Wednesday, February 26, 2014

1331. The Security State and the Need for a Theory of Destituent Power

By Giorgio Agamben, Chronos, November 16, 2013
Giorgio Agamben
A reflection on the destiny of democracy today here in Athens is in some way disturbing, because it obliges to think the end of democracy in the very place where it was born. As a matter of fact, the hypothesis I would like to suggest is that the prevailing governamental paradigm in Europe today is not only non democratic, but that it cannot either be considered as political. I will try therefore to show that the European society today is no more a political society: it is something entirely new, for which we lack a proper terminology and we have therefore to invent a new strategy. 
Let me begin with a concept which seems, starting from September 2001, to have replaced any other political notion: security. As you know, the formula “for security reasons” functions today in any domain, from everyday life to international conflicts,  as a password in order to impose measures that the people have no reason to accept. I will try to show that the real purpose of the security measures is not, as it is currently assumed, to prevent dangers, troubles or even catastrophes. I will be consequently obliged to make a short genealogy of the concept of “security”. 
One possible way to sketch such a genealogy would be to inscribe its origin and history in the paradigm of the state of exception. In this perspective, we could trace it back to the Roman principle Salus publica suprema lex, public safety is the highest law, and connect it with Roman dictatorship, with the canonistic principle necessity does not acknowledge any law, with the comites de salut publique during French revolution and finally with article 48 of the Weimar republic, which was the juridical ground for the nazi regime. Such a genealogy is certainly correct, but I do not think that it could really explain the functioning of the security apparatuses and measures which are familiar to us. While the state of exception was originally conceived as a provisional measure, which was meant to cope with an immediate danger in order to restore the normal situation, the security reasons constitute today a pemanent technology of government. When in 2003 I published a book in which I tried to show precisely how  the state of exception was becoming in western democracies a normal system of  government, I could not imagine that my diagnosis would prove so accurate. The only clear precedent was the Nazi regime. When Hitler took the power in february 1933, he immediately proclaimed a decree suspending the articles of the Weimar constitution concerning personal liberties. The decree was never revoked, so that the entire Third Reich can be considered as a state of exception which lasted twelwe years. 
What is happening today is still different. A formal state of exception is not declared and we see instead that vague non juridical notions –like the security reasons- are used to instaure a stable state of creeping and fictitious emergency without any clearly identifiable danger. An example of such non juridical notions which are used as emergency producing factors is the concept of crisis. Besides the juridical meaning of judgement in a trial, two semantic traditions converge in the history of this term which, as it is evident for you, comes from the greek verb crino: a medical and a theological one. In the medical tradition, crisis means the moment in which the doctor has to judge, to decide if the patient will die or survive. The day or the days in which this decision is taken are called crisimoi, the decisive days. In theology, crisis is the Last Judgment pronounced by Christ in the end of times. As you can see, what is essential in both traditions is the connection with a certain moment in time. In the present usage of the term, it is precisely this connection which is abolished. The crisis, the judgement is split from its temporal index and coincides now with the cronological course of time, so that, not only in economics and politics, but in every aspect of social life, the crisis coincides with normality and becomes, in this way, just a tool of government. Consequently, the capability to decide once for all disappears and  the continuous decision-making process decides nothing. To state it in paradoxixal terms, we could say that, having to face a continuous state of exception, the governement tends to take the form of a perpetual coup d’état. By the way, this paradox would be an accurate description of what happens here in Greece as well as in Italy, where to govern means to make a continuos series of small coups d’état. The present government of Italy is not legitimate. 
This is why I think that, in order to understand the peculiar governamentality under which we live, the paradigm of the state of exception is not entirely adequate. I will therefore follow Michel Foucault’s suggestion and investigate the origin of the concept of security in the beginning of modern economy, by François Quesnais and the Physiocrates, whose influence on modern governamentality could not be overestimated. Starting with Westphalie treaty, the great absolutist european states begin to introduce in their political discourse the idea that the sovereign has to take care of his subjects security. But Quesnay is the first to establish security (sureté) as the central notion in the theory of government –and this in a very peculiar way. 
One of the main problems governments had to cope with at the time, was the problem of famines. Before Quesnay, the usual methodology was trying to prevent famines by the creation of public granaries and forbidding the exportation of cereals. Both this measures had negatives effects on the production. Quesnay’s idea was to reverse the process: instead of trying to prevent famines, he decided to let them happen and to be able to govern them once they occurred, liberalizing both internal and foreign exchanges. “To govern” retains here its etymological cybernetical meaning: a good kybernes, a good pilot can’t avoid tempests, but, if a rempest occures, he must be able to govern his boat, using the force of  waves and winds for the navigation. This is the meaning of the famous motto “laisser faire, laissez passer”: it is not only the catchword of economic liberalism: it is a paradigm of government, which conceives of security (sureté, in Quesnay words) non as the prevention of troubles, but rather as the ability to govern and guide them in the good direction once they take place. 
We should not neglect the philosophical implications of this reversal. It means an epoch-making transformation in the very idea of government, which overturns the traditional hyerachical relation between causes and effects. Since governing the causes is difficult and expensive, it is more safe and useful to try to govern the effects. I would suggest that this theorem by Quesnay is the axiom of modern governamentality. The ancien regime aimed to rule the causes, modernity pretends to control the effects. And this axiom applies to every domain: from economy to ecology, from foreign and military politics to the internal measures of police. We must realize that European governments today gave up any attempt to rule the causes, they only want to govern the effects. And Quesnay’s theorem makes also understandable a fact which seems otherwise inexplicable: I mean the paradoxical convergence today of an absolutely liberal paradigm in economy with an unprecedented and equally absolute paradigm of state and police control. If government aims to the effects and not to the causes, it will be obliged to extend and multiply controls. Causes demand to be known, while effects can only be checked and controlled. 
One important sphere in which the axiom is operative is that of biometrical security apparatuses, which is increasingly pervading every aspect of social life. When biometrical technologies first appeared in 18th century in France with Alphonse Bertillon and in England with Francis Galton, the inventor of finger prints, they were obviously not meant to prevent crimes, but only to recognize recidivist delinquents. Only once a second crime has occurred, you can use the biometrical data to identify the offender.
Biometrical technologies, which had been invented for recividist criminals, remained for longtime their exclusive privilege. In 1943, the Congress of the USA still refused the Citizen identification act, which was meant to introduce for every citizen an Identity Card with finger prints. But according to a sort of fatality or unwritten law of modernity, the technologies which have been invented for animals, for criminals, strangers or Jews, will finally be extended to all human beings. Therefore in the course of 20th century, biometric technologies have been applied to all citizens and Bertillon identifying photograph and Galton’s fingerprints are currently used in every country for ID cards.
But the extreme step has been taken only in our days and it is still in the process of full realization. The development of new digital technologies, with optical scanners which can easily record not only finger prints but also the retina or the eye iris structure, biometrical apparatuses tend to move beyond the police stations and immigration offices and spread to everyday life. In many countries, the access to student’s restaurants or even to schools is controlled by a biometric apparatus on which the student just puts his hand. The European industries in this field, which are quickly growing, recommend that citizens get used to this kind of controls from their early youth. The phenomenon is really disturbing, because the European Commissions for the development of security (like the ESPR, European security research program) include among their permanent members the representatives of the big industries in the field, which are just armaments producers like Thales, Finmeccanica, EADS et BAE System, that have converted to the security business.
It is easy to imagine the dangers represented by a power that could have at its disposal the unlimited biometric and genetic information of all its citizens. With such a power at hand, the extermination of the jews, which was undertaken on the basis of incomparably less efficient documentation, would have been total and incredibly swift. But I will not dwell on this important aspect of the security problem. The reflections I would like to share with you concern rather the transformation of political identity and of political relationships that are involved in security technologies. This transformation is so extreme, that we can legitimately ask not only if the society in which we live is still a democratic one, but also if this society can be still considered as political.
Christian Meier has shown how in fifth century a transformation of the political conceptuality took place in Athens, which was grounded on what he calls a “politisation” (politisierung) of citizenship. While till that moment the fact of belonging to the polis was defined by a number of conditions and social status of different kind –for instance belonging to nobility or to a certain cultual community,  to be peasant or merchant, member of a certain family etc- from now on citizenship became the main criterion of social identity.
“The result was a specifically greek conception of citizenship, in which the fact that men had to behave as citizens found an institutional  form. The belonging to economical or religious communities was removed to a secondary rank. The citizens of a democracy considered themselves as members of the polis, only in so far as they devoted themselves to a political life. Polis and politeia, city and citizenship constituted and defined one another. Citizenship became in that way a form of life, by means of which the polis constituted itself in a domain clearly distinct from the oikos, the house. Politics became therefore a free public space as such opposed to the private space, which was the reign of necessity”. According to Meier, this specifically greek process of politisation was transmitted to western politics, where citizenship remained the decisive element.
The hypothesis I would like to propose to you  is that this fundamental political factor has entered an irrevocable process that we can only define as a process of increasing depolitisation. What was in the beginning a way of living , an essentially and irreducibly active condition, has now become a purely passive juridical status, in which action and inaction, the private and the public are progressively blurred and become indistinguishable. This process of depolitisation of citizenship is so evident, that I will not dwell on it.
I will rather try to show how the paradigm of security and the security apparatuses have played a decisive role in this process. The growing extension to citizens of technologies which were conceived for criminals has inevitably consequences on the political identity of the citizen. For the first time in the history of humanity, identity is no longer a function of the social personality and its recognition by others, but rather a funtion of biological data, which cannot bear any relation to it, like the arabesques of the fingerprints or the disposition of the genes in the double helix of  DNA. The most neutral and private thing becomes the decisive factor of social identity, which loose therefore its public character.
If my identity is now determined by biological facts, that in no way depends on my will and over which I have no control, then the construction of something like a political and ethical identity becomes problematic. What relationship can I establish with my fingerprints or my genetic code? The new identity is an identity without the person, as it were, in which the space of politics and ethics loses its sense and must be thought again from the ground up. While the greek citizen was defined through the opposition between the private and the public, the oikos , which is the place of reproductive life, and the polis, place of political action, the modern citizen seems rather to move in a zone of indifference beteween the private and the public, or , to quote Hobbes terms, the physical and the political body.
The materialization in space of this zone of indifference is the video surveillance of the streets and the squares of our cities. Here again an apparatus that had been conceived for the prisons  has been extended to public places. But it is evident that a video recorded place is no more an agora and becomes a hybrid of public and private, a zone of indifference between the prison and the forum. This transformation of the political space is certainly a complex phenomenon, that involves a multiplicity of causes, and among them the birth of biopower holds a special place. The primacy of the biological identity over the political identity is certainly linked to the politicization of bare life in modern states. But one should never forget that the leveling of social identity on body identity begun with the attempt to identify the recidivist criminals. We should not be astonished if today the normal relationship between the state and its citizens is defined by suspicion, police filing and control. The unspoken principle which rules our society can be stated like that: every citizen is a potential terrorist. But what is a State which is ruled by such a principle? Can we still define it as democratic State? Can we even consider it as being something political? In which kind of State do we live today?
You will probably know that Michel Foucault, in his book Surveiller et punir and in his courses at the Collège de France sketched a typological classification of modern States. He shows how the State of the Ancien regime, that he calls territorial or sovereign State and whose motto was faire mourir et laisser vivre, evolves progressively in a population State and in a disciplinary State, whose motto reverses now in faire vivre et laisser mourir, as it will take care of the citizens life in order to produce healthy, well ordered and manageable bodies.
The state in which we live now is no more a disciplinary State. Gilles Deleuze suggested to call it «Etat de contrôle»,  control State, because what it wants, is not to order and to impose discipline, but rather to manage and to control. Deleuze’s definition is correct, because management and control do not necessarily coincide with order and discipline. No one has told it so clearly as the Italian police officer, who, after the turmoils of Genoa in July 2001, declared that the government did not want that the police maintains order, but that it manages disorder.
American politologists, who have tried to analyze the constitutional transformation involved in the Patriot Act and in the other laws which followed September 2001, prefer to speak of a Security State.  But what does security here mean? It is during the French revolution that the notion of security –sureté, as they used to say- is linked to the definition of police. The laws of March 16, 1791 and August 11, 1792 introduce thus in the French legislation the notion of «police de sureté» (security police), which was doomed to have a long history in modernity. If you read the debates which preceded the votation of these laws, you will see that police and security define one another, but no one among the speakers (Brissot, Heraut de Séchelle, Gensonné) is able to define police or security by themselves.
The debates focused on the situation of the police with respect to justice and judicial power. Gensonné maintains that they are «two separate and distinct powers»; yet, while the function of the judicial power is clear, it is impossible to define the role of the police. An analysis of the debate shows that the place and function of the police is undecidable and must remain undecidable, because, if it were really absorbed in the judicial power, police could no more exist. This is the discretionary power which still today defines the action of the police officer, who, in a concrete situation of danger for the public security, acts so to speak as a sovereign. But, even when he exerts this discretionary power, he does not really take a decision, nor prepares, as is usually stated, the judge’s decision. Every decision concerns the causes, while the police acts on effects, which are by definition undecidable.
The name of this undecidable element is no more today, like it was in XVII century, «raison d’Etat», State reason: it is rather «security reasons». The Security State is a police State: but, again, in the juridical theory, the police is a kind of black hole. All we can say is that when the so called «Science of the police» first appears in XVIII century, the «police» is brought back to its etymology from the Greek «politeia» and opposed as such to «politics». But it is surprising to see that Police coincides now with the true political function, while the term politics is reserved to the foreign policy. Thus Von Justi, in his treatise on Policey Wissenschaft, calls Politik the relationship of a State with other States, while he calls Polizei the relationship of a State with itself. It is worthwhile to reflect upon this definition: (I quote): «Police is the relationship of a State with itself».
The hypothesis I would like to suggest here is that, placing itself under the sign of security, modern State has left the domain of politics to enter a no man’s land, whose geography and whose borders are still unknown. The Security State, whose name seems to refer to an absence of cares (securus from sine cura) should, on the contrary, make us worry about the dangers it involves for democracy, because in it political life has become impossible, while democracy means precisely the possibility of a political life.
But I would like to conclude –or better to simply stop my lecture (in philosophy like in art, no conclusion is possible, you can only abandon your work) with something which, as far as I can see now, is perhaps the most urgent political problem. If the State we have in front of us is the Security State I described, we have to think anew the traditional strategies of political conflicts. What shall we do, what strategy shall we follow?
The Security paradigm implies that each dissention, each more or less violent attempt to overhrow its order, become an opportunity to govern them in a profitable direction. This is evident in the dialectics which binds tightly together terrorism and State in an endless vicious spiral. Starting with French revolution, the political tradition of modernity has conceived of radical changes in the form of a revolutionary process that acts as the pouvoir constituant, the «constituent power» of a new institutional order. I think that we have to abandon this paradigm and try to think something as a puissance destituante, a «purely destituent power», that cannot be captured in the spiral of security.
It is a destituent power of this sort that Benjamin has in mind in his essay On the critique of violence when he tries to define a pure violence which could «break the false dialectics of lawmaking violence and law-preserving violence», an example of which is Sorel’s proletarian general strike. «On the breaking of this cycle» he writes in the end of the essay «maintained by mythic forms of law, on the destitution of law with all the forces on which it depends, finally therefore on the abolition of State power, a new historical epoch is founded». While a constituent power destroys law only to recreate it in a new form, destituent power, in so far as it deposes once for all the law, can open a really new historical epoch.

To think such a purely destituent power is not an easy task. Benjamin wrote once that nothing is so anarchical as the bourgeois order. In the same sense, Pasolini in his last movie has one of the four Salò masters saying to their slaves: «true anarchy is the anarchy of power». It is precisely because power constitutes itself through the inclusion and the capture of anarchy and anomy, that it is so difficult to have an immediate access to these dimensions, it is so hard to think today something as a true anarchy or a true anomy. I think that a praxis which would succeed in exposing clearly the anarchy and the anomy captured in the Security government technologies could act as a purely destituent power. A really new political dimension becomes possible only when we grasp and depose the anarchy and the anomy of power. But this is not only a theoretical task: it means first of all the rediscovery of a form-of-life, the access to a new figure of that political life whose memory the Security State tries at any price to cancel.


Giorgio Agamben is Baruch Spinoza Chair at European Graduate School EGS and professor of aesthetics at the University of Verona, Italy and teaches philosophy at the Collège International de Philosophie in Paris and at the University of Macerata in Italy.

1330. USS Calhoun County Sailors Dumped Thousands of Tons of Radioactive Waste into Ocean

By William R. Levesque, Tampa Times, December 20, 2013


They asked the dying Pasco County man about his Navy service a half-century before. He kept talking about the steel barrels. They haunted him, sea monsters plaguing an old sailor.
"We turned off all the lights," George Albernaz testified at a 2005 Department of Veterans Affairs hearing, "and … pretend that we were broken down and … we would take these barrels and having only steel-toed shoes … no protection gear, and proceed to roll these barrels into the ocean, 300 barrels at a trip."
Not all of them sank. A few pushed back against the frothing ocean, bobbing in the waves like a drowning man. Then shots would ring out from a sailor with a rifle at the fantail. And the sea would claim the bullet-riddled drum.

Back inside the ship, Albernaz marked in his diary what the sailors dumped into the Atlantic Ocean. He knew he wasn't supposed to keep such a record, but it was important to Albernaz that people know he had spoken the truth, even when the truth sounded crazy.
For up to 15 years after World War II, the crew of Albernaz's ship, the USS Calhoun County, dumped thousands of tons of radioactive waste into the Atlantic Ocean, often without heeding the simplest health precautions, according to Navy documents and Tampa Bay Times interviews with more than 50 former crewmen.
Albernaz began a battle for his life in 1988 when part of his brain began to die, mystifying doctors who eventually concluded the rare ailment might be linked to radiation. He filed a VA claim for benefits in 2001 that was repeatedly rejected, often with tortured government reasoning.
The VA and Navy told Albernaz he was not exposed to radiation on the Calhoun County, a vessel the Navy ordered sunk in 1963 because it was radioactive. The VA ignored Navy documents discovered by a former congressional aide proving the ship's radioactivity, telling Albernaz they were "unsubstantiated." And the Navy today points to Cold War records that are incomplete and unreliable as proof crewmen were not exposed to dangerous radiation.
The Navy and VA's insistence that atomic waste on the Calhoun County was not dangerous comes 15 years after the VA linked the death of a crewman who served with Albernaz to radiation.
Adequate health safeguards were followed and the crew was not exposed to dangerous radiation, Navy spokesman Kenneth Hess said.
"The Navy did not scuttle the ship because of radioactivity," he said, "but because it was at the end of its useful life."
Up to 1,000 men served on the Calhoun County in the years it dumped radioactive waste, a practice that continued until about 1960 — two years before the ship's decommissioning.
It's impossible to know how many suffered unusual health problems after they left the ship. The VA and Navy never followed up on their health. Some got sick and never filed VA claims. And after more than a half-century, much of the crew has died.
Albernaz died in 2009 of heart failure after his health was ruined by radiation, his wife says. He was 75.
"George believed his own government thought he was lying, like it was all a figment of his imagination," said his widow, Bernice Albernaz, 69, who continues the fight with the VA that her husband began 12 years ago.
She said her husband didn't lie. Sea monsters did troll the depths. They remain there still.
• • •
It was a ship built for war.
LST 519 was launched in early 1944 and quickly put in harm's way. The ship took supplies to North Africa and participated in the D-Day invasion of Normandy, surviving convoy attacks by German airplanes. The name Calhoun County was added in 1955.
LST stands for "landing ship, tank." The ship, nearly as long as a football field, carried tons of supplies that could be disgorged through bow doors on a beach or stored on its large top deck.
With the end of World War II, the ship began dumping the military's old or defective ammunition into the Atlantic from ammunition depots up and down the East Coast, usually in waters at least 6,000 feet deep. But it wasn't long before a second mission was added for the crew of 75 or so men.
The opening of the Atomic Age brought a vexing problem — how to dispose of radioactive waste.
The Atomic Energy Commission, which then managed most aspects of U.S. atomic energy policy, settled on a cheap, convenient fix: ocean dumping. The Calhoun County soon became the only Navy ship on the East Coast dumping radioactive waste.
The containers looked like ordinary 55-gallon steel drums. Nobody on the ship was quite sure what was in them.
They arrived by the hundreds by train and truck at the ship's home port at Sandy Hook Bay, N.J. or the ship picked them up at Floyd Bennett Field on Long Island. Less often, waste was picked up at other ports, including Boston. The hottest waste came from Floyd Bennett. At times, the barrels were marked with color-coded dots or a painted X. The "red dot" barrels were said to be the most dangerous.
Not that it mattered. Few if any of the crewmen, according to interviews, received any special training on handling the waste. They said they handled the "red dot" barrels the same as all the rest.
Much of the waste, which was packed in concrete, came from Brookhaven National Laboratory, a government research facility on Long Island that had a reactor and generated radioactive material.
Several shipments emitted 17 rems per hour of radioactivity even after the waste was encased in concrete, Calhoun County's deck logs show. That is the equivalent of about 1,700 typical chest X-rays.
Two sailors would place each barrel on its side and roll it to the edge of the ship. The Calhoun County, with its flat, shallow bottom, always shifted crazily in the waves, back and forth, a metronome marking time for a dangerous waltz.
As the ship tilted in their direction, the men released their barrel with a push and let gravity help take it overboard.
The ship carried the waste out off the continental shelf several times a year to waters of varying depths, usually 6,000 to 12,000 feet. The designated dumping areas were a full day's trip up to 200 miles out to sea, though several men said in interviews that the ship would dump much closer to the coast when the weather was bad.
After they handled the barrels, the men went below deck to drink coffee or eat.
No documents appear to exist showing what exactly the Navy dumped. Deck logs list dumping coordinates, tonnage handled and drum radiation levels — but often, even that information is missing. And from 1946 to 1953, the Calhoun County's officers were not recording any dumps in deck logs at all.
"We do not have complete historical records that would enable accurate estimates of the exact types or total quantity of radiological waste the Navy disposed of at sea," Hess, the Navy spokesman, said. Still, he insists the waste was "low level."
The Navy says some of the waste included contaminated lab equipment and "potential nuclear fuel sources." In the 1970s, scientists found small quantities of plutonium and cesium had leached from some barrels.
A 1954 government handbook on ocean dumping said precise records were critical. Atomic science was new. Dumping could cause "undesirable consequences" then unforeseen, it said.
• • •
At the Brookhaven lab, workers were advised at length about the safest way to deal with radiation. In 1957, the lab produced a booklet for its employees called ABC's of Radiation.
Radiation, the booklet said, "should be regarded with respect, but it need not be feared. Complete safety is possible, if the necessary rules and procedures are followed. Danger lurks only for the uninformed or careless."
Radioactivity can damage a cell's DNA or chemical bonds in the human body. But sometimes cells are unable to repair themselves, especially as radiation levels rise.
Scientists believe this can lead to cancer or other illnesses.
On the Calhoun County, according to documents and interviews, radiation was neither feared nor respected. "We had no supervision," said Bob Berwick, 82, of Laguna Niguel, Calif., an officer on the ship in 1952 and 1953. "We were on our own."
From the Brookhaven booklet: "To guard against contamination, special protective clothing is available in radiation areas. . . . Clothing worn where radioactive materials are present is specially marked and washed."
None of the crew interviewed for this story recall getting special clothing or gear during dumping operations. An exception were the cotton gloves provided to the crew in the early to mid-1950s.
"We threw the gloves overboard into the ocean when we were done with them," said Richard Tkaczyk, 85, of Buffalo, N.Y., who served on the ship from 1949 to 1951.
Several men said they were told to shower and take off clothing for washing after dumps. But for much of the ship's history, this was not done, according to crewmen.
"The laboratory employs shielding extensively to protect you against . . . radiation."
No special shielding was ever used on the Calhoun County. In fact, some of the ship's crew slept in quarters immediately under the barrels on the main deck. The deck plating was less than an inch thick. Atop that was wooden planking. Radiation still seeped below.
Albernaz told the VA in 2007 he recalled a trip when an AEC worker came through the crew quarters with a Geiger counter.
"It would go off like a machine-gun and he would say to us, 'Okay. Get your pillow, blanket and mattress. We're moving you to the tank deck,' " Albernaz said.
But the tank deck was under barrels, too. "So actually, there was really no place on that ship that was safe," Albernaz said.
"All members of the staff who work in radiation areas are required to wear a small film badge, which is darkened by radiation, or a pocket meter resembling a fountain pen. … Meters are read daily, badges every week to ensure nobody is overexposed."
At times, the men of the Calhoun County wore both types of radiation detectors. But interviews show they were often missing. Other times, the badges would be handed out immediately before a dump and retrieved immediately afterward. So radiation exposure during the three-day round trip to dumping areas was not documented.
And radioactive barrels might be stored on the ship for days at a time before the ship sailed, continually exposing the crew, according to deck logs.
And even when they had detectors, many of the crew did not take them seriously.
"When the badge turned purple, that meant you had too much radiation," said Andre Vernot, 75, of Columbia, Md., an officer on the ship from 1960 to 1962. "Our rules were, when the badge turns purple, turn it in and get another one."
"Radioactive materials can be harmful if within or on the body. … This is why eating or smoking is forbidden in some radiation areas."
The barrels loaded on the Calhoun County sometimes leaked, especially in the early days of dumping. William Dillow, 90, of St. Augustine, was an ordnance disposal specialist on the ship from 1957 to 1960. He vividly recalled one shipment.
"They had a leaker and the flatbed [truck] was contaminated," he said. The Navy's solution wasn't elegant. The flatbed was loaded on the ship and tossed in the ocean along with the barrels.
When the dumping was done, sailors washed out bin areas with high-pressure water while others used brooms to sweep out the deck. The men might then track that water, and perhaps radioactive particles, into every part of the ship, according to interviews.
One sailor absently sat on a red-dot barrel for a few minutes during one operation, said Elmer Peter, an 81-year-old Lawrenceville, Ga., resident who was a ship's pipe fitter from 1955 to 1956. There was an apparent delay in reporting the incident, and the sailor went about his business.
"They eventually went to this guy's bunk with a Geiger counter and there was so much contamination, it pegged the counter," Peter said. "They had to destroy everything on the bunk and everything else in the area. I never saw him again."
A Navy spokesman dismissed that the men sleeping under the barrels faced danger.
"Even an eighth of an inch of steel can shield people from many low-level radiological waste materials, and even a distance of one foot provides additional protection," said Hess.
The crew sometimes noticed the civilian dock workers who loaded the waste taking precautions the Navy ignored.
"Once we pulled into Sandy Hook, and the civilian workers who were loading this stuff had exposure suits on, masks and everything," said Vernot. "And we're out there in our shorts, no shirts. That really p----- us off."
• • •
There were jokes, of course, about the entire ship being radioactive and how the barrels would make them all sterile.
But the ship was radioactive.
On June 5, 1956, according to Navy memos, Naval Research Laboratory technicians took radiation readings on the Calhoun County before barrels were loaded on its deck.
Parts of the ship were radioactive, a memo to the Third Naval District commandant said. The ship's captain, Herbert Hern, was ordered to "decontaminate affected areas" as soon as possible.
The discovery prompted a more thorough examination of dumping operations. Navy brass did not like what they found. The ship's handling of this dangerous waste was sloppy, haphazard.
The Navy today says all crewmen were trained in the use of dosimeters, or radiation badges, to ensure none received a dangerous dose.
Readings, the Navy says, were documented.
But on Aug. 30, 1956 — a decade after dumping began — a memo from Navy commanders said Calhoun County "personnel are not familiar with monitoring and decontamination procedures " and "radiological exposure records of personnel are not maintained" properly.
The Navy ordered the ship to inspect barrels before they were loaded to ensure none leaked radioactive material, a particular problem.
Ship's surfaces were washed, sandblasted, repainted. Available records do not say if any of this worked.
The crew didn't worry, but few of them knew their workplace was radioactive.
• • •
George Albernaz, then 22, was excited to be on the Calhoun County as its newest quartermaster. He was born in Fall River, Mass., and had hardly been away from home. He thought he was going to be part of the Navy's storied amphibious force.
He took a diary with him and recounted his adventure in the words of a wide-eyed sailor.
"This is the story of the most fascinating experience of my life … doing a job I never dreamed existed, serving on a ship whose days as a man of war are but a story in the past but today she is engaged in a service equally important as any fighting ship in the Navy," he wrote.
It wasn't long before Albernaz began keeping a different kind of diary. He titled this new log "Nuclear Waste Dumping Diary."
Jan. 20 1957: "371 tons atomic waste."
Feb. 7, 1957: "368 tons atom waste."
Nov. 13, 1957: "299 (tons) poison gas (and) A.W."
One of Albernaz's last entries was on June 12, 1958: "200 tons. Spec. weapons," or special weapons. That was the day, Albernaz later told his wife, that he helped dispose of an atomic bomb.
The Calhoun County sailed out of Norfolk, Va. with two giant crates. The ship's log noted it dumped "confidential material" at 2:31 a.m.
Albernaz's wife said he told her about that trip. He said the crew was told the crates contained two atomic bombs. Other sailors interviewed said the occasional dumping of disassembled atomic bombs occurred several times in its history.
• • •
On March 10, 1958, one of the Calhoun County's crew, Harvey Lucas, was ordered to a Navy hospital. He was in pain and vomiting a brownish liquid, hospital records show.
Two months later, the ship's muster rolls show, Albernaz was hospitalized for two weeks. His wife said he later told her he had severe nausea. The two men were among a handful that year with long hospitalizations, records show. Albernaz later said doctor's diagnosed them with stomach ulcers.
Michael Gardner, a ship's officer in the early 1960s, said he saw odd stomach ailments.
"I distinctly remember crew members being off the vessel and sent to the hospital," said Gardner, 73, of New York City. "The only reason I remember it is because I had to find ways to cover for certain people when they were taken off the ship."
On March 28, 1958, Rowland Burnham, the Calhoun County's new captain, asked his superiors for $37,000 to replace the wooden deck that held radioactive barrels during dumping operations. The ship, it seemed, was still radioactive.
"Scrubbing, washing or scraping away of some of the wood has not removed all of the contamination," Burnham said in a memo. He said the radiation was low, just 1 millirem. A typical chest x-ray is 10 millirems.
"But the personnel are being continuously exposed to it," the captain said. "It is felt that this condition is a health hazard and should be eliminated."
For more than a year, records show, the Navy did nothing, perhaps because it was thinking of mothballing the ship. It needed major repairs.
Early in 1959, the Navy finally replaced the deteriorating deck. That, however, created a new problem: The debris was radioactive. Civilian workers put it in barrels with concrete — 125 in all.
The Calhoun County then sailed out and dumped part of itself into the sea.
• • •
On Nov. 8, 1962, the Calhoun County was finally decommissioned in a ceremony at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Crew and family sat in chairs on the ship's contaminated deck. A band played. The crew was reassigned.
The Navy planned to sell the ship, either as is or for scrap. Its scrap value was not insignificant — $62,000. But ultimately, the Navy realized it could not be sold.
A Dec. 13 memo by the chief of the Navy's Bureau of Ships doubted radiation on the Calhoun County could ever be reduced to levels then considered safe. The memo noted the Navy had never been able to decontaminate a radioactive ship.
"Complete paint stripping and sandblasting have failed to accomplish this (on the Calhoun County) and in the cases of ships contaminated in nuclear weapons tests," the memo said.
So the Navy ordered the Calhoun County sunk.
Navy officer George Self, 83, of Pahrump, Nev., got the job to ready the Calhoun County for sinking. The end came sometime in 1963. The Navy roped off several compartments inside the ship, Self said, and posted signs throughout warning of radiation.
The ship left Norfolk Naval Base and a submarine fired two torpedoes at it in a gunnery exercise. One punched a hole near the engine room, but the Calhoun County refused to sink.
The Navy towed it back to Norfolk and tied up at a pier to figure out what to do next. It was only then that the Calhoun County started sinking.
Self got an emergency call at home from Navy brass. They were apoplectic that a radioactive ship was sinking at the base.
Divers plugged the hole. Sea water was pumped out. And the ship was towed to deep water.
Self did not go out on the second trip, so he is unsunsure how the ship met its end. The Navy said demolition charges sent the old LST to the bottom.
• • •
The years after his 1960 Navy discharge were cruel to Calhoun County crewman Harvey Lucas.
Lucas, a Denver man who spent more than three years on the ship, had always been suspicious of the Calhoun County's mission even while still a deckhand. Like Albernaz, Lucas tried to document the ship's work. He stole a radiation badge and took pictures of the barrels.
"He documented everything," said daughter Jeanine Lucas.
His family said he wondered if the work had been far more dangerous than the Navy let on. Those concerns could only have been stoked when his uncle, George Dutcher, who served on the ship with Lucas, died of cancer in the late 1960s still in his 40s.
Lucas left the Navy and developed osteoporosis. It was so severe that a doctor said he had the bones of a 95-year-old, his family told the VA. He and his wife had five children born with birth defects or health problems.
Cancer took Lucas, too. He died on June 17, 1985, at age 47 of leiomyosarcoma, an aggressive soft-tissue cancer. It has been documented in women who in the 1950s and 1960s received radiation treatment for excessive menstrual bleeding.
Damage from the disease was so bad a funeral home couldn't embalm him. Lucas was buried in a body bag.
Lucas, and then his wife after his death, battled the VA for benefits, arguing the radiation caused his cancer and brittle bones. The VA repeatedly denied a link, at first saying the ship hadn't carried radioactive waste.
In 1990, his wife, Barbara Lucas, contacted Karl Morgan, who is sometimes called the "father of health physics." He had been head health physicist at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory for 29 years. He helped set standards for radioactive-waste shipping containers like those on the Calhoun County.
"It is my opinion that the Navy was very irresponsible in not informing those engaged in this hazardous waste operation (of) the inherent danger and the necessity to minimize their radioactive exposure and especially to avoid inhalation or ingestion of any of the loose radioactive waste," Morgan told the VA. "It is impossible to condone the fact that these service men did not at all times wear film badges."
William Kemper, a retired Naval physicist, estimated Lucas had been exposed to radiation five times greater than the legal limit when he served.
Kemper told the VA, "it seems most likely that he had ingested some cobalt 90 or other (radioactive) waste in . . . his duties."
In 1998, the VA finally ruled Lucas's death was caused by radiation he was exposed to on the Calhoun County and approved benefits for his widow.
• • •
George Albernaz didn't talk much about his almost two years on the Calhoun County after he was discharged in 1958.
He didn't like discussing the atomic dumping with strangers, his wife recalled. He sensed, when he did talk, folks just assumed he was exaggerating his Navy service.
Bernice and George Albernaz met at a dance hall in Massachusetts in the late 1960s. Everybody liked George. A gentle man, he had been an altar boy until he was 15, was soft-spoken with an open, trusting face. Bernice thought he had kind eyes.
The couple married in 1969, and when their son was born in 1970, they laughed. The barrels hadn't sterilized him after all.
In 1988 at age 54, Albernaz began having troubling symptoms.
He lost weight. He began dropping things with his left hand, which felt weakened. He tripped over his left foot and couldn't hold the newspaper up in the morning. When the couple talked about it, they just brushed away any concern.
"You're getting old," Bernice Albernaz told him.
On Aug. 31, 1988, her husband drove to work as shipping supervisor at a Fall River, Mass., factory curtain outlet. During the day, Albernaz fell, shaking uncontrollably with a seizure. He was rushed to the hospital. His wife thought he might have had a stroke or heart attack.
A brain scan and tests brought the worst news. Doctors diagnosed a brain tumor. They prepped Albernaz for surgery.
But no evidence of a tumor was found during surgery. The tissue in one part of his brain was dying. That explained Albernaz's left-side weakness.
The dying brain tissue mystified doctors, but they discharged Albernaz.
He returned in October for more brain scans. The shadow on his brain had grown. Doctors began to doubt their earlier assurances that it wasn't a brain tumor, medical records show, and Albernaz underwent chemotherapy.
Two additional brain surgeries followed. Biopsies finally ruled out a tumor. But that good news was tempered by a growing weakness on his left side. His arm was becoming useless. His left leg was affected as if the malady was moving down his body like snake venom spreading from a bite.
Doctors were still baffled. Samples of Albernaz's brain were sent to the Centers for Disease Control. He began to tell doctors about those long-ago barrels.
A doctor made a consultation note about Albernaz's description of the Calhoun County's work. "He was on a ship where the work was done with no protection. … He did not appear to have any radiation consequences at the time. . . . There's the possibility that he got some delayed radiation necrosis effect which can appear many years later."
It wasn't until 2006 doctors began to believe Albernaz's troubles were tied to vasculitis, an inflammation of blood vessels that can limit the blood supply to an organ such as the brain. His doctors told him radiation could cause this. But records indicate they would never be certain of the vasculitis diagnosis.
Albernaz became paralyzed on his left side. Seizures continued. He walked only with a leg brace or cane. By the end of his life, he used a wheelchair. Albernaz couldn't get out of bed without help. His life of bowling, dancing and fishing was over.
Albernaz would never work again.
• • •
In 2001, Albernaz filed a claim for benefits with the VA. He wrote letters and emails to anyone he could find who served on the Calhoun County, asking if they had become ill.
A crewman named George Lindsay responded, telling Albernaz he hadn't been sick.
"(But) I do believe that we were exposed without being told what could happen to us and our families," Lindsay wrote him. "I find the biggest problem is that there is no follow up on any of the crew members. . . . Not even a phone call from anyone in the government to find out if we are well."
Weeks after Albernaz mailed in his benefits claim, he got a letter from a woman who would provide the kind of evidence most veterans never see in years fighting the VA.
Deborah Derrick had been an aide to U.S. Rep. David Skaggs, a Colorado Democrat, in the late 1990s when she heard the Harvey Lucas story. She was mesmerized by his history on the ship.
She began researching the Calhoun County, hoping to write a book. She would hit pay-dirt.
In the National Archives, she found old Navy reports about the Calhoun County's radioactivity. She read about a captain's concerns the radiation was a health hazard for sailors. She was stunned to see reports showing the ship was deliberately sunk because it was contaminated with radioactivity.
She attended ship's reunions and tracked down crewmen. Then she found Albernaz.
With her piles of documents proving the ship's radioactivity, Derrick thought it would be impossible for anyone to deny the Calhoun County hadn't endangered its crew.
"I thought I was going to be the girl riding in on white horse to save the day," said Derrick, 52. "I thought I had incontrovertible evidence."
• • •
One of the VA's first responses to Albernaz, his wife said, was to tell him it could not find records that he served on the ship. But the couple found an old Calhoun County Christmas menu from the ship dated 1956 that listed his name.
In the years that followed, the VA discounted or ignored much of the evidence Albernaz presented. The VA talked of his "alleged involvement" in dumping atomic waste. The VA said Derrick's evidence was "unsubstantiated."
Albernaz submitted the letter from Morgan, the 29-year head of health physics at one of the nation's premier radiation labs who had offered an opinion in the Lucas case. Morgan criticized the Navy's low radiation estimates on the Calhoun County.
The VA told Albernaz it "is not familiar with Mr. Morgan's credentials." A child could become familiar with those credentials after 10 minutes on the Internet, Bernice Albernaz later said.
The VA dismissed an assessment by one of Albernaz's doctors that his necrotic brain tissue was caused by radiation because it "was based upon the history the veteran reported to him."
Though there are numerous documents in government archives showing the Calhoun County carried radioactive material, the government made little effort to substantiate Albernaz's claim.
Albernaz's testimony and evidence, the VA said, was "anecdotal."
The VA asked the Navy to check records to see if they showed Albernaz had been exposed to radiation. The Navy found records from 1958 and 1959 with a list of crewmen who wore radiation badges.
Every man on the Calhoun County, except for officers, handled the barrels. But the Navy said Albernaz was not listed in either year. As for readings in 1957, the Navy could find no records at all.
So the VA ruled in 2006: "Again, U.S. Navy Department confirms that there is no evidence to establish occupational exposure to ionizing radiation for this veteran during his active service."
"How can the Navy confirm that I wasn't exposed to ionizing radiation when I lived, ate and slept on (a) contaminated ship that was … put out of service because it was contaminated with radioactive waste from all the years this dumping took place?" Albernaz said in a letter to the VA. "I am insulted and disappointed."
The VA and Navy came to accept Albernaz was exposed to radiation on the Calhoun County. But his exposure, they said, was very low.
In 2004 the Albernazes moved to New Port Richey from Massachusetts.
• • •
On July 5, 2007, the Albernazes traveled to Washington, D.C., for a hearing at the Board of Veterans Appeals. Derrick went, too. Albernaz was sicker now, hardly able to travel.
Albernaz cried when he described his illness. He recalled a doctor banging his fist on a table while looking at Albernaz's brain scans and saying, "I would give my right eye to know what that is."
The judge seemed sympathetic.
"This is kind of what happened to the Vietnam veterans … with Agent Orange," hearing judge Lisa Barnard said then. "Nobody knew at the time, but if it kills everything else around, then that would have been a clue that it probably was not a good idea to spray around human beings."
Barnard tried to reassure Albernaz about obtaining incontrovertible proof linking his illness to the ship. "We don't need 100 percent absolute proof. We don't need somebody coming in saying it's beyond all shadow of a doubt this is what caused this. . . . I will try to do something to fix this and sort the situation out."
A month later, the judge sent the case back to the VA in Seminole so it could get more information from the Navy.
Barnard wrote, "This claim must be afforded expedited treatment."
Albernaz wouldn't live to see a final decision.
In August 2009, Albernaz sat up in bed and told his wife he couldn't breathe. Bernice Albernaz rushed him to the emergency room. He had suffered a heart attack. Doctors said he had just days to live.
He was taken to a hospice. Albernaz told his wife to keep fighting to get VA benefits. He told her never to quit. People had to know he had told the truth. "I want my story told," her husband told her.
Albernaz began reciting, almost inaudibly, a Portuguese prayer with a reassuring rhythm. It's a language he knew from his boyhood. His parents' native Portugal is a land of sailors and ships on the cusp of a great but perilous sea.
Hours later, Albernaz died. It was Aug. 8, 2009.
• • •
His wife kept her promise. She continued the fight.
Today, the VA says that even if Albernaz had been exposed to levels of radiation higher than estimates provided by Derrick in her research, he would not have been in danger.
"Mr. Albernaz's exposure … was far lower than the threshold dose known to cause damage," the VA said in a statement. "Also, his brain necrosis did not occur near the time of exposure, which is normally the case, but instead it occurred some 31 years later."
The Navy maintains the Calhoun County was a safe ship.
Calculations show that "the level of radiation onboard (the) Calhoun County even at the highest levels of potential exposure would not have led to any long-term negative health impacts, according to our radiation health experts."
The Navy declined to release specific radiation dose calculations from the ship because, it says, that would violate the privacy of crewmen.
The Navy said crewmen wore radiation monitors that showed "no monitored personnel received more than the safe occupational limit."
Bernice Albernaz is still appealing the VA's denial of her husband's claim.
"I'll fight them until the end," she said. "It's not about money anymore. My husband died broken-hearted. They have no clue what he went through. I just want to prove he was on the ship. He did what he said he did. These guys did what they said they did. The ship was radioactive. It all really did happen. This story wasn't made up."
The VA sent a letter to Albernaz earlier this year saying it was still gathering evidence.
"This claim," it said, "must be afforded expeditious treatment."
• • •
Civilian workers at Brookhaven, the lab that packaged much of the waste dumped by the Calhoun County, found it difficult to prove their on-the-job exposure to radiation in the Cold War led to cancers some of them suffered. Records were too incomplete. Some workers were never monitored.
So in 2010, the federal government decided they would no longer have to prove their specific radiation exposure to get financial compensation and medical care. If they worked at the lab at least 250 days from 1947 to 1979 and were diagnosed with one of 22 radiation-related cancers, they qualified.
Congress protects military personnel in much the same way. But none of the men who served on the Calhoun County are eligible for automatic VA benefits for radiation illnesses because they did not participate in underwater or atmospheric atomic tests and related activities, the government says.
Thus, the crewmen do not meet their country's definition of "Atomic Veteran."
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About this story
The Tampa Bay Times examined thousands of pages of documentation and interviewed more than 50 former crewmen of the USS Calhoun County for this story. Bernice Albernaz of New Port Richey provided the Times with all Department of Veterans Affairs reports and correspondence she and her late husband received starting in 2001. Albernaz also provided letters the couple wrote to the VA, government officials and others and allowed the newspaper to review George Albernaz's medical records still in her possession. Albernaz also provided a copy of her daily diary from the time her husband first became ill in 1988.
The Times examined the file maintained by the U.S. Court of Veterans Appeals in Washington, D.C., on Harvey Lucas' VA claim and examined ship records at the National Archives in College Park, Md., and New York City, including the ship's deck logs and muster rolls. These logs documented where the USS Calhoun County traveled and often noted when the ship dumped radioactive waste.

The Times interviewed Deborah Derrick, a former aide to U.S. Rep. David Skaggs, D-Colo., by phone and at her Arlington, Va., home. She also generously answered numerous questions by email about her research, which began in 1998. Derrick last week published a book about the ship, Half Lives: The True Story of an Atomic Waste Dumping Ship, a Government Cover-up, and the Veterans' Families Shaped By It All. Read more about the ship and her work at HalfLives.com. Derrick is president of Friends of the Global Fight Against AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria, a nonprofit advocacy group in Washington, D.C.