On one of my trips to Belarus, I traveled to a dead zone not far from Gomel, which is northeast of Chernobyl. (A “dead zone” is an area where radiation levels are so high that it is military closed; officially no one is allowed to live in a dead zone.) With me were Adi Roche, president of the Chernobyl Children’s Project in Ireland; Julia, our translator; Valentina, our guide and the founder of Children in Trouble, an organization that aids over 600 children from the region with cancer; and a driver. Valentina wanted us to visit Berolomenko, one of the last remaining villages in the dead zone.
As we drove, our Geiger counter spiked higher, from ten roentgen in Minsk to forty in Gomel to 121 as we neared our destination. (I was told that five is considered safe.) Soon we saw the remnants of Berolomenko. The houses were in various stages of decay and destruction; the vegetation was dead. “They are destroying the village,” said Valentina. “The government is burying it. The radiation is dangerous, and they want no reminders left of the tragedy. One day you will not know there were villages here. And then, when all the reminders are gone, they will open this area again.” As we walked down the road, I knew we were witnessing the death of a village and of the life that had been here for centuries. I imagined the laughter of children in the now vacated, littered yards, of boys and girls playing hide-and-seek among the shrubbery that was now dead.
 The last couple living in Berolomenko |
Around a curve we saw a few houses still intact. They were quaint, with brightly painted traditional shutters and the fences I had grown to love in Belarus. Twelve hundred families had lived in this village, but no more than fifty houses remained.
An elderly couple appeared on the road, and Valentina introduced us. “These are the only two people left in the village. They refuse to leave.” We were anxious to depart Berolomenko; we had been exposed to the radiation for too long. But we were fascinated by this couple who were so happy to see us. They invited us into their home.
The house was lit by kerosene lamps and warmed by fire. It was like a fairyland house, filled with photos and religious shrines. In a second room, the furniture and windows and tables were covered with crocheted lace that the woman had made.
They offered us coffee, but we refused. They offered us fruit, but we refused. We could not risk eating the contaminated food.
Seeing their home, I understood the choice they had made to stay. I tried to picture this couple living in a small cubicle apartment, away from the land they had worked for so long. I could not imagine them dismantling this house, whose every inch carried a stamp of their life, of their children, of their history. Moving away because of the radiation would not extend their life; it would end it.
The smoke in the house from the fire caught in my throat, but I enjoyed its taste and smell. And then I became frightened. I realized that the fire was made from wood collected in the surrounding forest. I knew that wood is among the most contaminated vegetation, and that inhaling hot particles of radiation in smoke was dangerous to my lungs.
“Adi, we have to get out of here,” I whispered to my Irish colleague. The minutes stretched as we said goodbye. Finally we were outside.
The ride back toward Gomel was silent. We were tired and cold, and we were afraid. I had been involved with the Chernobyl disaster for many years, but now, for the first time, I was truly in awe of its destructive power and mesmerized by its horror.
Chernobyl had caught up to me. I was prepared to help its victims, but now I feared that I had become one of them.