White noise

Newsweek

When White Noise was first published in January 1985, many reviewers remarked that it reminded them of the Bhopal disaster, which had occurred on December 3, 1984. These three stories from News-week's December 17, 1984, issue provide an account of the events in Bhopal, a description of the toxic chemical that caused the deaths, and a report on the likelihood of similar disasters in the United States.

from IT WAS LIKE BREATHING FIRE . . .

by Mark Whitaker, et al.
It was an unseasonably cold night in central India. In the shantytowns of Bhopal, thousands of poor families were asleep. At a nearby railway station, a scattering of people waited for early-morning trains. Suddenly, at the local Union Carbide plant, a maintenance worker spotted a problem. A storage tank holding methyl isocyanate (MIC), a chemical used in making pesticides, was showing a dangerously high pressure reading. The worker summoned his boss. The supervisor put out an alert. But it was already too late. A noxious white gas had started seeping from the tank and spreading with the northwesterly winds. At the Vijoy Hotel near the railroad, sociologist Swapan Saha, 33, woke up with a terrible pain in his chest. "It was both a burning and a suffocating sensation," he said. "It was like breathing fire."

Wrapping a damp towel around his nose and mouth, Saha went outside to investigate. Scores of victims lay dead on the train-station platform. "I thought at first there must have been a gigantic railway accident," he recalled. Then he noticed a pall of white smoke on the ground, and an acrid smell in the air. People were running helter-skelter, retching, vomiting and defecating uncontrollably. Many collapsed and died. Dogs, cows and buffaloes were also on the ground, shuddering in death throes. Saha made his way to the railway office, only to find the stationmaster slumped over his desk. For a moment, he thought that an atom bomb had hit Bhopal. Staggering back to the hotel, half blind himself by now, he sat down to write a farewell letter to his wife.

Saha lived, but thousands of others did not escape. For days the body count ticked upward—from 300 to 1,000 to more than 2,500— in the worst industrial accident in history. Across Bhopal, hospitals and mortuaries filled to overflowing. Muslims were buried four and five to a grave, and Hindu funeral pyres burned round the clock. As many as 100,000 survivors may be left with permanent disabilities: blindness, sterility, kidney and liver infections, tuberculosis and brain damage. There were fears that a cholera epidemic could strike. Breaking off a campaign swing through southern India, Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi rushed to Bhopal. Local officials ordered a full-scale judicial inquiry— and demanded that Union Carbide compensate victims of the disaster.

As a precaution, Union Carbide stopped production and distribution of methyl isocyanate at a plant similar to the Bhopal factory in Institute, W.Va. But it deflected questions about what caused the mishap until it could complete an internal investigation. The prospects of staggering lawsuits helped drive down the company's stock and forced officials to deny rumors that Union Carbide might have to declare bankruptcy. When Warren Anderson, the chairman of the firm, flew to Bhopal to talk about relief, local authorities arrested him on charges of criminal negligence. Later they released him. Union Carbide offered emergency relief, but refused to discuss outright compensation.

For million of Americans, the Bhopal catastrophe raised a frightening question: could it happen here? So far the worst industrial accidents have tended to occur in the Third World, where population density is higher and safety measures often fail to keep up with the spread of technology. By contrast, the U. S. chemical industry can boast of a strong safety record. But with more than 60,000 chemicals produced and stored in America, government regulators and watchdog groups can't even tell where potential time bombs are—let alone guarantee that they won't go off. "It's like a giant roulette game," says Anthony Mazzocchi, an expert on worker safety in New York. "This time the marble came to a stop in a little place in India. But the next time it could be the United States."

Most of Bhopal was asleep when disaster struck. After the leak started, as many as 200,000 people ran through the city streets, coughing, screaming and calling out to each other. At about 2 A.M., the pesticide factory's siren went off. Thinking a fire had broken out, hundreds rushed toward the plant—straight into the path of the deadly gas. The train station was littered with the bodies of railroad employees and red-uniformed porters. The junction was paralyzed for 20 hours, making it impossible for survivors to flee by train. Those wealthy enough to own cars gathered their families and tried to escape. But many drivers were blinded by the gas, and there were scores of accidents.

CITY OF CORPSES

The next morning it looked like a neutron bomb had struck. Buildings were undamaged. But humans and animals littered the low ground, turning hilly Bhopal into a city of corpses. Outside the mortuaries, bodies lay in piles. Those of Muslims were piled on top of each other in hurriedly dug graves. At night the city glowed with the flames of funeral pyres, so many that the local cremation grounds ran out of wood. A fresh supply had to be shipped in overnight before as many as 70 pyres could proceed with Hindu rituals.

Three days after the catastrophe, rescue workers still hadn't uncovered all the dead. Teams broke into the tin, clay and wood shacks of the shantytowns, searching for victims trapped by the gas. One group of volunteers came upon an entire family snuffed out in the night. A small 10-year-old boy named Zahir guided Newsweek's Sudip Mazum-dar to the gates of the Union Carbide factory. Zahir wiped his swollen red eyes with a filthy rag, then pointed to the faulty gas tank. "That's the one," he said. Zahir had escaped from the shantytown on Sunday night, wandered through the countryside until daybreak, then returned to find his neighborhood deserted and his parents missing. Hundreds of other kids roamed through the streets. Eventually, the government set up a missing-persons bureau to help all the lost survivors.

The city's hospitals came under siege. Hordes of sufferers, many still vomiting, crowded the emergency rooms. The worst off were old people, children and the poorest shantytown inhabitants. Many of them were chronically ill from malnutrition even before suffering the effects of the methyl isocyanate. Many doctors had also been exposed to the gas and were unable to work. Medical students and policemen had to be brought in from neighboring towns to help out. What the victims needed most, said one harried doctor, were massive doses of antibiotics and vitamins. But some of the inexperienced volunteers treated them with anything at hand—glucose, painkillers, even stomach pills. One house painter named Sahm arrived at a hospital with ulcerated eyes and burning pains in his stomach. A medical worker gave him a handful of high-potency antacid tablets.

"KEEP CALM"

Rumors spread like brushfire. One day after the disaster, a blanket of early-morning fog caused people to speculate that another gas leak had taken place. Policemen had to take to the streets in cars to stop everyone from panicking. "Keep calm," they called out through their loudspeakers. "There has been no new leak." There was another report that all the milk and vegetables in the food shops had been contaminated. In the end, that also turned out to be false. However, a local official rekindled fear when he told townspeople to wash their vegetables carefully.

The response of Indian officials was mostly slow and self-interested. Local authorities never set up a crisis-management office. There were even rumors that Arjun Singh, the chief minister of Madhya Pradesh, had fled Bhopal during the gas leak. When Singh finally did talk to reporters, he angrily denied the charge. "If this can be proved," he said, "I will resign from public life forthwith." Later, Rajiv Ghandi showed up briefly, touring two hospitals and talking to relief workers. Then he left Bhopal for a campaign tour of the rest of Madhya Pradesh. For most of a day, Singh dropped his other duties to join the prime minister. . . .
"AN UNSTOPPERED KILLER" by Matt Clark with Mariana Gosnell Methyl isocyanate is so unstable and so dangerous that even professional toxicologists are reluctant to study it in the lab. "As soon as you open the bottle, it escapes," says Yves Alarie of the University of Pittsburgh Graduate School of Public Health. "We've done very little on this substance because it is so difficult to control."

MIC belongs to a family of toxins for which there is no antidote and no treatment. It is used in the manufacture of insecticides that kill by attacking the nervous system. But the first effect of exposure is watering of the eyes and damage to the cornea. The substance is quickly absorbed into the corneal cells and renders them opaque. When inhaled, MIC immediately constricts the nasal and bronchial passages and the larynx; "You can compare it to a very dramatic asthma attack," he says. In one of the few human experiments ever done with MIC, a German researcher several years ago took a whiff to see what would happen; the effect was immediate and frightening. The spasms, Alarie suspects, result from the effect of MIC on nerve endings in the respiratory tract and, if the victim has inhaled enough MIC, can cause sudden death.

MIC can also irritate and inflame the lungs, leading to the accumulation of fluid, or pulmonary edema. Breathing is both difficult and painful, and if the victim has inhaled enough MIC, he will literally drown in the secretions. In the immediate aftermath of exposure, victims are probably more susceptible to lung infections. About the only way doctors can deal with anyone who survives significant exposure is to apply air rich in oxygen and administer sedatives and painkillers.

Just what the long-term effects of exposure will be for the Bhopal survivors is uncertain, since MIC hasn't been studied much in humans. Alarie recalls that, in 1967, firefighters battling a blaze in Britain were exposed to a chemical cousin of MIC called toluene di-isocyanate (TDI). As have many victims of the Indian disaster, some firemen experienced vomiting, possibly because of effects on the nervous system. Some suffered clearly neurological symptoms, including impaired coordination and memory loss. "There was recovery, but not complete recovery in all cases," says Alarie. Some of the Indian victims may have suffered kidney and liver damage. According to William E. Brown, a biologist at Pittsburgh's Carnegie-Mellon University, this can occur because MIC destroys proteins in the bloodstream; the kidneys and liver become overworked trying to rid the body of these aberrant wastes.

SURVIVORS

For most of the victims, especially those whose exposure was relatively slight, the physical effects will probably disappear in time, Brown expects. Many should recover their eyesight, since the cornea is capable of some degree of self-repair. For many, the respiratory problems should also clear up in a matter of weeks or months. Some will have developed antibodies to isocyanates and, therefore, could suffer allergic attacks if exposed again to such compounds—with any luck, an unlikely prospect. But the survivors of heavier exposure will suffer permanent respiratory impairment. "It will appear to be something like emphysema," says Brown, "and there's nothing to do about it."

Lethal as it is, at least one good thing can be said about MIC. It probably won't linger in the environment the way dioxin, PCBs and other noxious substances do. Moisture in the air breaks MIC down or "hydrolizes" it, forming carbon dioxide and a largely inert amine. "In a couple of weeks, the detectable level will be negligible," Brown predicts. Already, the survivors of Bhopal are moving back into their homes, and investigators say "the city's water is safe to drink."
from COULD IT HAPPEN

IN AMERICA? by Melinda Beck with Nikki Finke Greenberg; Mary Hager; Joann Harrison; and Anne Underwood

A similar disaster is unlikely—but the potential for danger is enormous
Residents of Institute, W. Va., were used to something funny in the air that caused hacking coughs and sometimes chipped the paint off cars. Old-timers affectionately called Union Carbide's big Institute plant "Uncle John's," and its foul odor, "the smell of jobs." The news that more than 2,500 people in India had been killed by methyl iso-cyanate (MIC)—a chemical made at the plant as well—came as a shock. Union Carbide halted MIC production there last week. But at a town meeting Tuesday night, one man demanded that residents be issued gas masks; another said the poison was so deadly that masks wouldn't help. "I dreamed about it all night long," said Sylvia Parker, a retired social worker. "My immediate concern is that what happened in India doesn't happen here."

That same cloud of concern wafted through communities all across the nation in the wake of the Bhopal tragedy. Chemical-industry experts hastened to say that a similar calamity was unlikely here since most U. S. facilities are not so dependent on unskilled labor and have far more sophisticated emergency-warning systems. Last month, when a small amount of MIC spilled in a plant run by FMC Corp. in Middleport, N.Y., 500 school children and staffers were evacuated in 35 minutes with no serious injuries. In fact, the chemical industry has the best safety record of any U. S. industry. But the potential for danger is enormous. "We have nothing to be comforted by just because we're living in an advanced industrial society," said safety expert Anthony Mazzocchi of the Workers' Policy Project. "On the contrary, we are at greater risk because we have more toxic plants here."

TESTS

The dimensions of the potential risk are staggering. An estimated 6,000 U. S. facilities make possibly hazardous chemicals. There are approximately 180,000 shipments by truck or rail every day in the United States of everything from nail-polish remover to nuclear weapons. More than 60,000 chemical substances are in use—and federal regulators don't even know how many pose health dangers. The 1976 Toxic Substances Control Act—TOSCA—requires that new chemicals be reviewed before they go on the market. But only 20 percent of those already in use have been tested even to minimal standards, according to the National Research Council. Federal disposal regulations do not even classify carbamates—the group of pesticides that use MIC during manufacture—as hazardous waste. That means, says Richard Fortuna of the Hazardous Waste Treatment Council, that "they can be discarded like orange peels."

What's more, responsibility for preventing a Bhopal-like disaster falls between the cracks in the federal bureaucracy. The Labor Department's Office of Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) periodically inspects facilities to ensure that accidents don't harm workers. The Environmental Protection Agency coordinates cleanups of some types of accidents. But EPA was only last month given the authority to regulate underground storage tanks such as the one that leaked in Bhopal. It has not begun to count such tanks, let alone determine what is in them. It will be three years before EPA proposes safety regulations— longer if its budget is cut further. In the meantime, "we've got no regulations and no enforcement," says EPA hazardous-waste expert Hugh Kaufman. "The only reason we haven't had a release with the same disastrous effect is that we've been lucky."

Chemical-industry officials insist it is far more than luck—that they police themselves far more thoroughly than federal regulations ever could. The industry is "obsessed with safety, because of the nature of the product," says Geraldine Cox of the Chemical Manufacturers Association. Because accidents do happen, chemical handlers go to great lengths to minimize the danger, and many are reviewing their safeguards in the wake of the Bhopal tragedy. "Never say never," says Pat Goggin of Dow Chemical in Midland, Mich., which staged a mock "release" of chlorine gas two weeks ago to test its leak-detection and community-warning procedures.

Some chemical firms use elaborate computer models to gauge the likely paths of accident releases. One such model, made by SAFER Emergency Systems in California, not only senses that a leak has occurred, but monitors its rate, concentration and toxicity, evaluates weather conditions and displays the anticipated cloud on a computer screen along with the degree of danger for anything in its path. The system can even dial phone numbers and play a recorded warning message—all within five minutes after the leak is detected.
WHISTLES

But emergency precautions vary widely from plant to plant. In Institute, Union Carbide officials had discussed evacuation plans with a nearby college and a local center for the handicapped. But many residents said they had no idea what to do in case of an accident—nor had many seen a letter that plant spokesmen claimed was sent to residents every year since 1975 outlining the plant's emergency programs.

If they had, they might still be confused. According to the letter, two three-second blasts of the plant's whistle means a fire or medical emergency; three three-second blasts means a gas release; two-second blasts every three seconds for two minutes means a major disaster, with two-second blasts every 30 seconds until the danger has passed. (Last year, when a valve broke on a chemical barge moored at the plant and a neighborhood had to be evacuated at 3 A.M., most people were sleeping with the windows closed and never heard the whistle.) Instructions for what to do next are equally confusing: if the wind is blowing favorably, stay put. If the wind is blowing toward you from the plant, evacuate "by going crosswind." "In some cases, you can see the fumes as a white cloud," the letter added. "However, this is not always the case so don't depend on your eyes."

The very fact that anything so lethal was made nearby stunned many Institute residents. People in Woodbine, Ga., were also surprised to learn that MIC is used at a Union Carbide plant there. Institute plant spokesman Dick Henderson said the company did inform residents—via a newspaper story in 1952. "Do you want an update every six months that we're still making it?" he asked. "For years, we used to tour people around the plant, then interest died down."

Communities elsewhere are pressing for more information about the chemicals next door. Manufacturers are resisting on the ground that disclosing specific names and quantities will reveal trade secrets —and the Reagan administration sympathizes. One of its first acts was to withdraw a Carter administration proposal that all toxic chemicals in the workplace be identified. In defiance, 21 states have passed their own right-to-know laws, but OSHA has moved to pre-empt those with a new rule requiring that substances be labeled only generally as "hazardous." A district court in Newark is set to rule this week on New Jersey's effort to keep its law, which also forces firms to file lists of their chemicals with local safety authorities. "I don't want an orange sign that says 'Danger,' " says Rick Engler of the Philadelphia Area Project on Occupational Safety and Health. "I want to know what the real hazards are."

Areas like New Jersey pose particular hazards because of the dense concentration of chemical facilities. And though few U. S. plants abut crowded shantytowns like Bhopal, some are upwind of large population centers. "All of Niagara County is a trouble spot," says Peter Slocum of the New York State Department of Health. "Those who live in Staten Island live in constant peril of New Jersey." Last October, a derivative of the insecticide malathion escaped from an American Cy-anamid tank in Linden, N. J., blanketing a 20-mile area with noxious fumes that drove 100 people to hospitals. Last month there were two more minor chemical releases in the direction of New York City from plants located in Linden.

The prospect of evacuating large sections of any major city is the stuff of nightmares—and most are alarmingly unprepared. The area around the Houston Ship Channel has the nation's highest concentration of petro-chemical installations, yet the city has no plan for coping with an accident like the natural-gas explosion that killed 452 in Mexico City last month. Given Houston's chronic traffic congestion and lack of industrial zoning, "evacuation isn't the answer," says city public-health director James Haughton. "It isn't a possibility. It doesn't even seem like a hope. . . . There would be total chaos." A major chemical disaster would also quickly overwhelm available medical facilities. As it is, most physicians aren't trained to deal with toxicological problems. "I don't know of any hospital in the Houston area that specializes in chemical injuries," Houghton says. "We don't even know how many burn units there are."

The potential hazards are also mobile. Given the vast amount of hazardous cargo crisscrossing the nation, accidents could happen anywhere—in rural areas far from the nearest hospital or in congested urban areas. Every day, some 4,000 trucks barrel along Houston's freeways from one petro-chemical plant to another. In 1976, a tank truck went off an elevated freeway, exploded and released 19 tons of anhydrous ammonia, killing seven people. In 1947, a French ship loaded with ammonium nitrate exploded at a dock in Texas City, near Gal-veston, destroying a Monsanto plant and everything else within blocks. A second ship loaded with the same material exploded 16 hours later. In all, 565 people were killed and more than 2,000 injured.

The Texas City disaster prompted vast improvements in transportation-safety measures. Last year there were only eight deaths and 191 injuries in 5,761 reported "incidents" involving shipments of hazardous material—a remarkable record, considering traffic-accident rates overall. The Department of Transportation requires that the contents of every load be identified with a numerical code—MIC's is 2480—visibly posted on the truck or rail car, and every police and fire vehicle supposedly carries the DOT's Emergency Response Guidebook which identifies the substance and accident procedures. But there are few federal rules governing shipment routes, and DOT has overruled some local restrictions—on the ground that they simply exported the hazards to neighboring areas.
BIG FEAR

The transport trucks and rail cars that carried MIC from Institute to Woodbine stopped rolling last week. Company officials said they might close the Georgia plant, which uses MIC to manufacture the pesticide Temik, until the cause of the Bhopal disaster is found. In Institute, though the plant was no longer making MIC, it was using up 600,000 pounds of the substance on hand, turning it into the pesticide Sevin at a rate of 11,000 pounds per hour. Gov. Jay Rockefeller ordered the state Air Pollution Control Commission to monitor the plant 24 hours a day until the MIC was gone. Ten state agencies were investigating plant safety along with OSHA officials. Some plant workers, meanwhile, were ambivalent. Said one: "I make $620 a week and I don't want to talk about it."

Other Institute residents did give voice to their other big fear: that repercussions from the Bhopal tragedy might put Uncle John's out of work, along with the 1,400 people he employs. The 150 products made at the Institute plant, some pointed out, find their way into everything from shampoo to floor wax; Sevin was airlifted into Egypt one year to save the cotton crop. Experts elsewhere said that many of the victims in India would not have been alive at all if not for chemicals that increased food supplies, reduced the incidence of malaria and improved sanitation. Judged against such benefits, the risks of chemical accidents seem more acceptable. But there is clearly room for improvement in reducing them.