Tag Archives: Chernobyl

Coming of (Nuclear) Age

On August 6, 1945, at 8:15 a.m. local time, the first atomic bomb used in warfare exploded over Hiroshima, Japan. Three days later, a second atomic bomb detonated over Nagasaki. Historians and pundits continue to debate the utility and morality of this launching of the “nuclear age.”

No one was sure ahead of time what the bombs’ impact would be. Within a week of the second drop, Japan had surrendered, its emperor announcing the end of the war over the radio. At least 100,000 mostly civilian deaths occurred during the first few days after the attacks. Over the next months, some survivors developed mysterious sets of sometimes lethal symptoms. These got grouped into a generic category, “radiation sickness.”  Longer term, cancer rates among survivors remained higher than among non-exposed populations, with leukemia deaths peaking several years after exposure, and deaths from cancerous tumors, “solid cancers,” showing up later. 

In 1945, if Americans thought at all about the implications of nuclear warfare, their musings were likely tinged with relief that this costly, horrific war was finally over. Surviving soldiers and sailors could begin returning home; families could begin reconstituting peacetime lives. Those who’d lost loved ones during the war could mourn, console each other, gain some sort of closure. Few outside the scientific community were ready to consider what a nuclear-armed and/or nuclear-enabled world might become. 

As the longer-term damage of nuclear radiation became clearer, public opinion changed. John Hersey’s lengthy article about the bomb’s impact on Hiroshima was important in advancing the transition. Hersey had spent several weeks in the springtime of 1946 interviewing A-bomb survivors in person. The resulting article filled the entire August 31, 1946 issue of The New Yorker. His piece was widely disseminated via print and radio. It was published in book form as Hiroshima. Hersey provided extensive profiles of six survivors: a personnel clerk, a private clinic doctor, a tailor’s widow who was mother to two young children, a German Jesuit priest, a Red Cross Hospital surgeon, and a Japanese born Methodist pastor, Kiyoshi Tanimoto. Hersey’s writing captured the human toll of the bombing in ways that photos, films, and statistics had not. One scene that especially moved me, generations later, was an interaction between Pastor Tanimoto and a dying neighbor: 

“After five days of ministering to the wounded in [Asano] park, Mr. Tanimoto returned to his parsonage… While he was at work, a Miss Tanaka came and said that her father had been asking for him. Mr. Tanimoto had reason to hate her father, the retired shipping company official who, …[j]ust before the bombing, had said openly to several people that Mr. Tanimoto was a spy for the Americans. At the moment of the bombing, Mr. Tanaka had … received serious flash burns, but was able to walk home. He took refuge in his Neighborhood Association shelter and from there tried hard to get medical aid. He expected all the doctors of Hiroshima to come to him, because he was so rich and so famous for giving his money away. … Now he was very weak and knew he was going to die. He was willing to be comforted by any religion. 

Mr. Tanimoto went to help him. …The old man smelled very bad, and he moaned constantly. He seemed to recognize Mr. Tanimoto. Standing at the shelter stairway to get light, Mr. Tanimoto read loudly from a Japanese language pocket Bible. … Mr. Tanaka died as Mr. Tanimoto read the psalm.” 

When World War II ended, the U.S. had a monopoly on nuclear weapons, but this ascendancy did not last long. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), using its own technology plus information from spies, developed its nuclear capacity and successfully detonated an atomic bomb in August, 1949. The nuclear arms race was on. It has not yet ended. 

In December of 1953, U.S. president Dwight D. Eisenhower gave a speech at the United Nations lamenting the increasingly expensive nuclear arms race and its potential for widespread harm. He suggested the possibility of peaceful uses for atomic energy. In this “Atoms for Peace” speech, Eisenhower urged the development and advancement of civilian uses for atomic energy. His talk was part of the effort that eventually led to the creation of the International Atomic Energy Agency in 1957. 

At the time Eisenhower gave his talk, the USSR had constructed the world’s first nuclear power plant in Obninsk, the “science city.” Completed in 1951, the plant was connected to the electric power grid in 1954. The first nuclear plant in the U.S. came online in 1958 in Pennsylvania. Since then, enthusiasm for nuclear energy has waxed and waned. Three highly publicized nuclear power plant disasters—Three Mile Island in the U.S. in 1979, Chernobyl in the then USSR in 1986, and Fukushima in Japan in 2011—have slowed or reversed the impetus toward wider use of civilian nuclear energy. Several countries who formerly used nuclear reactors have phased them out. Australia and Ireland now explicitly forbid nuclear power plants. 

As of 2026, there are eight acknowledged nuclear-armed nations: the United States, Russia, the United Kingdom (England), France, China, India, Pakistan, and North Korea. It is widely supposed that Israel possesses nuclear arms, though Israel does not explicitly admit it. The current conflict between the United States and Iran is characterized in part as an effort to prevent Iran from acquiring a nuclear weapon. 

Also as of 2026, per the trade group world-nuclear.org, civilian nuclear power produces about 10% of global electricity from over 400 reactors in 31 countries. (At its maximum, prior to both Fukushima and the increasing use of renewables, nuclear energy had produced about 17% of the world’s electricity.) Though the U.S. has the largest capacity, it is France that generates the highest proportion of its electric power through nuclear energy—65%.

By this year’s anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing, nearly all of its survivors will have died, either from radiation-related illnesses or from old age. Some of the few living hibakusha continue to advocate for the abolition of nuclear weapons, though the memory of their long ago catastrophe often gets sidelined by more current global problems.    

Yet the “nuclear genie” unleashed in 1945 cannot be put back in the bottle. The potential for both military and civilian uses of nuclear energy will be with us for at least as long as humans exist on earth. Will we come of nuclear age in time to use nuclear energy wisely?

My Granny’s Knitting

Until I was eleven years old, I lived with my parents in a family compound, with my maternal grandparents next door. Until age four, I was an only child. Then, during the post-World-War-II baby boom, my three siblings were born over the course of twenty months. While my mom and dad were busiest—mom caring for my younger sister and twin brothers, dad building a fledgeling small business, both of them scrimping and saving up for a larger house—there were several years in the mid-1950’s when “Granny” became my frequent caregiver. 

Granny taught me piano, encouraging me to practice daily on the tuned used upright at her house—as our family grew to four children, our small cottage threatened to burst at the seams and had no room for a piano. Granny also taught me to knit. I noticed that on social occasions, Granny often proudly wore a Red Cross lapel pin that identified her as a World War II “knit your bit” volunteer. She and others like her had knit warm sweaters, hats, and socks for Allied soldiers, both those at the front and the wounded in hospitals. 

During the years when she was teaching me knitting basics, Granny was still knitting warm socks and caps for the Red Cross, probably to be shipped to World War II refugees in Europe. As the 1950’s gave way to the 1960’s, the need for Granny’s knitting diminished. Arthritis eventually put an end to her handicraft efforts. I don’t know what happened to Granny’s lapel pin, but recent events have got me to thinking about her knitting again. 

The February 24, 2022 invasion of Ukraine by Russian troops plus threats of nuclear escalation by Russia’s president Putin have struck a nerve for many. They remind me of a previous nuclear stand-off—the Cuban missile crisis. In the fall of 1962, as I entered high school, the U.S. and the Soviet Union (U.S.S.R.), which included the current country of Russia, engaged in a tense stand-off about the deployment of nuclear-armed Soviet missiles in Cuba, just 90 miles from Florida. At the time, the U.S. had stationed nuclear missiles in Turkey, near the southern border of the U.S.S.R. Many adults around me worried about the possibility of an exchange of nuclear arms. The widespread destruction and the ongoing aftereffects of the nuclear bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki showed that nuclear weapons strikes could obliterate entire U.S. cities. They could also contaminate with long-term nuclear fallout the Maryland countryside where I lived. After a tense couple of weeks, the 1962 crisis was resolved peacefully, with the removal of missiles from both Cuba and Turkey. 

Mr. Putin’s threat to again use nuclear weapons raises the specter of human-induced annihilation. It’s also scary that the site of one of the world’s worst nuclear accidents so far, at Chernobyl, is in northern Ukraine. Escape of radioactivity from that partially hardened reactor might be an ancillary result of ongoing hostilities.  

It now makes more sense to me why Granny did her knitting, and why her Red Cross pin was so special to her. Granny was born in rural Virginia in 1879, when the area where her family lived was still struggling to rebuild after the U.S. Civil War. She lived in various parts of the U.S. before relocating to central Maryland with her husband and growing family about 1915. In April, 1917, when the U.S. entered “the Great War,” Granny was pregnant with my mom. For much of the Great Depression of the 1930’s, Granny became the prime family breadwinner, heading the housekeeping department at a Baltimore luxury hotel. 

When war again broke out in Europe in 1939, Granny worried about the draft status of her only son. She followed news reports closely. I’m not sure how early in the conflict Granny began knitting for the Red Cross, but I think she produced warm wear for soldiers and then civilians for much of World War II and its aftermath.  

Last weekend I attended a local rally in support of Ukraine. It was a sunny day in San Diego. War seemed distant. Lots of attendees waved Ukrainian flags, carried bouquets of sunflowers, hoisted hand-lettered signs decrying the Russian government’s aggression, expressing hopes for a speedy end to the killing. Several speakers explained, in Ukrainian, Russian or accented English, that there was no quarrel between the peoples of the two countries, just lethal aggression instigated largely by Mr. Putin.

By now, I too am a “granny.” It’s a continuing joy to watch our two grandchildren grow toward adulthood. Soon, if all goes well, I’ll have three additional step-grandchildren and a third biological grandchild. Since this past weekend’s rally, I’ve arranged further donations to charities working with refugees fleeing the fighting. I’m intensifying my charitable efforts more locally, also reaching out to friends and acquaintances with ties to Ukraine. I’m searching for ways to be more effective in reducing the suffering caused by this senseless war. I’m recalling Granny’s knitting with a renewed sense of respect.  

On to Kyiv, and Then What?

Like many globally in this media-saturated world, I’m distressed about the ongoing invasion of Ukraine by its larger neighbor Russia. For weeks, we’ve seen reports of a buildup of Russian troops and military equipment along the borders with Ukraine. Now it seems that troops and equipment are on the move and a full-scale invasion has started. The aim, as nearly all American pundits and experts tell us, is to topple the existing Ukrainian government and to install a regime more to Russia’s liking. 

This is a scenario that has played out countless times throughout history by whatever superior military power desired to dominate its neighbor(s). The United States of America has not been immune to using such tactics, despite our protestations of “spreading democracy,” and so on. 

Problems can arise in the aftermath of a military conquest, as we’ve seen most recently and tragically in contemporary Afghanistan. Conquering and governing are two rather different domains. Once a new regime gets installed, who repairs the infrastructure that’s been damaged or destroyed during the conquest?  Who provides the basic necessities—food, clothing, shelter—to a cowed, needy, and probably sullen civilian population?  Who firms up borders and stems the outflow of brain and talent of those eager and able to leave? Who works to reduce the likelihood that resentments will fester and eventually result in further armed conflicts when the balance of military power shifts?  

I’ve never traveled in Ukraine. Prior to the current war, my main point of reference to Ukraine was the 1986 nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl, a now-decommissioned power plant near the Ukrainian/Russian border, about 70 miles from Kyiv. Much earlier, I was taught courses in Russian language and culture by a college professor who’d escaped from Ukraine during the final days of World War II. When “Dr. K.” taught us, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was near its height, the Cold War was raging, and the availability of non-official information about conditions in any socialist republic was severely limited. As our language facility in Russian improved, Dr. K. showed us articles from the Soviet press that glorified the Soviet state without mentioning any possible problems. 

An ancillary point of reference to things Ukrainian: I’d learned to recognize a musical piece, “The Great Gate of Kiev.” I liked the somewhat ponderous music, but didn’t make much effort to visualize an actual gate. It turns out that there was not actually a “great gate” when composer Modest Mussorgsky wrote his piece during the late 19th century. The Kiev-related piece was the final composition of a suite called “Pictures at an Exhibition” that featured an artist’s rendering of what a memorial gate might look like. It would have celebrated the survival of Tsar Alexander II after a failed 1866 assassination attempt. In much earlier times, there had been a gate, erected during the 11th century reign of Yaroslav the Wise as part of city fortifications. (Per the sources I referenced, an actual memorial gate was reconstructed in Kyiv in 1982 by a then-waning USSR.)  

The impulse to conquest seems to be part of our human heritage, from the earliest cave dweller with a bigger club, through the desolation wrought by 1940’s era fire bombings and atomic bombs, through the 1990’s Rwandan genocide conducted mostly with machetes, plus all the other “more conventional” weaponry used before and since. If we are to survive as a species, it seems to me that we need to cultivate more assiduously a countervailing impulse to nurture. The members of the military I know best and most admire are much more eager to assist after natural or man-made disasters than they are eager for combat and conquest. The ongoing disaster of our current global viral pandemic, plus the slower-moving planet-wide disaster that is climate change, can use all our ingenuity and empathy. These and other disasters call out for the greatest exercise of our nurturing sides that we can muster. 

If or when Kyiv “falls,” then what?