MINSK, April 26 (Xinhua) -- "Radioactive Contamination! No Entry!" The warning sign at the entrance to the Polesie State Radiation-Ecological Reserve in Belarus' southern Gomel Region, near the Ukrainian border, is impossible to miss. Its bold lettering and stark trefoil radiation symbol -- resembling a skull -- seem to fix their gaze on every visitor, discouraging any attempt to proceed.
On April 26, 1986, Reactor No. 4 at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in the former Soviet republic of Ukraine exploded, releasing more than eight tons of highly radioactive material. Over 60,000 square kilometers of land were contaminated, and more than 3.2 million people were affected to varying degrees. It remains the most severe nuclear disaster in the history of civilian nuclear energy.
Belarus, itself a former Soviet republic at the time, suffered the brunt of the nuclear fallout.
Recently, a Xinhua reporter visited the Polesie State Radiation-Ecological Reserve in Belarus. As the iron gates of the exclusion zone creaked open, the vehicle moved slowly along a narrow village road, as if crossing a boundary between present and past. The road was scarred by years of neglect. Fallen trees lay scattered through the forest, while nameless wildflowers bloomed quietly in the marshes. The hum of the tires felt intrusive, breaking the heavy, almost unnatural silence.
"This was a school -- a place where visitors now come to take photos," said Alexey Kazakov, head of the reserve's information department. After the disaster, then-Soviet authorities evacuated all settlements within a 30-kilometer radius of the plant, including the village of Dronki, where the school once stood.
Inside the abandoned classrooms, shattered glass and crumbling plaster covered the floor. Yellowed textbooks lay open to lessons frozen in time, and dusty backpacks still waited for children who never returned. A faded slogan -- "Long Live May Day!" -- hung on the wall, a haunting reminder that the joy of the 1986 holiday was abruptly stolen by radiation. For residents of the contaminated zone, life was permanently divided into "before" and "after."
As the vehicle moved deeper into the exclusion zone, the radiation monitor's reading climbed, and its beeping warning grew increasingly urgent. "There is no completely safe place here; we are always exposed to some radiation," explained Maxim Kudin, deputy director of the reserve. However, because tourist areas are grass-covered and relatively dust-free, short visits carry limited risk.
Since 2018, about 5,000 people have visited the reserve. Scientists accompany visitors, helping them understand radiation levels, risks, and the gradual recovery of the ecosystem.
Over four decades, Belarus has worked to mitigate the disaster's impact. By 2025, it had implemented multiple national programs, significantly reducing contamination; about half of the affected agricultural land had been restored. Advances in research have also improved detection and monitoring of radioactive elements, with the reserve's laboratories ranked among the world's best in this regard.
Experimental economic activities -- including horse breeding, forestry, and beekeeping -- have been introduced into less-contaminated areas. Researchers study how radioactive elements transfer through ecosystems while ensuring strict safety controls. According to Kudin, it is possible to produce goods that meet national safety standards under controlled conditions. The goal is to develop models for safe economic use of affected land.
In the reserve, horses graze calmly, and apiaries produce several tons of honey each year, "just as sweet as anywhere else," a beekeeper noted.
From a fire watchtower, the distant outline of the Chernobyl plant is visible, its reactor encased beneath a gleaming arch. Around it, forests have returned to life.
Yet the scars of the disaster remain. Environmental healing could take centuries, and the question of how to harness nuclear energy safely continues to challenge humanity. Enditem
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