PLYMOUTH — chernobyl still hangs over the shore here, not as a date in history but as a memory that shaped fear, policy, and the fences around what remains of Pilgrim Nuclear Power Station. Forty years after that disaster, influential Massachusetts Democrats are now helping push something once unthinkable: bringing back nuclear power.
Why are New England leaders revisiting nuclear power now?
The answer is a tightening squeeze. Governor Maura Healey says it is time to build nuclear plants again, and all six New England governors have signed on to study new nuclear technologies. The effort is part of a regional strategy aimed at two pressures at once: climate goals and energy costs that leaders say keep rising.
“Nuclear needs to be part of the solution, ” Healey said.
For supporters, this is not a nostalgic argument. It is a practical one. Climate and energy experts in the region say expanding nuclear power is among the few viable options for meeting electricity needs while also cutting emissions. They argue that the next wave of technology will be safer than older reactors and may one day be cheaper, too.
How does Chernobyl still shape the public response?
The word chernobyl does more than evoke a place. It brings back the worst nuclear meltdown in history and the dread that followed it. In Massachusetts, the aftermath helped create an effective ban on new reactor construction for decades. That history still shadows the debate, especially in communities that have lived beside nuclear infrastructure for years.
In 1977, more than 1, 000 protesters were arrested while opposing the construction of Seabrook Station in New Hampshire, the last nuclear power plant built in the region. Long after that, concerns about radiation remained part of daily life around Pilgrim. Residents were given potassium iodide in case of a meltdown. A longtime realtor remembered home buyers turning away from nearby properties. The plant was an economic engine, but it was also a source of fear.
Deb Katz, a longtime antinuclear activist in Massachusetts, said supporters of a renewed nuclear push have been trying to make the moment feel real. “We have been working hard to get people to recognize this is really happening, ” Katz said. “We have been working on this so that people wake up and realize what’s at stake. ”
What remains at Pilgrim shows both the promise and the problem
On the Atlantic shoreline near Plymouth Rock, the last operating nuclear power plant in Massachusetts has left behind a visible reminder of the tradeoffs. Behind a chain-link fence and signs warning of armed guards, radioactive waste is sealed in towering concrete-and-steel casks. The site once employed hundreds of people and supported the local economy, but it also generated years of protest and a steady undercurrent of anxiety.
Pilgrim permanently shut down in 2019, with operators citing rising costs and poor market conditions. Yet the concerns did not end there. The company that owns the plant is still pushing to dump more than 800, 000 gallons of waste water into Cape Cod Bay. Some neighbors worry about vulnerability to attack and about what could happen if the casks were ever compromised.
Diane Turco, a 72-year-old antinuclear activist, stopped on a nearby back road and pointed toward the fence. “If I had a good arm, I could throw a baseball into the vent, ” she said. Her fear is simple: that a bad actor could somehow release deadly radioactivity from the casks into the surrounding area.
Can nuclear power really solve both climate and cost pressures?
That is the central question driving the new regional push. Advocates say nuclear already plays a major role in New England, with plants in New Hampshire and Connecticut generating about a quarter of the region’s power supply. They see the next generation of reactors as a bridge between cleaner energy and affordability.
Still, the argument is not just technical. It is emotional, political, and local. The same landscape that once hosted protests now hosts a different kind of debate: whether the risks of nuclear power are greater than the risks of doing without it. In Plymouth, where the legacy of chernobyl still shadows the shoreline, New England’s leaders are betting that public memory can make room for a new calculation — but only if they can prove this time will be different.
