During the summer of 1945, the world witnessed its first atomic bomb explosion on July 16, when the United States conducted the Trinity test in New Mexico. This catastrophic event not only led to the obliteration of two Japanese cities but also sparked serious consequences for individuals living downwind of the explosion.
With President Harry Truman heralding the bomb as “the greatest scientific gamble in history,” he seized the moment to declare the dawn of nuclear power and warfare. Yet, what he failed to mention was the toll this newfound power exacted on unsuspecting Americans living nearby.
When the sky erupted with blinding light during the Trinity test, it sent shockwaves across the nation. Buildings rattled, and ash fell for days, with children blissfully unaware, playing with the white particles, believing it to be snow. This fallout infiltrated homes, coated clothes hanging to dry outside, contaminated crops, and even tainted drinking water supplies.
The stories of New Mexico’s downwinders—those directly affected by the fallout from the atomic tests and the uranium miners who contributed to the building of the nation’s nuclear arsenal—have largely remained untold. But as awareness grows, documentaries like First We Bombed New Mexico are turning the spotlight on their painful legacies. This film, now garnering accolades across film festivals, is finding its audience, including residents of Los Alamos, the historic site of atomic research and development.
At the recent Oppenheimer Film Festival, members of the community gathered to confront the lesser-known aspects of the atomic bomb’s legacy. This event marked not just another cinematic offering but also provoked deep reflection on the town’s complicated ties to the bomb’s creation.
Directed by Lois Lipman, the documentary weaves together the narratives of displaced Hispanic ranching families and the Native American miners who unknowingly accepted jobs with health risks linked to radiation exposure. The film captures the heartbreak and resilience of those families and the harsh realities they were forced to endure.
One of the film's key activists is Tina Cordova, co-founder of the Tularosa Basin Downwinders Consortium. She has tirelessly advocated for recognition and compensation for those affected by the fallout, representing generations who have suffered from ailments like cancer due to their exposure. Cordova herself is a cancer survivor, and her family’s struggles reflect the numerous personal tragedies experienced by downwinders.
"They counted on us to be unsophisticated, uneducated, and unable to speak up for ourselves," Cordova said emphatically at the screening. "We’re not those people anymore." Her determination was palpable as she challenged the narrative surrounding downwinders, turning them from victims to empowered advocates demanding accountability.
Despite the poignant testimonies from survivors and other stakeholders, federal recognition has been painfully slow. Although the U.S. Senate passed legislation earlier this year acknowledging downwinders’ plight, the House of Representatives has stalled discussions, with concerns over costs weighing heavily on the shoulders of lawmakers.
At the festival, Cordova spoke of the long-standing silence surrounding these issues. She emphasized, "For too long, we’ve lived separate lives"—an observation reflecting the often compartmentalized world of scientific endeavors and the real-life consequences overlooked by government and industry.
The need for federal action is urgent, as many individuals have already lost their lives to radiation-related diseases. The Radiation Exposure Compensation Act, originally established to aid uranium miners and downwinders, is set for re-evaluation, portrayed by advocacy groups as necessary to expand coverage and support.
Efforts to mobilize public hearings and bring awareness to the downwinders’ story are evident across various channels, including social media, town hall meetings, and legislative engagements. The goal is clear: to gain rightful recognition and compensation for those harmed by governmental negligence.
Messages of remembrance and justice resonate deeply within these communities. The film festival served not only as entertainment but as a rallying point for community members to unify around their shared experiences and push for justice.
Organizations such as the Tularosa Basin Downwinders Consortium continue to work tirelessly toward these goals, and events like the film festival help to amplify their voices. With government recognition still hanging by a thread, the stories of these downwinders cry out for acknowledgment.
They advocate fiercely for rights, driven by the memories of friends and family who have battled (or succumbed to) the grim realities tied to atomic testing. Activists, like Cordova, are not just fighting against the silence of history; they are demanding to reshape the narrative—a narrative often erased or glossed over.
The fallout from the Trinity test might have settled decades ago, but its impacts remain etched deeply within the lives of those who have been left to grapple with its consequences.
