla Yaroshinskaya. Chernobyl: Crime without Punishment (2011).