The giant confinement building encapsulating the Chernobyl nuclear reactor that exploded nearly 40 years ago is smooth and curved—built with scientific precision. Installed in 2016, the structure was designed to prevent the escape of radiation from the stricken reactor, which is also encased in a smaller concrete sarcophagus. The confinement enshrouds both reactor and sarcophagus and is so massive that if you placed the Statue of Liberty inside it at its center, her torch wouldn’t come close to prodding the ceiling. But like a slightly cracked egg, this gargantuan covering has been violated. It is one of many victims in Russia’s war with Ukraine.
In February, a drone armed with explosives smashed into the confinement, leaving a 15 m2 hole. While some of the damage has been repaired, the building’s radiation-blocking abilities have been compromised, the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) confirmed earlier this month. Importantly, the IAEA also said that radiation levels in the area have not yet changed. But unless more significant repairs are carried out, the specter of a potential leak remains.
Radiation occurs naturally everywhere. It is produced by food you eat, and even by tissues in your own body. Think of it like a grand carnival of subatomic particles—including neutrons, electrons, and photons—that whizz around, always in motion, always present. An invisible world that shadows the world we can see. But the carnival is always changing and, today, we are better positioned than ever to notice fluctuations in radiation that deviate from normal, background levels.
When disaster struck Chernobyl in 1986, a huge cloud of radioactive material spread across much of Europe. It was how the world found out about the accident—when radiation monitors in eastern Sweden detected unusual activity two days after the explosion. In the wake of Chernobyl, many countries including Austria and the UK, installed radiation detectors that constantly monitor for any uptick in radioactivity. Today, some radiation-monitoring networks are run by governments, and yet more are the work of volunteers and researchers. If another major radiation incident were ever to happen, the world would discover it very, very quickly.
“The pandemic I found very terrifying, because there’s not an easy way of detecting the Covid virus,” says Kim Kearfott, professor of nuclear engineering and radiological sciences at the University of Michigan. “I can grab a detector and immediately detect radiation.” On the roof of her university building, Kearfott has an array of radiation sensors. She also has some in her lab. And in her lab’s basement. And in another building nearby. You get the idea.
The project is largely an informal one, sparked by curiosity and an absence of easily accessible public data on environmental radiation levels. “We put [this] into place after the Fukushima nuclear accident,” she says, referring to the 2011 disaster in which a huge tsunami struck the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant in Japan, which ultimately resulted in the release of significant amounts of radiation into the atmosphere.