Not a Cyprus thing, per se, I know but what I found to be an interesting article on the 1986 disaster. A lot of ordinary folk heroism then but a damning indictment of the Government.
It's paywalled, so I have to post it all:
"Experts say only 49 people died during the Chernobyl explosion. Others closer to the disaster put the number at a devastating 150,000. In a new book, Kate Brown goes behind the scenes and discovers widespread cover-ups
At 01:23:48 on 26 April, 1986, 17 employees of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant were on shift. To carry out a routine experiment, they turned off Reactor No 4’s emergency system, which was, in any case, too slow to prevent an accident. As the operators finished the test, they planned to take the reactor offline for several weeks of routine maintenance.
But on shutdown, the chain reaction in the reactor core went ‘critical’, meaning operators no longer controlled it. The reactor’s power surged. The operators would remember how the thick concrete walls wobbled, plaster rained down and the lights went out.
They heard a human-sounding moan as the reactor bolted and then popped. The blast tossed up a concrete lid, the size of a cruise ship, flipping it over to expose the molten-hot core inside. A few seconds later, a more powerful second explosion sent a geyser of radioactive gases into the Ukrainian night. Plant worker Sasha Yuvchenko felt the thudding concussions and looked up from the machine hall to see nothing but sky. He watched a blue stream of ionising radiation careening toward the heavens. ‘I remember,’ he later reflected, ‘thinking how beautiful it was.’
Photojournalist Igor Kostin risked his life to take photos of men in lead aprons, shoulders down, rushing to extinguish the radioactive inferno. Kostin’s black-and-white images do not show the men’s spooky pallor. High doses of radiation cause spasms in surface capillaries of the skin so that faces look strangely white, as if powdered for the stage.
The accident drew hundreds, then thousands, and finally hundreds of thousands of people towards the disaster zone. Helicopter pilots navigated overhead, dropping 2,400 tons of sand, lead and boron on the reactor to try to snuff out smouldering embers. One helicopter clipped a crane and crashed, killing four men. Soldiers took turns racing on to the roof of reactor No 3 to shovel off the graphite innards of the blown reactor.
Miners tunnelled 90ft under the melted core to build a protective wall. Construction workers created dams to hold back the radioactive Pripyat River. Suspecting sabotage, KGB investigators rifled through filing cabinets, computer records and the minds of survivors dying on their hospital beds. On 27 April, army officers escorted 44,500 residents from the nearby city of Pripyat. In the next two weeks they resettled 75,000 more people from a surrounding 18-mile belt, which was renamed the ‘Zone of Alienation’.
But General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev and his advisers did not warn people to stay indoors during the emergency. Photos of families in Kiev, 95 miles south, enjoying the sunny May Day holiday a week after the accident now appear cruelly sardonic. The day before the holiday, radiation levels spiked suddenly in Kiev to 30 mSv/hr (microsieverts per hour), which was more than 100 times higher than pre-accident background levels.
The festivities went ahead as planned on orders from Moscow. The parade lasted all day, as flank after flank of schoolchildren marched, keeping step to the music of brass horns. They carried portraits of leaders they were taught to venerate and trust. The newsreels of the May holiday did not record the actions of two-and-a-half million lungs, inhaling and exhaling, working like a giant organic filter. Half of the radioactive substances Kievans inhaled were retained by their bodies. Plants in the lovely, tree-lined city scrubbed the air of ionising radiation. When the leaves fell later that autumn, they needed to be treated as radioactive waste.
On 6 May, Soviet officials broadcast to the world they had put out the raging fire in the reactor core. ‘The danger is over,’ they announced. That was not true. Classified records show that radioactive gases poured from the disaster site for another week, spiking on 11 May. Soviet officials estimated that three to six per cent of the core vaporised into the air and dropped about 50 million curies of fallout on the surrounding environment. A later study conducted after the USSR collapsed estimated that 29 per cent of the fuel burnt up in the fire for a total closer to 200 million curies of radiation dispersed into the environment. The radioactivity released was 400 times greater than from the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.
Three months after the accident, the Ukrainian Ministry of Health issued 5,000 copies of a pamphlet addressed to ‘residents of communities exposed to radioactive fallout from the Chernobyl atomic station’. The pamphlet, speaking directly to the reader (‘you’), begins with assurances.
Dear Comrades!
Since the accident at the Chernobyl power plant, there has been a detailed analysis of the radioactivity of the food and territory of your population point. The results show that living and working in your village will cause no harm to adults or children. The main portion of radioactivity has decayed. You have no reason to limit your consumption of local agricultural produce.
If villagers read beyond the first page, they found that the confident tone trailed off:
Please follow these guidelines:
– Do not include in your diet berries and mushrooms gathered this year.
– Children should not enter the forest beyond the village.
– Limit fresh greens. Do not consume local meat and milk.
– Wash down homes regularly.
– Remove topsoil from the garden and bury it in specially prepared graves far from the village.
– Better to give up the milk cow and keep pigs instead.
The pamphlet is actually a survival manual, one that is unique in human history. Earlier nuclear accidents had left people living on territory contaminated with radioactive fallout, but never before Chernobyl had a state been forced to admit publicly to the problem and issue instructions on how to live in a new, post-nuclear reality.
Thirty years on, I picked my way around the ‘beware falling bricks’ sign and went into the Central Ukrainian State Archive in Kiev. Not a lot had changed in the archive since I had last worked there 20 years ago, researching my first book – the same worn, parquet floors, sickly green walls and oriental runner. I asked the woman at the reception desk for public health records on Chernobyl and she laughed. ‘Chernobyl was a banned topic in the Soviet period. You won’t find anything.’
Flipping through the large catalogue, I quickly identified whole collections labelled in plain Ukrainian, ‘On the Medical Consequences of the Chernobyl Disaster’. She didn’t know about these records because no one had ever asked for them before. The papers, hundreds of them, contained medical and farm records, statistical reports, transcripts of meetings, official correspondence, petitions and letters.
I soon came across a document that left me bewildered. It was a petition requesting ‘liquidator status’ for 298 people who worked in a wool factory in the northern Ukrainian city of Chernihiv. ‘Liquidator’ was a term reserved for people who received significant doses of radioactivity while employed to clean up the Chernobyl accident. I was confounded. How could wool workers, most of them women, in a quiet ‘clean’ town 50 miles from the accident have been liquidators? I drove to Chernihiv to find out more.
Chernihiv, a medieval city of golden cupolas sitting high on a precipice overlooking the Desna River, is too beautiful to be a stage for disaster. The wool factory, dedicated to sorting and washing wool, is another matter. The plant consisted of a dozen large, brick buildings shot through with railroad tracks. It looked like it hadn’t been touched up much since the 1930s.
I and my colleague Olha Martynyuk started asking questions at the manager’s office. The current factory owner called up a factory old-timer, Tamara Haiduk, a retired shift supervisor. She said that in June 1986, the factory was operating at full capacity. Every spring after the annual shearing, 21,000 tons of wool arrived at the loading dock from all over Ukraine.
To manage the deluge, she had three shifts going around the clock, everyone working 12 hours, seven days a week. ‘Very stressful work,’ Haiduk remembered. ‘Two hundred trucks and train cars would be backed up, waiting to unload.’
I asked about radioactive wool. ‘Some wool came in from contaminated areas,’ Haiduk said in a matter-of-fact way, ‘and two dock workers had nosebleeds. Another man, a buyer, felt nauseous. So we called up Moscow. Moscow sent a commission. They measured and we changed our process. After that, any wool that measured over [10 mSv/hr], we pulled off the line and stored it.’
Sometime in the autumn of 1987, Haiduk recalled accompanying a dozen drivers to bury the most radioactive wool in an evacuated village inside the Zone of Alienation. ‘That was it. After 1987, hardly any wool was radioactive,’ she said.
Others recalled it differently. When I asked if we could see the factory’s production line, a woman named Tamara Kot showed up to give us a tour. As soon as we were out of earshot, Kot started talking and her story differed disturbingly from Haiduk’s account.
‘I came to work here in 1986. A year later, my friend got diagnosed with leukaemia. She died soon after that. I think she got sick from the radioactive dust we breathed in. All the dock workers and the drivers, those guys are all dead. They got dosed.’
We climbed the stairs into a dark, cavernous room where women, in blue smocks and masks, stood over tables of wire mesh pulling apart great wads of dirty wool. The women stopped on seeing us enter and gathered around the list I held out. ‘That’s my name and this is Svetlana here. That’s Maria.’ They were the ‘liquidators’ I had found in the Kiev archives. Of 200 women on the list, these 10 were the only ones left."