
The Incident and Emergency Center of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) is on the eighth floor of the organization's headquarters building in Vienna. It is a low-ceilinged room, with a small conference table and a handful of cubicles, that somehow manages to be claustrophobic despite its expansive views toward the center of the city -- one set of windows looks down on the IAEA's plaza, where over 100 national flags line a fountain; the other looks across the Danube. It was a gray and stately vista of European order the day I visited.
For almost two months following Japan's March 11 earthquake and tsunami, which triggered a still-unfolding crisis at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Station, the room was staffed around the clock by 230 IAEA staff members working in shifts. I asked Elena Buglova, the Incident and Emergency Center's (IEC's) director, what they had accomplished during their 24/7 alert. "We did accomplish the activities of the IEC in line with the plans and procedures agreed in advance, which were known to member states, which were known to the competent authorities," she said. These are some of the plans and procedures Buglova followed, which she showed me on a slide: Fundamental Safety Principles; Governmental, Legal and Regulatory Framework for Safety; Preparedness and Response for a Nuclear or Radiological Emergency; Arrangements for Preparedness for a Nuclear or Radiological Emergency; and, lastly, the Criteria for Use in Preparedness and Response for a Nuclear or Radiological Emergency.
But for all this preparedness, even as the Fukushima Daiichi plant leaked a radioactive cloud into the atmosphere, all Yukiya Amano, the IAEA's head, could do was relay reassuring messages from the Japanese government, bound as he was by IAEA regulations limiting his authority. Even Buglova couldn't tell me what any of this had actually accomplished.
I was in Vienna for the IAEA's annual General Conference -- a chance for the ambassadors of the 151 IAEA member states to take stock of the past year and make plans for the next. Assorted VIPs also make an appearance, including U.S. Energy Secretary Steven Chu, the highest-ranking American official there.
In a week in Vienna I heard exactly one person -- George Felgate, head of the World Association of Nuclear Operators -- express some sense of responsibility for the disaster. "Did we fail? Yes, we did," Felgate said, referring to the Fukushima plant's lack of preparation for a massive tsunami and the resulting loss of electrical power. By contrast, Amano's opening statement went directly to the public reaction: "[Fukushima] caused deep public anxiety throughout the world and damaged confidence in nuclear power," he said. Amano's attitude was not one of contrition, but rather was directed at how to assuage public fears, the implication being that such fears stem from ignorance and could not possibly be well-founded.
Can the IAEA prevent the next Fukushima? Can it prevent the spread of nuclear weapons? I'd come to find out the answer to these questions. And the answer, which saddened me and should sadden you, is no. The story of the IAEA is a story of good intentions getting tangled in officiousness. It is a place where the dominant culture prevents smart people from taking risks. Its mandate is limited by law, but also by an attitude that revels in these limitations.
The week-long conference began on Monday morning, Sept. 19. For the next three days, each member state made its statement, with sessions sometimes going late into the night. Without fail, each of these would ritually include congratulations to the conference's new president, Romanian diplomat Cornel Feruta; condolences to the people and government of Japan; and then a welcome to the new IAEA members: Commonwealth of Dominica, the Kingdom of Tonga, and the Lao People's Democratic Republic. (There was some confusion when Mozambique's energy minister mixed up Dominica and the Dominican Republic.)
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