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In the early hours of morning on April 26 1986, a huge explosion rocked the Chernobyl nuclear power plant near Pripyat, in Ukraine - then part of the Soviet Union.

A steam explosion in reactor number 4 had caused a nuclear meltdown leading to the worst accident in the history of nuclear energy. Wind carried the nuclear fallout many thousands of kilometres. Belarus was particularly effected.

On Saturday I went to a Meet and Greet for a charity that brings children effected by the Chernobyl disaster over to the UK (they were, on this occasion, from Belarus). The idea is to give their bodies a break from the radiation, a one-month hiatus that can extend their lives by a few years. We were in attendance because my business partner speaks Russian, and I myself speak a smattering of the language.

The children - boys and girls - were lively and appeared healthy. I asked one of the volunteers what the life expectancy of the children was. I was told around 30-years. She explained that they’re relatively healthy until puberty when tumours and other problems occur.

I looked around at the beautiful children playing as if they had not a care in the world. Jumping on trampolines, kicking footballs, and skipping together. How could these children live in such an environment? What sort of humanity could expose people to such continued contamination?

I started to think of my own children. Two healthy children that I hope, and have no reason to doubt, will have long fulfilling lives. What must the parents of the Chernobyl children feel when they think of the future? Does the future mean anything to them? I suppose that every parent would be overwhelmed by the plight of these children, but, maybe because my children are half-Russian, I felt so incredibly sorrowful.

Incidentally, while I processed these dark thoughts, the children continued to play and enjoy themselves. I felt guilty for being so mawkish and went to kick a football.

The charity can be found here.