Togzhan Kassenova, a nuclear policy expert and author of Atomic Steppe, a book that explores the legacy of Soviet nuclear testing in Kazakhstan, spoke to Qalam about why Soviet authorities chose Kazakhstan as their proving ground, how the Nevada–Semipalatinsk anti-nuclear movement emerged, and why much about the Semipalatinsk Test Site remains hidden even to this day.
Soviet Nuclear Tests: Not Genocide, but a Crime
Some in Kazakhstan describe the Soviet nuclear tests as a form of genocide, but I would not go that far. Genocide entails the deliberate extermination of a specific group of people. The Soviet Union’s objective was to surpass the United States in the nuclear arms race, and it had little regard for the devastating toll this ambition exacted—and continues to exact—on Kazakhstani people. And it was not only ethnic Kazakhs who suffered, but all who lived, and still live, on this land. I would call it a crime against our people.
Why Semipalatinsk?
The Soviet leadership considered Semipalatinsk a sparsely populated area. There were several reasons why the Test Site was located where it was. Geology played a central role as the authorities initially sought a flat surface, and the steppe offered a natural testing ground. Later, nearby mountain ranges were also used for underground detonations.
From a geographical standpoint, proximity to transportation infrastructure was important, but it couldn’t be too close. The site needed to be accessible yet remote enough to deter espionage. There was also a river nearby, which provided water and the potential for logistical support.
Sand and certain types of rock were also available closeby, and these were considered useful for construction and other purposes. But when I read the archival documents, one thing became clear: the site’s distance from Moscow was a crucial factor. If something were to go wrong, the fallout wouldn’t reach the Soviet heartland.
No One Considered the Human Cost
By the time the first thermonuclear test was conducted in 1953, preparations were complete. The scientists knew the yield would be exponentially higher than previous tests. At the very last moment, someone from the ministry—I believe his name was Gavrilov—asked a simple question: ‘But what will happen to the people? Shouldn’t we at least think about them?’
Military officials were furious at such ‘irrelevant’ concerns. In his memoirs, Andrei Sakharov, the well-known Soviet nuclear physicist, wrote that they had been so absorbed by the scientific challenge that they simply hadn’t given it a thought. There were two options: delay the test and make it safer, or evacuate the local population. The Soviet authorities opted for the latter. But what did that look like in practice?
Imagine living a peaceful life in your village—you have livestock, a garden, a household. Out of nowhere, the military arrives and says: ‘Pack up.’ No explanations are given—not about where you’re going nor for how long. People wept, unsure whether they would ever return to the burial sites of their ancestors. In the end, the evacuation lasted just a few weeks.
A doctor I interviewed said it’s unclear whether the effort made any difference. People were relocated nearby, but no one knows whether it was upwind or downwind of the blast zone. When they returned, they found contaminated wells and dead livestock. There had been an evacuation, yes, but it had hardly been effective.
After that test, Sakharov began to express concern. One military officer reportedly told him: ‘Why are you so worried? Casualties are normal in wartime.’
1989: The Beginning of the End
On 12 February 1989, one underground test caused widespread radioactive contamination. That event became the final straw, igniting a wave of public protest in Kazakhstan. Olzhas Suleimenov, the celebrated poet, intellectual, and anti-nuclear activist, appeared on television urging people to take action. Thousands responded, gathering at the Writers’ Union building. Organizers were caught off guard: the hall could hold about 400 people, but the crowd spilled far beyond the building.
This marked the birth of the anti-nuclear movement in Kazakhstan. The number of tests dropped significantly in 1989 thanks to the groundswell of civic mobilization. We rarely speak of this, and the official closure of the site in August 1991 received far more attention, but if I recall correctly, the last test at Semipalatinsk occurred in October 1989. The tests stopped because public pressure rendered them politically untenable. Moscow had to listen.
Why So Much Remains Unknown
By the 1950s, Soviet authorities were already aware that people were falling ill, but they did nothing to mitigate the impact. All information about the testing was tightly controlled, and the few expeditions that visited the area were also under Moscow’s oversight. Surveillance of the local population was extensive, but the data were classified and withheld from local health authorities.
Doctors in Semipalatinsk and the surrounding regions were explicitly instructed not to provide accurate diagnoses. A patient dying from stomach cancer would be officially recorded as having died of ‘stomach illness’.
In 1957, a special medical facility was established under the guise of a brucellosisi
Much of what we now know is thanks to the clinical expeditions of the Institute of Regional Pathology led by Professor Bakhia Atchabarov. From 1957 to 1959, they conducted rigorous fieldwork and recorded everything honestly, without embellishment. In a climate of near-total authoritarianism, Atchabarov told his team: ‘Write it as it is.’
Reading those records today is profoundly moving. The data are meticulous, detailing the number of people, specific illnesses, strontium levels in livestock, et cetera, in a dry, factual tone, but with immense courage behind the words.
Eventually, the team was summoned to a closed conference in Moscow, attended by the Institute of Biophysics, a body tied to the Soviet military-industrial complex. The transcripts show how scientists in Moscow attempted to discredit the Kazakhstani researchers, claiming their methods were flawed. But these doctors stood their ground. After three years, the expedition was shut down.
I have no definitive proof, but I believe the data they gathered had an impact. Around that time, negotiations were under way between the USSR, the US, and the UK on banning atmospheric nuclear tests. I suspect that the information from the expedition helped influence those negotiations.
Later, after Kazakhstan gained independence, these records became accessible in our national archives. They remain among the most valuable sources of knowledge we have today on nuclear testing in Kazakhstan.
The full version of this interview with Togzhan Kassenova is available on our YouTube channel Qalam Tarih.