Nuclear detonations were the backdrop to Teeua and Teraabo’s childhood. By the time the sisters were eight and four, the Pacific island on which they grew up, Kiritimati, had hosted 30 atomic and thermonuclear explosions – six during Operation Grapple, a British series between 1957 and 1958, and 24 during Operation Dominic, led by the US in 1962.
The UK’s secretary of state for the colonies, Alan Lennox-Boyd, had claimed the Grapple series would put Britain “far ahead of the Americans, and probably the Russians too, in super-bomb development”. Grapple, the country’s largest tri-service operation since D-Day, also involved troops from Fiji and New Zealand. It sought to secure the awesome power of the hydrogen bomb: a thermonuclear device far more destructive than the atomic bomb.
Britain’s seat at the top table of “super-bomb development” was emphatically announced in April 1958 with Grapple Y: an “H-bomb” 200 times more powerful than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima in 1945. This remains Britain’s largest nuclear detonation – one of more than 100 conducted by the UK, US and Soviet Union in 1958 alone.
More than six decades later, the health effects on former servicemen based on Kiritimati, as well as at test locations in South and Western Australia, remain unresolved. Greater Manchester’s mayor, Andy Burnham, has called the treatment of UK nuclear test veterans “the longest-standing and, arguably, the worst” of all the British public scandals in recent history.
Unlike the Post Office, infected blood and Grenfell Tower inquiries in 2024, there has been no UK inquiry into British nuclear weapon tests in Australia and the Pacific. Yet veterans and their descendants maintain these tests caused hereditary ill-health effects and premature deaths among participants. The British government has been accused of hiding records of these health impacts for decades behind claims of national security.
Over the past year, the life stories of British nuclear test veterans have been collected by researchers, including myself, for an oral history project in partnership with the British Library. Whether from a vantage point of air, land or sea, the veterans all recall witnessing nuclear explosions with startling clarity, as if the moment was seared on to their memories. According to Doug Herne, a ship’s cook with the Royal Navy:
When the flash hit you, you could see the X-rays of your hands through your closed eyes. Then the heat hit you, and it was as if someone my size had caught fire and walked through me. To say it was frightening is an understatement. I think it shocked us into silence.
But what of the experiences of local people on Kiritimati? I have recently interviewed two sisters who are among the few surviving islanders who witnessed the nuclear tests. This is their story.
‘A mushroom cloud igniting the sky’
At the start of Operation Grapple in May 1957, around 250 islanders lived on Kiritimati – the world’s largest coral reef atoll, slap bang in the centre of the Pacific Ocean, around 1,250 miles (2,000km) due south of Hawaii. The island’s name is derived from the English word “Christmas”, the atoll having been “discovered” by the British explorer James Cook on Christmas Eve 1777.
In May 2023, I visited Kiritimati for a research project on “British nuclear imperialism”, which investigated how post-war Britain used its dwindling imperial assets and resources as a springboard for nuclear development. I sought to interview islanders who had remained on the atoll since the tests, including Teeua Tekonau, then aged 68. In 2024, I visited her younger sister, Teraabo Pollard, who lives more than 8,000 miles away in the contrasting surroundings of Burnley, north-west England.
Far from descriptions of fear and terror, both Teeua and Teraabo looked back on the tests with striking enthusiasm. Teraabo recalled witnessing them from the local maneaba (open-air meeting place) or tennis court as a “pleasurable” experience full of “excitement”.
She described having her ears plugged with cotton wool before being covered with a blanket. As if by magic, the blanket was then lifted to reveal a mushroom cloud igniting the night sky – a sight accompanied by sweetened bread handed out by American soldiers. So vivid was the light that Teraabo, then aged four, described “being excited about it being daytime again”.
In view of the violence of the tests, I was struck that Teeua and Teraabo volunteered these positive memories. Their enthusiasm seemed in marked contrast to growing concerns about the radioactive fallout – including those voiced by surviving test veterans and their descendants. As children, the tests seem to have offered the sisters a spectacle of fantasy and escapism – glazed with the saccharine of American treats and Disney films on British evacuation ships.
Yet they have also lived through the premature deaths of family members and, in Teraabo’s case, a malignant tumour dating from the time of the tests. And there have been similar stories from other families who lived in the shadow of these very risky, loosely controlled experiments. Teraabo told me about a friend who had peeked out from her blanket as a young girl – and who suffered from eye and health problems ever since.
‘Only a very slight health hazard’
Kiritimati forms part of the impossibly large Republic of Kiribati – a nation of 33 islands spread over 3.5 million square kilometres; the only one to have territory in all four hemispheres and, until 1995, on either side of the international date line. Before independence from Britain in 1979, Kiribati belonged to the Gilbert and Ellice Island Colony, which in effect made Kiritimati a “nuclear colony” for the purpose of British and American testing.
In 1955, Teeua and Teraabo’s parents, Taraem and Tekonau Tetoa, left their home island of Tabiteuea, a small atoll belonging to the Gilbert group of islands in the western Pacific. They boarded a British merchant vessel bound for Christmas Island nearly 2,000 miles away. Setting sail with new-born Teeua in their arms, the family looked forward to a future cutting copra on Kiritimati’s British coconut plantation.
The scale of this journey, with four young children, was immense. Just how the hundred or so Gilbertese passengers “managed to live [during the voyage] was better not asked”, according to one royal engineer who described a similar voyage a few years later. “There were piles of coconuts everywhere – perhaps they were for both food and drink.”
The Insights section is committed to high-quality longform journalism. Our editors work with academics from many different backgrounds who are tackling a wide range of societal and scientific challenges.
Within two years of their arrival, the family faced more upheaval as mother Taraem and her children were packed aboard another ship ahead of the first three sets of British nuclear tests in the Pacific. Known as Grapple 1, 2 and 3, they were to be detonated over Malden Island, an atoll some 240 miles to the south of Kiritimati – but still too close for the comfort of local residents.
According to Teeua, the evacuation was prompted by disillusioned labourers brought to Kiritimati without their families, who went on strike after learning how much the British troops were being paid. But the islanders’ perspectives do not feature much in the colonial records, which give precedence to British disputes about logistical costs and safety calculations.
The Grapple task force resolved that the safe limit set by the International Commission on Radiological Protection should be reduced, to limit the cost of evacuations. A meeting in November 1956 noted that “only a very slight health hazard to people would arise from this reduction – and that only to primitive peoples”.
Shocking as this remark sounds, it is typical of the disregard that nuclear planners appear to have had, both for Indigenous communities and the mostly working-class soldiers. These lives did not seem to matter much in the context of Britain’s quest for nuclear supremacy. William Penney, Britain’s chief nuclear scientist, had bemoaned how critics during tests in Australia were “intent on thwarting the whole future of the British Empire for the sake of a few Aboriginals”.
Tekonau, Teeua’s father, was one of the 30 or so I-Kiribati people to stay behind on Kiritimati during the Malden tests in May and June 1957. As one of the only labourers to speak English, he had gained the trust of the district commissioner, Percy Roberts, who invited Tekonau to accompany him during inspections of villagers’ houses in Port London, then the island’s only village. On one occasion, Teeua said, the islanders did not recognise her father as he had been given a “flat top” haircut like the Fijian soldiers. “This means he had a nice relationship with the soldiers,” she told me. “Thank God for giving me such a good and clever dad.”
Since the initial tests did not produce a thermonuclear explosion, the task force embarked on further trials between November 1957 and September 1958, known as Grapple X, Y and Z. In view of expense and time, these were conducted on Kiritimati rather than Malden Island – and this time, the residents were not evacuated to other islands. Rather, families were brought aboard ships in the island’s harbour and shown films below deck.
After these tests, the islanders returned to find the large X and Y detonations had cracked the walls of their homes and smashed their doors and furniture. One islander found their pet frigate bird, like so many of the wild birds on Kiritimati, had been blinded by the flash of Grapple Y. No compensation was ever paid to the islanders, although the Ministry of Supply did reimburse the colony for deterioration of “plantation assets”, including £4 for every damaged coconut tree (equivalent to £120 today).
A month before Grapple Y, Teraabo was born. Her earliest and most vivid childhood memories are of the US-led Operation Dominic four years later, by which time evacuation procedures had been abandoned altogether.
This series of tests was sanctioned by Britain in exchange for a nuclear-powered submarine and access to the Nevada Proving Grounds in the US – regarded as pivotal to the future of British weapons technology ahead of the signing of the Test Ban Treaty in October 1963, which would prohibit atmospheric testing.
Dominic’s 24 detonations on Kiritimati – which usually took place after sunset around 6pm, between April and November 1962 – were “awesome”, according to Teraabo. Recalling the suspense as the “tannoy announced the countdown”, she described “coming out of cover [and] witnessing the bomb [as] an amazing experience … When the bomb set off, the brilliance of the light was tremendous.”
Each explosion’s slow expiration would re-illuminate the Pacific sky. One, Starfish Prime, became known as a “rainbow bomb” because of the multi-coloured aurora it produced over the Pacific, having been launched into space where it exploded.
So spectacular were these descriptions that I almost felt I had to suspend disbelief as I listened. At one point in my interview with Teraabo, she leaned in to reassure me that she had no interest in exaggerating these events: “I’m a very proud person,” she whispered, “I would never lie.”
‘In our blood’
More than six decades on from the Grapple tests, I was sitting in Teeua’s kitchen in the village of Tabwakea (meaning “turtle”), near the northern tip of Kiritimati. I had driven here in a Subaru Forester, clapped-out from the many potholes on the island’s main road, itself built by royal engineers over 60 years ago.
Teeua’s home, nestled down a sand track, had a wooden veranda at the front where she would teach children to read and write under shelter from the hot equatorial sun. Handcrafted mats lined the sand and coral floor, fanning out from the veranda to the kitchen at the back.
The house felt full of the sounds of the local community, from the chatter of neighbours to the laughter of children outdoors. No one could feel lonely here, despite the vastness of the ocean that surrounds Kiritimati.
As Teeua cooked rice and prepared coffee, we discussed the main reason for my visit: to understand the impacts of the nuclear tests on the islanders, their descendents, and the sensitive ecosystem in which they live. Teeua is chair of Kiritimati’s Association of Atomic Cancer Patients, and one of only three survivors of the tests still living on Kiritimati. She pulled up a seat and looked at me:
Many, many died of cancer … And many women had babies that died within three months … I remember the coconut trees … when you drank [from the coconuts], you [were] poisoned.
Both Teeua’s parents and four of her eight siblings had died of cancer or unexplained conditions, she said. Her younger brother, Takieta, died of leukaemia at the age of two in November 1963 – less than a year after Operation Dominic ended. Her sister Teraabo, who discovered a tumour in her stomach shortly after the trials, was only able to have her stomach treated once she moved to the UK in 1981, by which time the tumour had turned malignant.
Teeua’s testimony pointed to the gendered impacts of the nuclear tests. She referred to the prevalence of menstrual problems and stillbirths, evidence of which can be inferred from the testimony of another nuclear survivor, Sui Kiritome, a fellow I-Kiribati who had arrived on Kiritimati in 1957 with her teacher husband. Sui has described how their second child, Rakieti, had “blood coming out of all the cavities of her body” at birth.
A rare military hospital record from 1958 – stored in the UK’s National Archives at Kew in London – also refers to the treatment of a civilian woman for ante-partum haemorrhage and stillbirth, though it is unclear whether this was a local woman or one of the soldier’s wives on the passenger ship HMT Dunera, which visited briefly to “boost morale” after Grapple X.
Having re-established the Association of Atomic Cancer Patients in 2009, Teeua has continued much of the work that Ken McGinley, first chair of the British Nuclear Tests Veterans Association, did after its establishment in 1983. She has documented the names of all I-Kiribati people present during the tests, along with their spouses, children and other relatives. And she has listed the cancers and illnesses from which they have suffered.
In the absence of medical records at the island hospital, these handwritten notes are the closest thing on the atoll to epidemiological data about the tests. But according to Teeua, concerns about the health effects of the tests date back much longer, to 1965 when a labourer named Bwebwe spoke out about poisonous clouds. “Everyone thought he was crazy,” Teeua recalled.
But Bwebwe’s speculations were lent credibility by Sui Kiritome’s testimony, and by the facial scars she bore that were visible for all to see. In an interview with her daughter, Sui explained how she was only 24 when she started to lose her hair, and “burns developed on my face, scalp and parts of my shoulder”.
In a similar manner to claims made by British nuclear test veterans, Sui attributed her health problems to being rained on during Grapple Y – which may have been detonated closer to the atoll’s surface than the task force was prepared to admit.
When I asked Teeua why her campaigning association was only reformed in 2009, she explained it had been prompted by a visit from British nuclear test veterans who “told us that everyone [involved in the tests] has cancer – blood cancer”. They had been told this in the past but, she said, “we did not believe it. But after years … after our children [also] died of cancer, then we remembered what they told us.”
After some visiting researchers explained to Teeua and the community that the effects of the tests were “not good”, she concluded that “our kids died of cancer because of the tests … That’s why we start to combine together … the nuclear survivors, to talk about what they did to our kids”.
I found Teeua’s testimony deeply troubling: not only because of the suffering she and other families have been through, but in the way that veterans had returned to Kiritimati as civilians, raising concerns among locals that may have lain dormant or been forgotten. The suggestion that radiation was “in her blood” must have been deeply disturbing for Teeua and her community.
But I reminded myself that the veterans who came looking for answers in 2009 were also victims. They made the long journey seeking clues about their health problems, or a silver bullet to prove their government’s deception over the nuclear fallout.
As young men, they were unwittingly burdened with a lifetime of uncertainty – compounded by endless legal disputes with the Ministry of Defence or inconclusive health studies that jarred with their personal medical histories. And, like the islanders, some of these servicemen died young after experiencing agonising illnesses.
The scramble for the Pacific
My research on British nuclear imperialism also sheds light on how imperial and settler colonial perceptions of “nature” shaped how these nuclear tests were planned and operationalised.
British sites were selected on the basis of in-depth environmental research. When searching the site for Britain’s first atomic bomb (the Montebello Islands off the west coast of Australia), surveyors discovered 20 new species of insect, six new plants, and a species of legless lizard.
Monitoring of radioactive fallout from nuclear tests fed into the rise of ecosystem ecologies as an academic discipline. In the words of one environmental specialist on the US tests, it seemed that “destruction was the enabling condition for understanding life as interconnected”.
Since H-bombs would exceed the explosive yield deemed acceptable by Australia, Winston Churchill’s government in the mid-1950s had been forced to look for a new test site beyond Western and South Australia. British planners drew on a wealth of imperial knowledge and networks – but their proposal to use the Kermadec Islands, an archipelago 600 miles north-east of Auckland, was rejected by New Zealand on environmental grounds.
So, when Teeua and her family landed on Kiritimati in 1955, their journey was part of “the scramble for the Pacific”: a race between Britain and the US to lay claim to the sovereignty of Pacific atolls in light of their strategic significance for air and naval power.
The British government archives include some notable environmental “what ifs?” Had the US refused the UK’s selection of Kiritimati because of its own sovereignty claim, then it would have been probable, as Lennox-Boyd, Britain’s colonial secretary, admitted, that “the Antarctic region south of Australia might have to be used” for its rapidly expanding nuclear programme.
Instead, this extraordinary period in global history recently took me to a Victorian mansion in the Lancashire town of Burnley, where I interviewed Teeua’s younger sister, Teraabo, about her memories of the Kiritimati tests.
‘No longer angry’
Teraabo’s home felt like the antithesis of Teeua’s island abode 8,300 miles away: ordered instead of haphazard, private instead of communal, spacious instead of crowded. And our interview had a more detached, philosophical tone.
Like her sister, Teraabo has worked to raise awareness about the legacy of the nuclear tests, including with the Christmas Island Appeal, an offshoot of the British Nuclear Test Veterans Association that sought to publicise the extent of the waste left on Kiritimati from the nuclear test period.
The appeal succeeded in persuading Tony Blair’s UK government to tackle the remaining waste in Kiritimati – most of which was non-radiological, according to a 1998 environmental assessment. The island was “cleaned up” and remediated between 2004 and 2008, at a cost of around £5 million to the Ministry of Defence. Much of the waste was flown or shipped back to the UK, where 388 tonnes of low-grade radioactive material were deposited in a former salt mine at Port Clarence, near Middlesbrough.
Yet Teraabo’s views have evolved. She told me she is “no longer angry” about the tests, a stark contrast to her position 20 years ago, when she told British journalist Alan Rimmer how islanders had “led a simple life with disease virtually unknown. But after the tests, everything changed. I now realise the whole island was poisoned.”
Whereas the Teraabo of 2003 blamed “the British government for all this misery”, she has since become more reflective. In the context of the cold war and the nuclear arms race, she even told me she could understand the British rationale for selecting Kiritimati as a test site. This seemed a remarkable statement from a survivor who had lost so much.
Over the course of the interview, it became clear Teraabo had grown tired of being angry – and that she had felt “trapped” by the tragic figure she was meant to represent in the campaigns of veterans and disarmers. Each time Teraabo rehearsed the doom-laden script of radiation exposure, she admitted she was also suppressing the joy of her childhood memories.
A turning point for Teraabo seems to have come in 2007, when she last visited Kiritimati and met her sister Teeua. By this time, the atoll’s population was 4,000 – quite a leap from the 300 residents she grew up with. “It is no longer the island I remember,” she said.
The Kiritimati of Teraabo’s memory was neat and well-structured. The one she described encountering in 2007 was chaotic and unkempt. She had come to the realisation that the Kiritimati she had been campaigning for – the pristine, untouched atoll of her parents – had long since moved on, so she should move on with it. The sorrow caused by the test operations would not define her.
Radioactive colonialism
Not long after I left Kiritimati in June 2023, the global nuclear disarmament organisation Ican began researching the atoll ahead of a major global summit to discuss the UN Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons. Descendants of Kiritimati’s nuclear test survivors were asked a series of questions, with those who provided the “right” answers being selected for a sponsored trip to UN headquarters in New York.
The chosen representatives included Teeua’s daughter, Taraem. I wondered if the survivors of Kiritimati are doomed to forever rehearse the stories of their nuclear past – a burden that Teeua and Teraabo have had to carry ever since they stood in awe of atomic and thermonuclear detonations more than 60 years ago.
They have had to deal with “radioactive colonialism” all their adult lives – the outside world demanding to see the imprint of radioactivity on their health and memories. But the sisters’ fondness for British order, despite all they have been through, prevails.
Their positive memories of Britain may in part reflect the elevated role of their father, Tekonau Tetoa – a posthumous recipient of the test veteran medal – within the British colonial system. During my visit, I happened upon an old photo of Tekonau, looking immaculate as he hangs off the side of a plantation truck in a crisp white shirt. Knowing Teeua did not possess a photo of her parents, I took a scan and raced to her house down the road.
“Do you recognise this man?” I asked, holding up my phone.
She flickered with recognition. “Is that my father?”
I nodded, and she shed a tear of joy.
Memories of Teeua and Teraabo’s father are preserved in the island landscape of their youth: pristine, regimented by the ostensible tidiness of colonial and military order.
But such order masked contamination: an unknown quantity that would only become evident years later in ill-health and environmental damage. It was not only the nuclear tests: from 1957 to 1964, the atoll was sprayed four times a week with DDT, a carcinogenic insecticide, as part of attempts to reduce insect-borne disease. In the words of one of the pilots: “I had many a wave from the rather fat Gilbo ladies sitting on their loos as I passed overhead, and gave them some spray for good measure!” British tidiness concealed a special brand of poison.
Today, the prospect of a meaningful response from the UK to the concerns raised by the islanders and servicemen alike seems slim. In October 2023, the UK and France followed North Korea and Russia in vetoing a Kiribati and Kazakhstan-proposed UN resolution on victim assistance and environmental remediation for people and places harmed by nuclear weapons use and testing.
Over in Kiritimati, meanwhile, Teeua still tends to a small plot where Prince Philip planted a commemorative tree in April 1959, shortly after the British-led nuclear tests had ended. It is rumoured he did not drink from the atoll’s water while he was there.
For you: more from our Insights series:
A century ago, the women of Wales made an audacious appeal for world peace – this is their story
‘We miners die a lot.’ Appalling conditions and poverty wages: the lives of cobalt miners in the DRC
To hear about new Insights articles, join the hundreds of thousands of people who value The Conversation’s evidence-based news. Subscribe to our newsletter.
Christopher Hill receives funding from the Office for Veterans' Affairs, UK Cabinet Office. The research for this article was also supported by funding from the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC), UKRI. The author wishes to thank the following for their support with this article: Fiona Bowler, Ian Brailsford, Joshua Bushen, John Bryden, Jon Hogg, Brian Jones, Rens van Munster, Wesley Perriman, Maere Tekanene, Michael Walsh, Rotee Walsh and Derek Woolf. Sincere thanks to Teeua Tekonau and Teraabo Pollard for sharing their family stories.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
