Voices from Chernobyl

MONOLOGUE ABOUT WHY WE LOVE CHERNOBYL

It was 1986—what were we like, then? How did this technological version of the end of the world find us? We were the local intelligentsia, we had our own circle. We lived our own lives, staying far away from everything around us. It was the form our protest took. We had our own rules: we didn’t read the newspaper Pravda, but we handed the magazine Ogonyok from hand to hand. They had just loosened the reins a little, and we were drinking it all in. We read Solzhenitsyn, Shalamov, went to each other’s houses, had endless talks in the kitchen. We wanted something more from life. What? Somewhere there were movie actors—Catherine Deneuve—in a beret. We wanted freedom. Some people from our circle fell apart, drank themselves away, some people made a career for themselves, joined the Party. No one thought this regime could crumble. And if that’s how it was, we thought, if it was going to last forever, then the hell with everyone. We’ll just live here in our own little world.

Chernobyl happened, and at first we had the same kind of reaction. What’s it to us? Let the authorities worry about it. That’s their duty—Chernobyl. And it’s far away. We didn’t even look on the map. We didn’t even need to know the truth, at that point.

But when they put labels on the milk that said, “For children,” and “For adults”—that was a different story. That was a bit closer to home. All right, I’m not a member of the Party, but I still live here. And we became afraid. “Why are the radish leaves this year so much like beet leaves?” You turned on the television, they were saying, “Don’t listen to the provocations of the West!” and that’s when you knew for sure.

And the May Day parade? No one forced us to go—no one forced me to go there. We all had a choice and we failed to make it. I don’t remember a more crowded, cheerful May Day parade. Everyone was worried, they wanted to become part of the herd—to be with others. People wanted to curse someone, the authorities, the government, the Communists. Now I think back, looking for the break. Where was it? But it was before that. We didn’t even want to know the truth. We just wanted to know if we should eat the radish.

I was an engineer at the Khimvolokno factory. There was a group of East German specialists there at the time, putting in new equipment. I saw how other people, from another culture, behaved. When they learned about the accident, they immediately demanded medical attention, dosimeters, and a controlled food supply. They listened to the German radio programs and knew what to do. Of course, they were denied all their requests. So they immediately packed their bags and got ready to leave. Buy us tickets! Send us home! If you can’t provide for our safety, we’re leaving. They protested, sent telegrams to their government. They were fighting for their wives, their kids, they had come here with their families, they were fighting for their lives! And us? How did we behave? Oh, those Germans, they’re all so nicely taken care of, they’re all so arrogant—they’re hysterical! They’re cowards! They’re measuring the radiation in the borsch, in the ground meat. What a joke! Now, our men, they’re real men. Real Russian men. Desperate men. They’re fighting the reactor. They’re not worried about their lives. They get up on that melting roof with their bare hands, in their canvas gloves (we’d already seen this on television). And our kids go with their flags to the demonstrations. As do the war veterans, the old guard. [Thinks.] But that’s also a form of barbarism, the absence of fear for oneself. We always say “we,” and never “I.” “We’ll show them Soviet heroism,” “we’ll show them what the Soviet character is made of.” We’ll show the whole world! But this is me, this is I. I don’t want to die. I’m afraid.

It’s interesting to watch oneself from here, watch one’s feelings. How did they develop and change? I’ve noticed that I pay more attention to the world around me. After Chernobyl, that’s a natural reaction. We’re beginning to learn to say “I.” I don’t want to die! I’m afraid.

That great empire crumbled and fell apart. First, Afghanistan, then Chernobyl. When it fell apart, we found ourselves all alone. I’m afraid to say it, but we love Chernobyl. It’s become the meaning of our lives. The meaning of our suffering. Like a war. The world found out about our existence after Chernobyl. It was our window to Europe. We’re its victims, but also its priests. I’m afraid to say it, but there it is.

Now it’s my work. I go there, and look. In the Zone the people live in fear still, in their crumbling cottages. They want Communism again. At all the elections they vote for the firm hand, they dream of Stalin’s times, military times. And they live there in a military situation: police posts, people in uniform, a pass system, rationing, and bureaucrats distributing the humanitarian aid. It says on the boxes in German and Russian: “Cannot be sold or exchanged.” But it’s sold and exchanged right next door, in every little kiosk.

And it’s like a game, like a show. I’m with a caravan of humanitarian aid and some foreigners who’ve brought it, whether in the name of Christ or something else. And outside, in the puddles and the mud in their coats and mittens is my tribe. In their cheap boots. “We don’t need anything,” their eyes seem to be saying, “it’s all going to get stolen anyway.” But also the wish to grab a bit of something, a box or crate, something from abroad. We know where all the old ladies live by now. And suddenly I have this outrageous, disgusting wish. “I’ll show you something!” I say. “You’ll never see this in Africa! You won’t see it anywhere. 200 curie, 300 curie.” I’ve noticed how the old ladies have changed, too—some of them are real actresses. They know their monologues by heart, and they cry in all the right spots. When the first foreigners came, the grandmas wouldn’t say anything, they’d just stand there crying. Now they know how to talk. Maybe they’ll get some extra gum for the kids, or a box of clothes. And this is right next to a deep philosophy—their relationship with death, with time. It’s not for some gum and German chocolate that they refuse to leave these peasant huts they’ve been living in their whole lives.

On the way back, the sun is setting, I say, “Look at how beautiful this land is!” The sun is illuminating the forest and the fields, bidding us farewell. “Yes,” one of the Germans who speaks Russian answers, “it’s pretty, but it’s contaminated.” He has a dosimeter in his hand. And then I understand that the sunset is only for me. This is my land. I’m the one who lives here.

Natalya Arsenyevna Roslova, head of the

Mogilev Women’s Committee for the Children of Chernobyl