Efrem Lukatsky, a Kyiv-based AP photographer who lived through the Chernobyl disaster on April 26, 1986, has revisited the exclusion zone dozens of times over 40 years. His images and memories recount early secrecy, the immediate deaths of plant workers and firefighters, and the tens of thousands of "liquidators" who risked their lives in cleanup. The story also covers the 2019 containment arch, the zone's disturbance during Russia’s 2022 invasion, and an unexpected ecological recovery as wildlife returns to the abandoned landscape.
PHOTO ESSAY: AP Photographer Efrem Lukatsky Chronicles Chernobyl’s Silence, Sacrifice and Lingering Danger

Efrem Lukatsky, a Kyiv-based photographer for The Associated Press, was living in Kyiv on April 26, 1986, when the explosion and fire at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant — about a two-hour drive away — changed life in Ukraine. He has returned to the plant and the surrounding exclusion zone dozens of times and carries memories of a disaster that has shadowed the country for four decades.
Whispers, Secrecy and the First Days
At first the news moved only in whispers. There was no immediate official announcement; fragments of information passed quietly between colleagues. Two days after the blast came a brief state acknowledgment that an accident had occurred, but no full explanation.
"There was a metallic taste in my mouth and a dryness in my throat," Lukatsky recalls. "We tuned in to Western broadcasts at night to hear what the state would not report."
Western radio warned that a plume of radiation had spread beyond Soviet borders. People were urged to seal windows, wear masks and give iodine to children; Lukatsky says he put a drop of iodine on a sugar cube each day to protect his thyroid. A neighbor warned of radioactive dust; her husband sealed his clothes in a bag in the stairwell before entering their flat. Some families sent children away. Lukatsky stayed because his parents were in Kyiv.
Life On, Fear Underneath
On the surface, Soviet life went on. Five days after the explosion, Kyiv held its annual May Day parade. Days later a bicycle race filled the streets with spectators. Meanwhile, long columns of buses rolled into the city carrying evacuees from Pripyat — told their absence would be temporary, many left behind homes, belongings and pets that later perished.
About three weeks after the accident, Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev addressed the nation but did not fully explain the delay or the scale of the disaster. Information remained tightly controlled; photographers were required to hand over film after assignments.
Into the Exclusion Zone
In the autumn of 1986 Lukatsky first entered the newly designated exclusion zone, a 2,600-square-kilometer (1,000-square-mile) area. Silent apartment blocks stood beside schools, swimming pools and shops, as if residents had simply stepped out and never returned. Pripyat was frozen in time.
More haunting were the people sent to contain the catastrophe. Firefighters fought a fire water could not tame. Tens of thousands of cleanup workers — "liquidators" — removed contaminated soil and encased the ruptured reactor in concrete. Soldiers were ordered onto the reactor roof to sweep away debris; coal miners dug tunnels beneath the plant to prevent molten fuel from reaching groundwater. Many of those men faced lethal doses of radiation in brief periods of exposure.
Protective gear was limited and often inadequate. Teams were inspected and washed down before leaving the zone; Lukatsky says he sealed clothes in bags and discarded shoes and coats after each trip. Photographers and journalists risked censorship and possible arrest; Lukatsky's photos were later shown at an amateur exhibition and published abroad, and his coverage helped launch his journalism career. He joined the AP in 1989.
The Human Toll and Abandoned Machines
In the immediate aftermath, 30 plant workers and firefighters died from acute radiation sickness. In the years that followed, thousands more would die from radiation-related illnesses. Notably, six photographers and cameramen who went in during the first days also later succumbed to illness.
Near the plant, a vast machinery graveyard holds ambulances, buses, trucks, armored vehicles and helicopters used in cleanup operations — left behind because contamination made them too dangerous to recover. Inside the plant, dust hung thick in the air; in the control room, a routine safety test at 1:23 a.m. on April 26, 1986, went catastrophically wrong and triggered two explosions. Many control-panel buttons were later taken as grim souvenirs.
Containment, New Dangers and an Unexpected Recovery
The original concrete sarcophagus built over Reactor No. 4 deteriorated over time, allowing gaps and leaks. In 2019 an enormous arch-shaped shelter, the New Safe Confinement, was completed to cover the reactor and contain the hazard for generations.
But the zone's safety was tested again during war. In 2022 Russian forces entered the exclusion zone and dug defensive positions on contaminated ground, disturbing long-buried material. A later drone strike damaged the protective structure; officials reported no major radiation release, but the episode underscored that the danger persists.
Paradoxically, the absence of people has allowed nature to rebound. Forests have regrown, wildlife has multiplied, and rare species now move through landscapes once defined by disaster. Pripyat is still frozen in time for human life, but animals roam its streets and buildings.
Remembering and Reporting
Four decades on, Lukatsky's photographs document two lasting truths: the human cost of secrecy and sacrifice, and nature's surprising resilience when left largely undisturbed. This photo essay, curated by AP photo editors, gathers those images and memories to mark the long shadow of Chernobyl.
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