Witnesses of the Bomb: Seven testimonies from the era of nuclear testing in French Polynesia
July 2nd, 1966 is the date when French
Polynesia became a “center for experimentation” for the French nuclear weapons
program. The nuclear tests in the South Pacific were plotted and carried out
over thirty years, premeditated with full awareness of what the consequences
could be. The French program differed from the American program in the Marshall
Islands, carried out in the 1940s and 50s, in that it was carried out in a
well-established colony of France. The Americans were newcomers when they came
to the Marshall Islands and imposed their plans for destruction on a
defenseless culture. The French nucleocrats came to Polynesia seeking the
cooperation of the territorial government which, if not for the temptations of
jobs and economic benefits brought by the CEP (Centre d’expérimentation du Pacifique en Polynésie française),
could have opposed the nuclear tests may have been able to stop them. The tests
did proceed, against the strong objections of the world and all other Pacific
Island nations, and they were carried out after the United States and the
Soviet Union had recognized the madness of atmospheric and underwater tests and
halted them in the early 1960s.
(More
about nuclear tests in Polynesia in a previous edition of only three
testimonies from July 2016).
The excerpts that follow are from a
work in progress: a translation of the thirty-three testimonies recorded in Witnesses of the Bomb, published in
French in 2013 (Témoins
de la bombe, Les éditions Univers Polynésiens, 2013). Seven of
the testimonies are included in this sneak peak of the project. The French
text, with portrait photography of the witnesses, is available online at no
cost. The translated testimonies can be re-published under Creative
Commons (Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs CC BY-NC-ND) license.
Rights are held by the publishers of the original French document.
Foreword
by Bruno Barrillot: To give meaning to things unsaid
The big bang of the bomb has not
finished propagating its waves through the Polynesian universe. There isn’t
really any scientific discourse, or even a rational discourse throughout these
thirty-three testimonies. In effect, how could one be rational when the big
bang has taken root in a nest of irrationality and denial of all humanity?
For the exhibition Witnesses of the
Bomb, Marie-Hélène Villierme and Arnaud Hudelot have, each with their own art
form, captured these Polynesian voices before they fade. In order to not
forget.
Marie-Hélène, the photographer, has
caught in these thirty-three portraits expressions of indignation in some,
resignation in others, the emotions always overlaid with modesty.
Arnaud Hudelot, the director,
effaced himself behind the testimonies of the witnesses. The videos reveal long
monologues imprinted with memories that have now escaped being lost to time.
They tell of unexplained mourning, endured in general indifference, and the
fear in which one makes a tentative explanation of a social disruption still so
poorly grasped.
This story is one of infinite
sadness! Had these words ever been uttered on the nuclear atolls, how they
could have had the power to frighten and dissuade. And still there is this bomb
which, today, some dare not call by its name: “that thing,” said Jacqueline. Or
there are still these diseases with no name which the doctors refrain from
qualifying. And there is still the remorse, barely concealed, in which some
imagine themselves still guilty for having touched the money that came from the
bomb.
There is hope, nonetheless, with
this pride in having resisted, with bare hands, one could say, the steamrolling
onslaught of a moneyed propaganda machine, with an ardent desire to construct a
memory for the generations to come.
Raymond
Pia
Raymond Pia started to work at the
CEP in 1968, and continued until 1996 when he retired. He was recruited by a
sub-contractor, Sodetra, as a welder. Later he worked various trades, but he
worked for a long time as a welder on the barges during the time of the aerial
tests then during the underground tests. Raymond described his working
conditions: “I worked there for the money. Before I signed my contract, they
said nothing at all about the job involving risks. They had us sign that we
would absolutely never say anything about what we saw. It was a state secret,
and if we talked, we risked going to prison. But as for other kinds of risk,
no, they indicated absolutely nothing about such problems.
Raymond describes more about what it
was like. He wasn’t afraid at the time of a detonation because he and his
Polynesian colleagues were not informed about the operations. “So we were
there, and we didn’t worry much about what was going to happen. We ignored everything.
We built platforms six meters high for the underground tests. The ground shook,
and we saw the platform shake too. After thirty seconds it stopped, and we
stayed on the platform until our bosses gave us the order to come down.”
“Today I can say that the life of
Tahitians has totally changed. Today they have great difficulties because they
have left their lands, their islands. They haven’t planted anything for
themselves. They ate what was easy and fast, and now they are sick because of
it.”
Six years after he retired, he
learned he was sick. He had to go to France, to Villejuif, for radiotherapy.
Raymond has one great concern: “My testimony is for the generations to come. It
is they who will suffer the consequences. Today, it is obvious that there are
many illnesses in Polynesia. In the past, these were unheard of. We are in our
sixties now, but the youth, their future? It is too late. The damage is done.
That’s my testimony.”
Jaroslav
Otcenasek
Jaroslav Otcenasek worked from the
first days of construction of the CEP installations in Tahiti. “Before that, I
was working a little and I earned 20 francs a week. Working at the CEP, you
could earn 140 francs per week. So you see the difference. This is what
destabilized everything. Everyone gave up fishing, agriculture, raising
animals. What you used to earn in three months could now be earned in a week.
Everyone gorged on this, but without knowing the dangers that came with the
bomb.”
Jaroslav explains the consequences
of this CEP gold rush: “Everyone ran to Papeete. In the past we went there once
a week or once a month just to buy necessities: flour, sugar, etc. But when the
CEP arrived, even people from the outer islands swarmed to Papeete. There was
one construction job after another. They left their lands and their islands to
crowd into the city. Nowadays, it’s very difficult to get them to go back.”
Awareness of the dangers of the
nuclear tests emerged slowly: “It took a certain number of years for us to
start seeing our friends dying, or getting sick. It was always those who had
worked on Moruroa or Fangataufa. When they came back, they were forbidden to
speak about their work. If they talked, they got kicked out right away, and
were never re-hired. So we believed the military was trying to hide something.
But it took a long, long time. It was taboo to talk about it.” Jaroslav passes
severe judgment on the period of the CEP: “For me, it was horrible because
there was no benefit afterward. Now there are diseases and we have a troubled
nation. I would like to say to young people: get up and fight until the day
France recognizes what was done and apologizes for having harmed us. Then I
will certainly be able to say I’m proud to be French.”
Régis
Gooding
Régis Gooding worked at Moruroa from
the age of 16, at the time of the atmospheric tests, to “help his father feed
his four brothers and three sisters.” He tells how a kid of 16 could live so
far from his family in such a dangerous workplace: a life that was practically
a dream, full of unknown pleasures–cinema, water sports…
“It was a great life because we
didn’t have to worry about meals. Our laundry was done on the ship. We were
there to get on with the work of the atomic bomb, but everything was done for
us to make sure we wouldn’t get bored. We were kept busy.”
Régis describes the bomb, as he saw
it from the ship he was based on at Moruroa, without forgetting all that was
forbidden… “As if you could stop a Polynesian from eating fish!”
Discrimination? “After a detonation,
the technicians from the CEA came with their equipment, gas masks, all covered
up in white suits, with boots and gloves, while the Polynesians and local
workers were in their sandals and shorts, longshoreman’s wear, with nothing
special. That was their work outfit.
Régis stayed only one year in
Moruroa, but he returned when he became a soldier and was sent there in 1977
for a military mission. He witnessed the land collapsing after an underground
detonation, and the tsunami that followed it. “It was after this that the
legionnaires built a protective wall and installed security platforms.”
Régis’ father also worked at
Moruroa. He was ill, but he was hired anyway by the CEA in Mahina. His eczema
got so bad that they told him not to come back to work. He died finally of the
cancer that had been called “eczema.” Régis asks with resentment, “Why are such
people who worked for the bomb forgotten? He was in Muru, he got skin cancer,
but it’s not his fault, so whose fault is it? Is it because he breathed
Polynesian air that he got contaminated? Who brought this contamination here?
“I was 16 when I started to work at
the sites. I was a warehouseman. At that age, it was an adventure, but I also
left in order to send something to my grandmother because my grandfather had
just passed away. The hardest time was the evenings and the weekends, because
you miss your family at that age. But there everything was done to make sure no
one got bored. There were a lot of recreational activities: sailboarding, soccer,
motorbikes, cinema, picnics–like living in a chateau or something! A friend of
mine was stricken because he had eaten some fish. His skin fell off. He was
admitted to the infirmary, then after that no one knew where he went. But among
us, we knew how many sick ones there were. I have a lot of friends who have
died. In 2002, I came back from the army and I found two or three friends, but
I was told the others were all dead.”
John
Doom
Former
Secretary General of the Maohi Protestant Church
John Doom had his first “experience”
of the nuclear tests in 1963 when he was deacon of the French parish in
Papeete. Along with Pastor Jean Adnet he had learned about the construction of
the CEP, so they published a short article in the parish journal asking for a commodo-incommodo* public inquiry.
Result: the pastor was banned from staying in Tahiti for more than six months!
Three years later, on July 2, 1966,
John Doom found himself on the island of Mangareva [near the test sites]
working as an interpreter for the minister of France d’Outre-mer [French overseas territories]. The history is
well known. The Gambier Islands were heavily contaminated by the fallout from
the first bomb on Moruroa, after which officials slipped away as fast as
possible, leaving the local population uninformed.
Describing these weapons on the
national broadcaster [ORTF, Office de
Radiodiffusion-Télévision Française], John recalls a report he had to make
to the authorities explaining why he had broadcast, after a test, a message
warning the inhabitants of the islands. As he was general secretary of the
protestant church, John tells of the internal conflicts that existed because
officially the church did not have a public position against the tests until
1982, saying then they were not without harm.
But since then, the opposition by
the church has been strong and, since 1996, it has been on the side of the
victims and has supported Moruroa e tatou.
It must be said that since 1989,
John Doom has been Directeur du Bureau
Pacifique du Conseil OEcuménique des Eglises à Genève, a strategic post
that facilitates the internationalization of the struggle against the French
nuclear tests.
“The first nuclear test took place
on July 2, 1966. It so happened that I was the only functionary to have been
authorized to accompany Minister Billotte, elected officials of T’uamotu and an
elected representative of the territory, Mr. Gaston Flosse, who was originally
from the Gambier Islands. So we left for Moruroa then headed to Mangareva. On
July 2nd, early in the morning, we went up the mountain on Taku to see the
mushroom cloud. I had to turn my back and put my hands on my eyes, then wait
for the word that it was alright to look. I have to say I was disappointed
because we had been told that there would be a beautiful mushroom made up of
various colors, but all I saw was a kind of elongated cloud.”
“The next day we had to have a great
feast with the inhabitants to celebrate the first detonation. But that night it
rained, and the next day they told us we had to leave right away. I learned
later that the rain was radioactive, that we had to leave, and that we had to
say nothing about it. We left the inhabitants in complete ignorance. And I
think that was the first lie of the French government because General Billotte,
arriving in Papeete, held a press conference and stated that everything had
gone well.”
John Doom is a pillar of the history
of the opposition to the nuclear tests in Polynesia, a role which makes him
encourage the younger generation to get involved: “The tests are over. That’s a
fact, but we will live with the consequences for hundreds, if not thousands, of
years. It’s not something that’s over and behind us. You, the young
generations, you must get involved. It is essential for the future of our
people. Look around you. Ask questions to your parents. There is no family in
Polynesia that wasn’t affected. Get together and concern yourselves with our
future.”
*
Commodo/incommodo authorizations define the
development and operating conditions deemed necessary to protect the
environment and ensure the safety of workers, the public and the neighborhood
in general.
Chantal
Spitz
Chantal Spitz described her first
experiences as a protester against nuclear testing: “When I came back home I
was always in trouble because it wasn’t acceptable behavior for the dominant
aristo-bourgeoisie.”
After having described the shadowy
connivance of a certain segment of Polynesian society with the colonial system,
the author sums up the pain of her people: “We have just lived through thirty
years so terrifying that I don’t know if we can ever restore ourselves again,
and what makes me afraid is that we are going to pass this pain on to our
children and grandchildren because they won’t have the tools to journey across
this history.”
“Without the active participation of
local authorities, the French state could never have done what it did here. At
the same time, it is difficult to feel betrayed, betrayed by oneself. We
believe we were betrayed by others. Why wouldn’t we? But to have betrayed
oneself, that’s harder to face. I believe we can measure the poisons in the
environment, eventually. We take measurements, record a certain level of
radioactivity, see the dead coral. No problem. But how do we measure the
poisons in our minds and in our souls? We can’t measure them, and we can’t even
prevent ourselves from transmitting them to our children and grandchildren.”
Chantal Spitz finishes on a note of
pride. “But it was a great thing that we marched. It was–I don’t want to say
courageous–but we had to do it. We had to dare to do it.”
A message of hope and dignity
addressed to the younger generation?
Michel
Arakino
Michel Arakino was born on the Reao
Atoll and grew up there. Today he lives in Tahiti. Michel described his
childhood memories: “It was fun for us, at the age of nine or ten, during the
time of the nuclear tests. We went into houses with pressurized air to protect
us from the fallout. But after the fallout passed, we went out to big boats off
the coast. It was fun because they gave us candies, and they did medical checks
on us. There were doctors there tracking everyone and watching over us.”
After his military service in
France, Michel was hired by the army to work in the Service Mixte de Contrôle Biologique on Moruroa.
“The Foreign Legion gathered soil from around the atoll and made a garden plot.
Scientists studied the uptake of radioactivity in this garden. We weren’t
protected as we should have been, but according to our supervisors there was no
risk. We harvested watermelons, melons, sweet potatoes, cucumbers... The
scientists said they were fine, and because they said so, we ate them. We put
the leftovers in salads.”
Michel later became a diver, and he
was tasked with taking water samples from the surfaces of underground wells. “We
measured radioactivity leaking from openings made in the places where cables
had been placed for the detonations. I wouldn’t say it was minimal exposure. There
was measurable leakage in a zone 500 meters in diameter.”
Michel also related all the pressure
put on him from the military and political sphere when he decided to join the citizens’
group Moruroa e tatou.
“From 1981 to 1996 I was a diver at
Moruroa. My work consisted of taking biological samples from around the zones
and in the zones where the detonations had occurred. At the first meeting of Moruroa e tatou, I came just to listen
and tell my bosses what they were saying, but then I was especially struck by
Dr. Sue Roff. I was sitting in the front row watching this woman explain the
effects of radioactivity. Everything she said concerned me directly. I was the
positive control organism in this experiment, and that’s when I realized what I
was passing down to my children. That’s when I started asking questions to the
authorities, and they quickly became hostile. What should I say? It was like we
were no longer friends. The relationship was tarnished because I was asking too
many questions about the state of my health.”
Note
Bruno Barrillot and John Doom both
passed away in the latter months of 2016.
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