This American nuclear company could help India’s thorium dream

For just the second time in nearly two decades, the United States has granted an export license to an American company planning to sell nuclear technology to India, MIT Technology Review has learned. The decision to greenlight Clean Core Thorium Energy’s license is a major step toward closer cooperation between the two countries on atomic energy and marks a milestone in the development of thorium as an alternative to uranium for fueling nuclear reactors. 

Starting from the issuance last week, the thorium fuel produced by the Chicago-based company can be shipped to reactors in India, where it could be loaded into the cores of existing reactors. Once Clean Core receives final approval from Indian regulators, it will become one of the first American companies to sell nuclear technology to India, just as the world’s most populous nation has started relaxing strict rules that have long kept the US private sector from entering its atomic power industry. 

“This license marks a turning point, not just for Clean Core but for the US-India civil nuclear partnership,” says Mehul Shah, the company’s chief executive and founder. “It places thorium at the center of the global energy transformation.”

Thorium has long been seen as a good alternative to uranium because it’s more abundant, produces both smaller amounts of long-lived radioactive waste and fewer byproducts with centuries-long half-lives, and reduces the risk that materials from the fuel cycle will be diverted into weapons manufacturing. 

But at least some uranium fuel is needed to make thorium atoms split, making it an imperfect replacement. It’s also less well suited for use in the light-water reactors that power the vast majority of commercial nuclear plants worldwide. And in any case, the complex, highly regulated nuclear industry is extremely resistant to change.

For India, which has scant uranium reserves but abundant deposits of thorium, the latter metal has been part of a long-term strategy for reducing dependence on imported fuels. The nation started negotiating a nuclear export treaty with the US in the early 2000s, and a 123 Agreement—a special, Senate-approved treaty the US requires with another country before sending it any civilian nuclear products—was approved in 2008.

A new approach

While most thorium advocates have envisioned new reactors designed to run on this fuel, which would mean rebuilding the nuclear industry from the ground up, Shah and his team took a different approach. Clean Core created a new type of fuel that blends thorium with a more concentrated type of uranium called HALEU (high-assay low-enriched uranium). This blended fuel can be used in India’s pressurized heavy-water reactors, which make up the bulk of the country’s existing fleet and many of the new units under development now. 

Thorium isn’t a fissile material itself, meaning its atoms aren’t inherently unstable enough for an extra neutron to easily split the nuclei and release energy. But the metal has what’s known as “fertile properties,” meaning it can absorb neutrons and transform into the fissile material uranium-233. Uranium-233 produces fewer long-lived radioactive isotopes than the uranium-235 that makes up the fissionable part of traditional fuel pellets. Most commercial reactors run on low-enriched uranium, which is about 5% U-235. When the fuel is spent, roughly 95% of the energy potential is left in the metal. And what remains is a highly toxic cocktail of long-lived radioactive isotopes such as cesium-137 and plutonium-239, which keep the waste dangerous for tens of thousands of years. Another concern is that the plutonium could be extracted for use in weapons. 

Enriched up to 20%, HALEU allows reactors to extract more of the available energy and thus reduce the volume of waste. Clean Core’s fuel goes further: The HALEU provides the initial spark to ignite fertile thorium and triggers a reaction that can burn much hotter and utilize the vast majority of the material in the core, as a study published last year in the journal Nuclear Engineering and Design showed.

“Thorium provides attributes needed to achieve higher burnups,” says Koroush Shirvan, an MIT professor of nuclear science and engineering who helped design Clean Core’s fuel assemblies. “It is enabling technology to go to higher burnups, which reduces your spent fuel volume, increases your fuel efficiency, and reduces the amount of uranium that you need.” 

Compared with traditional uranium fuel, Clean Core says, its fuel reduces waste by more than 85% while avoiding the most problematic isotopes produced during fission. “The result is a safer, more sustainable cycle that reframes nuclear power not as a source of millennia-long liabilities but as a pathway to cleaner energy and a viable future fuel supply,” says Milan Shah, Clean Core’s chief operating officer and Mehul’s son.

Pressurized heavy-water reactors are particularly well suited to thorium because heavy water—a version of H2O that has an extra neutron on the hydrogen atom—absorbs fewer neutrons during the fission process, increasing efficiency by allowing more neutrons to be captured by the thorium.

There are 46 so-called PHWRs operating worldwide: 17 in Canada, 19 in India, three each in Argentina and South Korea, and two each in China and Romania, according to data from the International Atomic Energy Agency. In 1954, India set out a three-stage development plan for nuclear power that involved eventually phasing thorium into the fuel cycle for its fleet. 

Yet in the 56 years since India built its first commercial nuclear plant, its state-controlled industry has remained relatively shut off to the private sector and the rest of the world. When the US signed the 123 Agreement with India in 2008, the moment heralded an era in which the subcontinent could become a testing ground for new American reactor designs. 

In 2010, however, India passed the Civil Liability for Nuclear Damage Act. The legislation was based on what lawmakers saw as legal shortcomings in the wake of the 1984 Bhopal chemical factory disaster, when a subsidiary of the American industrial giant Dow Chemical avoided major payouts to the victims of a catastrophe that killed thousands. Under this law, responsibility for an accident at an Indian nuclear plant would fall on suppliers. The statute effectively killed any exports to India, since few companies could shoulder that burden. Only Russia’s state-owned Rosatom charged ahead with exporting reactors to India.

But things are changing. In a joint statement issued after a February 2025 summit, Prime Minister Narendra Modi and President Donald Trump “announced their commitment to fully realise the US-India 123 Civil Nuclear Agreement by moving forward with plans to work together to build US-designed nuclear reactors in India through large scale localisation and possible technology transfer.” 

In March 2025, US federal officials gave the nuclear developer Holtec International an export license to sell Indian companies its as-yet-unbuilt small modular reactors, which are based on the light-water reactor design used in the US. In April, the Indian government suggested it would reform the nuclear liability law to relax rules on foreign companies in hopes of drawing more overseas developers. Last month, a top minister confirmed that the Modi administration would overhaul the law. 

“For India, the thing they need to do is get another international vendor in the marketplace,” says Chris Gadomski, the chief nuclear analyst at the consultancy BloombergNEF.

Path of least resistance

But Shah sees larger potential for Clean Core. Unlike Holtec, whose export license was endorsed by the two Mumbai-based industrial giants Larsen & Toubro and Tata Consulting Engineers, Clean Core had its permit approved by two of India’s atomic regulators and its main state-owned nuclear company. By focusing on fuel rather than new reactors, Clean Core could become a vendor to the majority of the existing plants already operating in India. 

Its technology diverges not only from that of other US nuclear companies but also from the approach used in China. Last year, China made waves by bringing its first thorium-fueled reactor online. This enabled it to establish a new foothold in a technology the US had invented and then abandoned, and it gave Beijing another leg up in atomic energy.

But scaling that technology will require building out a whole new kind of reactor. That comes at a cost. A recent Johns Hopkins University study found that China’s success in building nuclear reactors stemmed in large part from standardization and repetition of successful designs, virtually all of which have been light-water reactors. Using thorium in existing heavy-water reactors lowers the bar for popularizing the fuel, according to the younger Shah. 

“We think ours is the path of least resistance,” Milan Shah says. “Maybe not being completely revolutionary in the way you look at nuclear today, but incredibly evolutionary to progress humanity forward.” 

The company has plans to go beyond pressurized heavy-water reactors. Within two years, the elder Shah says, Clean Core plans to design a version of its fuel that could work in the light-water reactors that make up the entire US fleet of 94. But it’s not a simple conversion. For starters, there’s the size: While the PHWR fuel rods are about 50 centimeters in length, the rods that go into light-water reactors are roughly four meters long. Then there’s the history of challenges with light water’s absorption of neutrons that could otherwise be captured to induce fission in the thorium. 

For Anil Kakodkar, the former chairman of India’s Atomic Energy Commission and a mentor to Shah, popularizing thorium could help rectify one of the darker chapters in his country’s nuclear development. In 1974, India became the first country since the signing of the first global Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons to successfully test an atomic weapon. New Delhi was never a signatory to the pact. But the milestone prompted neighboring Pakistan to develop its own weapons. 

In response, President Jimmy Carter tried to demonstrate Washington’s commitment to reversing the Cold War arms race by sacrificing the first US effort to commercialize nuclear waste recycling, since the technology to separate plutonium and other radioisotopes from uranium in spent fuel was widely seen as a potential new source of weapons-grade material. By running its own reactors on thorium, Kakodkar says, India can chart a new path for newcomer nations that want to harness the power of the atom without stoking fears that nuclear weapons capability will spread. 

“The proliferation concerns will be dismissed to a significant extent, allowing more rapid growth of nuclear power in emerging countries,” he says. “That will be a good thing for the world at large.” 

Alexander C. Kaufman is a reporter who has covered energy, climate change, pollution, business, and geopolitics for more than a decade. 

Google’s still not giving us the full picture on AI energy use

Google just announced that a typical query to its Gemini app uses about 0.24 watt-hours of electricity. That’s about the same as running a microwave for one second—something that, to me, feels virtually insignificant. I run the microwave for so many more seconds than that on most days.

I was excited to see this report come out, and I welcome more openness from major players in AI about their estimated energy use per query. But I’ve noticed that some folks are taking this number and using it to conclude that we don’t need to worry about AI’s energy demand. That’s not the right takeaway here. Let’s dig into why.

1. This one number doesn’t reflect all queries, and it leaves out cases that likely use much more energy.

Google’s new report considers only text queries. Previous analysis, including MIT Technology Review’s reporting, suggests that generating a photo or video will typically use more electricity.

When I spoke with Jeff Dean, Google’s chief scientist, he said the company doesn’t currently have plans to do this sort of analysis for images and videos, but that he wouldn’t rule it out.

The reason the company started with text prompts is that those are something many people out there are using in their daily lives, he says, while image and video generation is something that not as many people are doing. But I’m seeing more AI images and videos all over my social feeds. So there’s a whole world of queries not represented here.

Also, this estimate is the median, meaning it’s just the number in the middle of the range of queries Google is seeing. Longer questions and responses can push up the energy demand, and so can using a reasoning model.  We don’t know anything about how much energy these more complicated queries demand or what the distribution of the range is.

2. We don’t know how many queries Gemini is seeing, so we don’t know the product’s total energy impact.

One of my biggest outstanding questions about Gemini’s energy use is the total number of queries the product is seeing every day. 

This number isn’t included in Google’s report, and the company wouldn’t share it with me. And let me be clear: I absolutely pestered them about this, both in a press call they had about the news and in my interview with Dean. In the press call, the company pointed me to a recent earnings report, which includes only figures about monthly active users (450 million, for what it’s worth).

“We’re not comfortable revealing that for various reasons,” Dean told me on our call. The total number is an abstract measure that changes over time, he says, adding that the company wants users to be thinking about the energy usage per prompt.

But there are people out there all over the world interacting with this technology, not just me—and what we all add up to seems quite relevant.

OpenAI does publicly share its total, sharing recently that it sees 2.5 billion queries to ChatGPT every day. So for the curious, we can use this as an example and take the company’s self-reported average energy use per query (0.34 watt-hours) to get a rough idea of the total for all people prompting ChatGPT.

According to my math, over the course of a year, that would add up to over 300 gigawatt-hours—the same as powering nearly 30,000 US homes annually. When you put it that way, it starts to sound like a lot of seconds in microwaves.

3. AI is everywhere, not just in chatbots, and we’re often not even conscious of it.

AI is touching our lives even when we’re not looking for it. AI summaries appear in web searches, whether you ask for them or not. There are built-in features for email and texting applications that that can draft or summarize messages for you.

Google’s estimate is strictly for Gemini apps and wouldn’t include many of the other ways that even this one company is using AI. So even if you’re trying to think about your own personal energy demand, it’s increasingly difficult to tally up. 

To be clear, I don’t think people should feel guilty for using tools that they find genuinely helpful. And ultimately, I don’t think the most important conversation is about personal responsibility. 

There’s a tendency right now to focus on the small numbers, but we need to keep in mind what this is all adding up to. Over two gigawatts of natural gas will need to come online in Louisiana to power a single Meta data center this decade. Google Cloud is spending $25 billion on AI just in the PJM grid on the US East Coast. By 2028, AI could account for 326 terawatt-hours of electricity demand in the US annually, generating over 100 million metric tons of carbon dioxide.

We need more reporting from major players in AI, and Google’s recent announcement is one of the most transparent accounts yet. But one small number doesn’t negate the ways this technology is affecting communities and changing our power grid. 

This article is from The Spark, MIT Technology Review’s weekly climate newsletter. To receive it in your inbox every Wednesday, sign up here.

India is still working on sewer robots

When Jitender was a child in New Delhi, both his parents worked as manual scavengers—a job that involved clearing the city’s sewers of solid waste by hand. Now, he is among almost 200 contractors involved in the Delhi government’s effort to shift from this manual process to safer mechanical methods.

Although it has been outlawed since 1993, manual scavenging—the practice of extracting human excreta from toilets, sewers, or septic tanks—is still practiced widely in India. The work is usually done by people who belong to what are considered the lowest castes, known as the Scheduled Castes or Dalits. Not only is the job undignified, but it can be extremely dangerous: People who enter clogged sewers to clean them face the risk of asphyxiation from exposure to toxic gases like ammonia and methane. According to data presented in the Indian parliament, manual scavenging was responsible for more than 500 deaths between 2018 and 2023.

Several companies have emerged to offer alternatives at a wide range of technical complexity. For example, Genrobotics, based in Kerala, has developed the “Bandicoot Robot” (shown above), a mechanical scavenger that features robotic legs, night-vision cameras, and the ability to detect toxic gas. Researchers at the Indian Institute of Technology in Chennai have developed a robot for septic tanks that has a suction mechanism to pump out the slurry. 

More than 220 Bandicoot robots have been deployed in India, says Vipin Govind, head of marketing and communications at Genrobotics. The company’s reach, he says, enables “even resource-constrained municipalities” to deploy the technology effectively.

Despite these technological options, a 2021 report by the Ministry of Social Justice & Empowerment found that there are still more than 58,000 manual scavengers across India. Independent observers say the numbers are even higher.  

The machine that Jitender uses is mounted on a pickup truck and uses rotating rods, high-pressure streams of water, and a mechanical claw to break up blockages and remove debris. “Earlier, a sanitation worker would get into a sewer and clear the drain with some equipment, but now with these machines we just drop the nozzle into the drain and turn on the pump,” he says. But Vijay Shehriyar, part of the same Delhi initiative, explains that the machines have not entirely replaced manual scavenging in the city. “The manual cleaning is still employed at many places, especially in narrow lanes,” he says. 

Bezwada Wilson, an activist who has long campaigned for the eradication of manual scavenging, explains that most of the drainage and sewage systems across the country are not well planned and were built without proper engineering oversight. Any solution would need to take into consideration all the resulting differences in infrastructure, he says: “It can’t be that you come up with an alternative and force it upon the drainage system without understanding its nature.”

Hamaad Habibullah is a freelance journalist based in New Delhi. 

AI comes for the job market, security, and prosperity: The Debrief

When I picked up my daughter from summer camp, we settled in for an eight-hour drive through the Appalachian mountains, heading from North Carolina to her grandparents’ home in Kentucky. With little to no cell service for much of the drive, we enjoyed the rare opportunity to have a long, thoughtful conversation, uninterrupted by devices. The subject, naturally, turned to AI. 

Mat Honan

“No one my age wants AI. No one is excited about it,” she told me of her high-school-age peers. Why not? I asked. “Because,” she replied, “it seems like all the jobs we thought we wanted to do are going to go away.” 

I was struck by her pessimism, which she told me was shared by friends from California to Georgia to New Hampshire. In an already fragile world, one increasingly beset by climate change and the breakdown of the international order, AI looms in the background, threatening young people’s ability to secure a prosperous future.

It’s an understandable concern. Just a few days before our drive, OpenAI CEO Sam Altman was telling the US Federal Reserve’s board of governors that AI agents will leave entire job categories “just like totally, totally gone.” Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei told Axios he believes AI will wipe out half of all entry-level white-collar jobs in the next five years. Amazon CEO Andy Jassy said the company will eliminate jobs in favor of AI agents in the coming years. Shopify CEO Tobi Lütke told staff they had to prove that new roles couldn’t be done by AI before making a hire. And the view is not limited to tech. Jim Farley, the CEO of Ford, recently said he expects AI to replace half of all white-collar jobs in the US. 

These are no longer mere theoretical projections. There is already evidence that AI is affecting employment. Hiring of new grads is down, for example, in sectors like tech and finance. While that is not entirely due to AI, the technology is almost certainly playing a role. 

For Gen Z, the issue is broader than employment. It also touches on another massive generational challenge: climate change. AI is computationally intensive and requires massive data centers. Huge complexes have already been built all across the country, from Virginia in the east to Nevada in the west. That buildout is only going to accelerate as companies race to be first to create superintelligence. Meta and OpenAI have announced plans for data centers that will require five gigawatts of power just for their ­computing—enough to power the entire state of Maine in the summertime. 

It’s very likely that utilities will turn to natural gas to power these facilities; some already have. That means more carbon dioxide emissions for an already warming world. Data centers also require vast amounts of water. There are communities right now that are literally running out of water because it’s being taken by nearby data centers, even as climate change makes that resource more scarce. 

Proponents argue that AI will make the grid more efficient, that it will help us achieve technological breakthroughs leading to cleaner energy sources and, I don’t know, more butterflies and bumblebees? But xAI is belching CO2 into the Memphis skies from its methane-fueled generators right now. Google’s electricity demand and emissions are skyrocketing today

Things would be different, my daughter told me, if it were obviously useful. But for much of her generation, she argued, it’s a looming threat with ample costs and no obvious utility: “It’s not good for research because it’s not highly accurate. You can’t use it for writing because it’s banned—and people get zeros on papers who haven’t even used it because of AI detectors. And it seems like it’s going to take all the good jobs. One teacher told us we’re all going to be janitors.”  

It would be naïve to think we are going back to a world without AI. We’re not. And yet there are other urgent problems that we need to address to build security and prosperity for coming generations. This September/October issue is about our attempts to make the world more secure. From missiles. From asteroids. From the unknown. From threats both existential and trivial. 

We’re also introducing three new columns in this issue, from some of our leading writers: The Algorithm, which covers AI; The Checkup, on biotech; and The Spark, on energy and climate. You’ll see these in future issues, and you can also subscribe online to get them in your inbox every week. 

Stay safe out there. 

Job titles of the future: Satellite streak astronomer

Earlier this year, the $800 million Vera Rubin Observatory commenced its decade-long quest to create an extremely detailed time-lapse movie of the universe. Rubin is capable of capturing many more stars than any other astronomical observatory ever built; it also sees many more satellites. Up to 40% of images captured by the observatory within its first 10 years of operation will be marred by their sunlight-reflecting streaks. 

Meredith Rawls, a research scientist at the telescope’s flagship observation project, Vera Rubin’s Legacy Survey of Space and Time, is one of the experts tasked with protecting Rubin’s science mission from the satellite blight, which could make observations more difficult because the satellites are millions of times brighter than the faint stars and galaxies it hopes to study. Satellites could also confuse astronomers when the sudden brightening they cause gets mistaken for astronomical phenomena.

An unexpected path

When Rawls joined the Rubin project in 2016, she says, she had no clue what turn her career would take. “I was hired as a postdoc to help build a new imaging pipeline to process precursor images [and] analyze results to identify things we needed to fix or change,” she says.

But in 2019, SpaceX began deploying its internet-beaming Starlink constellation, and the astronomical community started to sound alarm bells. The satellites were orbiting too low and reflected too much sunlight, leaving bright marks in telescope images. A year later, Rawls and a handful of her colleagues were the first to make a scientific assessment of the satellite streaks’ effect on astronomical observations, using images from the Víctor M. Blanco telescope (which, like Rubin, is in Chile). “We wanted to see how bright those streaks were and look at possible mitigation strategies,” Rawls says. Her team found that although the streaks weren’t overwhelmingly bright, they still risked affecting scientific observations.

Streak removal 

Since those early observations, an entirely new subdiscipline of astronomical image processing has emerged, focusing on techniques to remove satellite light pollution from the data and designing observation protocols to prevent too-bright satellites from spoiling the views. Rawls has become one of the leading experts in the fast-evolving field, which is only set to grow in importance in the coming years.

“We are fundamentally altering the night sky by launching a lot more stuff at an unsustainably increasing rate,” says Rawls, who is also an astronomy researcher at the University of Washington. 

To mitigate the damage, she and her colleagues designed algorithms that compare images of the same spot in the sky to detect unexpected changes and determine whether those could have been caused by passing satellites or natural phenomena like asteroids or stellar explosions.

A rising force

The number of satellites orbiting our planet has risen from a mere thousand some 15 years ago to more than 12,000 active satellites today. About 8,000 of those belong to SpaceX’s Starlink, but other ventures threaten to worsen the light-pollution problem in the coming years. US-based AST SpaceMobile, for example, is building a constellation of giant orbiting antenna arrays to beam 5G connectivity directly to users’ phones. The first five of these satellites—each over 60 square meters in size—are already in orbit and reflecting so much light that Rubin must adjust its observing schedule to avoid their paths. 

“So far, what we’ve seen with the initial images is that it’s a nuisance but not a science-ending thing,” says Rawls. She remains optimistic that she and her colleagues can stay on top of the problem.

Tereza Pultarova is a London-based science and technology journalist.

3 Things James O’Donnell is into right now

Overthink

This is a podcast in which two very smart people (who happen to be young and hilarious professors of philosophy) draw unexpected philosophical connections between facets of modern life. Ellie Anderson and David Peña-Guzmán have done hour-long episodes on everything from mommy issues to animal justice, with particularly sharp segments on tech-adjacent issues like biohacking and the relationship between AI and art. Whenever I think society is dealing with a brand-new problem, these two unearth someone who was pondering it centuries ago. It’s a treat to listen to. 

A film from the tech billionaire bunker

Over the summer I was eager to watch Mountainhead, a darkly funny film by Jesse Armstrong, the creator of Succession, that follows four unlikable tech founders as they watch the world collapse under political turmoil and violence caused by AI deepfakes. I was prepared for it to seem like a documentary, but to a reporter who is in frequent dialogue with AI’s movers and shakers, it felt a little too real. From their remote mountain mansion, they talk about AI accelerationism, utilitarian ethics, uploading one’s consciousness to the cloud, liberating humanity to other planetsall common conversation topics among the tech elite that has had so much influence in the current administration.  

Music by human beings

For much of last winter I was reporting a story about just how far AI-generated music has come. As a lifelong musician (I play guitar, bass, and drums, none particularly well), I found the songs I heardbuilt with models whose creators have been sued for training on the discographies of artists without compensationso convincingly human that they made me deeply uncomfortable. Since then, I’ve had a revitalized zeal for live shows where real people in punk bands or jazz trios do things that AI is not capable of (Sophie Truax is my latest favorite). 

The AI Hype Index: AI-designed antibiotics show promise

Separating AI reality from hyped-up fiction isn’t always easy. That’s why we’ve created the AI Hype Index—a simple, at-a-glance summary of everything you need to know about the state of the industry.

Using AI to improve our health and well-being is one of the areas scientists and researchers are most excited about. The last month has seen an interesting leap forward: The technology has been put to work designing new antibiotics to fight hard-to-treat conditions, and OpenAI and Anthropic have both introduced new limiting features to curb potentially harmful conversations on their platforms. 

Unfortunately, not all the news has been positive. Doctors who overrely on AI to help them spot cancerous tumors found their detection skills dropped once they lost access to the tool, and a man fell ill after ChatGPT recommended he replace the salt in his diet with dangerous sodium bromide. These are yet more warning signs of how careful we have to be when it comes to using AI to make important decisions for our physical and mental states.

How lidar measures the cost of climate disasters

The wildfires that swept through Los Angeles County in January 2025 left an indelible mark on the Southern California landscape. The Eaton and Palisades fires raged for 24 days, killing 29 people and destroying 16,000 structures, with losses estimated at $60 billion. More than 55,000 acres were consumed, and the landscape itself was physically transformed.

Researchers are now using lidar (light detection and ranging) technology to precisely measure these changes in the landscape’s geometry—helping them understand the effects of climate disasters.

Lidar, which measures how long it takes for pulses of laser light to bounce off surfaces and return, has been used in topographic mapping for decades. Today, airborne lidar from planes and drones maps the Earth’s surface in high detail. Scientists can then “diff” the data—compare before-and-after snapshots and highlight all the changes—to identify more subtle consequences of a disaster, including fault-line shifts, volcanic eruptions, and mudslides.

Falko Kuester, an engineering professor at the University of California, San Diego, co-directs ALERTCalifornia, a public safety program that uses real-time remote sensing to help detect wildfires. Kuester says lidar snapshots can tell a story over time.

“They give us a lay of the land,” he says. “This is what a particular region has been like at this point in time. Now, if you have consecutive flights at a later time, you can do a ‘difference.’ Show me what it looked like. Show me what it looks like. Tell me what changed. Was something constructed? Something burned down? Did something fall down? Did vegetation grow?” 

Shortly after the fires were contained in late January 2025, ALERTCalifornia sponsored new lidar flights over the Eaton and Palisades burn areas. NV5, an inspection and engineering firm, conducted the scans, and the US Geological Survey is now hosting the public data sets.  

Comparing a 2016 lidar snapshot and the January 2025 snapshot, Cassandra Brigham and her team at Arizona State University visualized the elevation changes—revealing the buildings, trees, and structures that had disappeared.

“We said, what would be a useful product for people to have as quickly as possible, since we’re doing this a couple weeks after the end of the fires?” says Brigham. Her team cleaned and reformatted the older, lower-resolution data and then subtracted the newer data. The resulting visualizations reveal the scale of devastation in ways satellite imagery can’t match. Red shows lost elevation (like when a building burns), and blue shows a gain (such as tree growth or new construction).

Lidar is helping scientists track the cascading effects of climate-­driven disasters—from the damage to structures and vegetation destroyed by wildfires to the landslides and debris flows that often follow in their wake. “For the Eaton and Palisades fires, for example, entire hillsides burned. So all of that vegetation is removed,” Kuester says. “Now you have an atmospheric river coming in, dumping water. What happens next? You have debris flows, mud flows, landslides.” 

Lidar’s usefulness for quantifying the costs of climate disasters underscores its value in preparing for future fires, floods, and earthquakes. But as policymakers weigh steep budget cuts to scientific research, these crucial lidar data collection projects could face an uncertain future.

Jon Keegan writes about technology and AI, and he publishes Beautiful Public Data (beautifulpublicdata.com), a curated collection of government data sets.

On the ground in Ukraine’s largest Starlink repair shop

Oleh Kovalskyy thinks that Starlink terminals are built as if someone assembled them with their feet. Or perhaps with their hands behind their back. 

To demonstrate this last image, Kovalskyy—a large, 47-year-old Ukrainian, clad in sweatpants and with tattoos stretching from his wrists up to his neck—leans over to wiggle his fingers in the air behind him, laughing as he does. Components often detach, he says through bleached-white teeth, and they’re sensitive to dust and moisture. “It’s terrible quality. Very terrible.” 

But even if he’s not particularly impressed by the production quality, he won’t dispute how important the satellite internet service has been to his country’s defense. 

Starlink is absolutely critical to Ukraine’s ability to continue in the fight against Russia: It’s how troops in battle zones stay connected with faraway HQs; it’s how many of the drones essential to Ukraine’s survival hit their targets; it’s even how soldiers stay in touch with spouses and children back home. 

At the time of my visit to Kovalskyy in March 2025, however, it had begun to seem like this vital support system may suddenly disappear. Reuters had just broken news that suggested Musk, who was then still deeply enmeshed in Trump world, would remove Ukraine’s access to the service should its government fail to toe the line in US-led peace negotiations. Musk denied the allegations shortly afterward, but given Trump’s fickle foreign policy and inconsistent support of Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky, the uncertainty of the technology’s future had become—and remains—impossible to ignore.  

a view down at the back of a volunteer working in a corner workbench. Tools and components are piled on every bit of the surface as well as the shelves in front of him.

ELENA SUBACH
a carboard box stuffed with grey cylinders

ELENA SUBACH

Kovalskyy’s unofficial Starlink repair shop may be the biggest of its kind in the world. Ordered chaos is the best way to describe it.

The stakes couldn’t be higher: Another Reuters report in late July revealed that Musk had ordered the restriction of Starlink in parts of Ukraine during a critical counteroffensive back in 2022. “Ukrainian troops suddenly faced a communications blackout,” the story explains. “Soldiers panicked, drones surveilling Russian forces went dark, and long-range artillery units, reliant on Starlink to aim their fire, struggled to hit targets.”

None of this is lost on Kovalskyy—and for now Starlink access largely comes down to the unofficial community of users and engineers of which Kovalskyy is just one part: Narodnyi Starlink.

The group, whose name translates to “The People’s Starlink,” was created back in March 2022 by a tech-savvy veteran of the previous battles against Russia-backed militias in Ukraine’s east. It started as a Facebook group for the country’s infant yet burgeoning community of Starlink users—a forum to share guidance and swap tips—but it very quickly emerged as a major support system for the new war effort. Today, it has grown to almost 20,000 members, including the unofficial expert “Dr. Starlink”—famous for his creative ways of customizing the systems—and other volunteer engineers like Kovalskyy and his men. It’s a prime example of the many informal, yet highly effective, volunteer networks that have kept Ukraine in the fight, both on and off the front line.

A repaired and mounted Starlink terminal standing on a cobbled road

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a Starlink unit mounted to the roof of a vehicle with pink tinted windows

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Kovalskyy and his crew of eight volunteers have repaired or customized more than 15,000 terminals since the war began in February 2022. Here, they test repaired units in a nearby parking lot.

Kovalskyy gave MIT Technology Review exclusive access to his unofficial Starlink repair workshop in the city of Lviv, about 300 miles west of Kyiv. Ordered chaos is the best way to describe it: Spread across a few small rooms in a nondescript two-story building behind a tile shop, sagging cardboard boxes filled with mud-splattered Starlink casings form alleyways among the rubble of spare parts. Like flying buttresses, green circuit boards seem to prop up the walls, and coils of cable sprout from every crevice.

Those acquainted with the workshop refer to it as the biggest of its kind in Ukraine—and, by extension, maybe the world. Official and unofficial estimates suggest that anywhere from 42,000 to 160,000 Starlink terminals operate in the country. Kovalskyy says he and his crew of eight volunteers have repaired or customized more than 15,000 terminals since the war began.

a surface scattered with pieces of used blue tape of various colors and sizes. Two ziploc bags with small metal parts are also taped up.
The informal, accessible nature of the Narodnyi Starlink community has been critical to its success. One military communications officer was inspired by Kovalskyy to set up his own repair workshop as part of Ukraine’s armed forces, but he says that official processes can be slower than private ones by a factor of 10.
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Despite the pressure, the chance that they may lose access to Starlink was not worrying volunteers like Kovalskyy at the time of my visit; in our conversations, it was clear they had more pressing concerns than the whims of a foreign tech mogul. Russia continues to launch frequent aerial bombardments of Ukrainian cities, sometimes sending more than 500 drones in a single night. The threat of involuntary mobilization to the front line looms on every street corner. How can one plan for a hypothetical future crisis when crisis defines every minute of one’s day?


Almost every inch of every axis of the battlefield in Ukraine is enabled by Starlink. It connects pilots near the trenches with reconnaissance drones soaring kilometers above them. It relays the video feeds from those drones to command centers in rear positions. And it even connects soldiers, via encrypted messaging services, with their family and friends living far from the front.  

Although some soldiers and volunteers, including members of Narodnyi Starlink, refer to Starlink as a luxury, the reality is that it’s an essential utility; without it, Ukrainian forces would need to rely on other, often less effective means of communication. These include wired-line networks, mobile internet, and older geostationary satellite technology—all of which provide connectivity that is either slower, more vulnerable to interference, or more difficult for untrained soldiers to set up. 

“If not for Starlink, we would already be counting rubles in Kyiv,” Kovalskyy says.

close up of a Starlink unit on the lap of a volunteer, who is writing notes in a gridded notebook

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a hand holding pieces of shrapnel

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The workshop’s crew has learned to perform adjustments to terminals, especially in adapting them for battlefield conditions. At right, a volunteer engineer shows the fragments of shrapnel he has extracted from the terminals.

Despite being designed primarily for commercial use, Starlink provides a fantastic battlefield solution. The low-latency, high-bandwidth connection its terminals establish with its constellation of low-Earth-orbit satellites can transmit large streams of data while remaining very difficult for the enemy to jam—in part because the satellites, unlike geostationary ones, are in constant motion. 

It’s also fairly easy to use, so that soldiers with little or no technical knowledge can connect in minutes. And the system costs much less than other military technology; while the US and Polish governments pay business rates for many of Ukraine’s Starlink systems, individual soldiers or military units can purchase the hardware at the private rate of about $500, and subscribe for just $50 per month.

No alternatives match Starlink for cost, ease of use, or coverage—and none will in the near future. Its constellation of 8,000 satellites dwarfs that of its main competitor, a service called OneWeb sold by the French satellite operator Eutelsat, which has only 630 satellites. OneWeb’s hardware costs about 20 times more, and a subscription can run significantly higher, since OneWeb targets business customers. Amazon’s Project Kuiper, the most likely future competitor, started putting satellites in space only this year. 


Volodymyr Stepanets, a 51-year-old Ukrainian self-described “geek,” had been living in Krakow, Poland, with his family when Russia invaded in 2022. But before that, he had volunteered for several years on the front lines of the war against Russian-supported paramilitaries that began in 2014. 

He recalls, in those early months in eastern Ukraine, witnessing troops coordinating an air strike with rulers and a calculator; the whole process took them between 30 and 40 minutes. “All these calculations can be done in one minute,” he says he told them. “All we need is a very stupid computer and very easy software.” (The Ukrainian military declined to comment on this issue.)

Stepanets subsequently committed to helping this brigade, the 72nd, integrate modern technology into its operations. He says that within one year, he had taught them how to use modern communication platforms, positioning devices, and older satellite communication systems that predate Starlink. 

a Starlink terminal with leaves inside the housing, seen lit in silhouette and numbered 5566
Narodnyi Starlink members ask each other for advice about how to adapt the systems: how to camouflage them from marauding Russian drones or resolve glitches in the software, for example.
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So after Russian tanks rolled across the border, Stepanets was quick to see how Starlink’s service could provide an advantage to Ukraine’s armed forces. He also recognized that these units, as well as civilian users, would need support in utilizing the new technology. And that’s how he came up with the idea for Narodnyi Starlink, an open Facebook group he launched on March 21, just a few weeks after the full invasion began and the Ukrainian government requested the activation of Starlink.

Over the past few years, the Narodnyi Starlink digital community has grown to include volunteer engineers, resellers, and military service members interested in the satellite comms service. The group’s members post roughly three times per day, often sharing or asking for advice about adaptations, or seeking volunteers to fix broken equipment. A user called Igor Semenyak recently asked, for example, whether anyone knew how to mask his system from infrared cameras. “How do you protect yourself from heat radiation?” he wrote, to which someone suggested throwing special heat-proof fabric over the terminal.

Its most famous member is probably a man widely considered the brains of the group: Oleg Kutkov, a 36-year-old software engineer otherwise known to some members as “Dr. Starlink.” Kutkov had been privately studying Starlink technology from his home in Kyiv since 2021, having purchased a system to tinker with when service was still unavailable in the country; he believes that he may have been the country’s first Starlink user. Like Stepanets, he saw the immense potential for Starlink after Russia broke traditional communication lines ahead of its attack.

“Our infrastructure was very vulnerable because we did not have a lot of air defense,” says Kutkov, who still works full time as an engineer at the US networking company Ubiquiti’s R&D center in Kyiv. “Starlink quickly became a crucial part of our survival.”

Stepanets contacted Kutkov after coming across his popular Twitter feed and blog, which had been attracting a lot of attention as early Starlink users sought help. Kutkov still publishes the results of his own research there—experiments he performs in his spare time, sometimes staying up until 3 a.m. to complete them. In May, for example, he published a blog post explaining how users can physically move a user account from one terminal to another when the printed circuit board in one is “so severely damaged that repair is impossible or impractical.” 

“Oleg Kutkov is the coolest engineer I’ve met in my entire life,” Kovalskyy says.

a volunteer holding a Starlink vertically to pry it open

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two volunteers at workbenches repairing terminals

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When the fighting is at its worst, the workshop may receive 500 terminals to repair every month. The crew lives and sometimes even sleeps there.

Supported by Kutkov’s technical expertise and Stepanets’s organizational prowess, Kovalskyy’s warehouse became the major repair hub (though other volunteers also make repairs elsewhere). Over time, Kovalskyy—who co-owned a regional internet service provider before the war—and his crew have learned to perform adjustments to Starlink terminals, especially to adapt them for battlefield conditions. For example, they modified them to receive charge at the right voltage directly from vehicles, years before Starlink released a proprietary car adapter. They’ve also switched out Starlink’s proprietary SPX plugs—which Kovalskyy criticized as vulnerable to moisture and temperature changes—with standard ethernet ports. 

Together, the three civilians—Kutkov, Stepanets, and Kovalskyy—effectively lead Narodnyi Starlink. Along with several other members who wished to remain anonymous, they hold meetings every Monday over Zoom to discuss their activities, including recent Starlink-related developments on the battlefield, as well as information security. 

While the public group served as a suitable means of disseminating information in the early stages of the war when speed was critical, they have had to move a lot of their communications to private channels after discovering Russian surveillance; Stepanets says that at least as early as 2024, Russians had translated a 300-page educational document they had produced and shared online. Now, as administrators of the Facebook group, the three men block the publication of any posts deemed to reveal information that might be useful to Russian forces. 

Stepanets believes the threat extends beyond the group’s intel to its members’ physical safety. When we talked, he brought up the attempted assassination of the Ukrainian activist and volunteer Serhii Sternenko in May this year. Although Sternenko was unaffiliated with Narodnyi Starlink, the event served as a clear reminder of the risks even civilian volunteers undertake in wartime Ukraine. “The Russian FSB and other [security] services still understand the importance of participation in initiatives like [Narodnyi Starlink],” Stepanets says. He stresses that the group is not an organization with a centralized chain of command, but a community that would continue operating if any of its members were no longer able to perform their roles. 

closeup of a Starlink board with light shining through the holes
“We have extremely professional engineers who are extremely intelligent,” Kovalskyy told me. “Repairing Starlink terminals for them is like shooting ducks with HIMARS [a vehicle-borne GPS-guided rocket launcher].”
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The informal, accessible nature of this community has been critical to its success. Operating outside official structures has allowed Narodnyi Starlink to function much more efficiently than state channels. Yuri Krylach, a military communications officer who was inspired by Kovalskyy to set up his own repair workshop as part of Ukraine’s armed forces, says that official processes can be slower than private ones by a factor of 10; his own team’s work is often interrupted by other tasks that commanders deem more urgent, whereas members of the Narodnyi Starlink community can respond to requests quickly and directly. (The military declined to comment on this issue, or on any military connections with Narodnyi Starlink.)


Most of the Narodnyi Starlink members I spoke to, including active-duty soldiers, were unconcerned about the report that Musk might withdraw access to the service in Ukraine. They pointed out that doing so would involve terminating state contracts, including those with the US Department of Defense and Poland’s Ministry of Digitalization. Losing contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars (the Polish government claims to pay $50 million per year in subscription fees), on top of the private subscriptions, would cost the company a significant amount of revenue. “I don’t really think that Musk would cut this money supply,” Kutkov says. “It would be quite stupid.” Oleksandr Dolynyak, an officer in the 103rd Separate Territorial Defense Brigade and a Narodnyi Starlink member since 2022, says: “As long as it is profitable for him, Starlink will work for us.”

Stepanets does believe, however, that Musk’s threats exposed an overreliance on the technology that few had properly considered. “Starlink has really become one of the powerful tools of defense of Ukraine,” he wrote in a March Facebook post entitled “Irreversible Starlink hegemony,” accompanied by an image of the evil Darth Sidious from Star Wars. “Now, the issue of the country’s dependence on the decisions of certain eccentric individuals … has reached [a] melting point.”

Even if telecommunications experts both inside and outside the military agree that Starlink has no direct substitute, Stepanets believes that Ukraine needs to diversify its portfolio of satellite communication tools anyway, integrating additional high-speed satellite communication services like OneWeb. This would relieve some of the pressure caused by Musk’s erratic, unpredictable personality and, he believes, give Ukraine some sense of control over its wartime communications. (SpaceX did not respond to a request for comment.) 

The Ukrainian military seems to agree with this notion. In late March, at a closed-door event in Kyiv, the country’s then-deputy minister of defense Kateryna Chernohorenko announced the formation of a special Space Policy Directorate “to consolidate internal and external capabilities to advance Ukraine’s military space sector.” The announcement referred to the creation of a domestic “satellite constellation,” which suggests that reliance on foreign services like Starlink had been a catalyst. “Ukraine needs to transition from the role of consumer to that of a full-fledged player in the space sector,” a government blog post stated. (Chernohorenko did not respond to a request for comment.)

Ukraine isn’t alone in this quandary. Recent discussions about a potential Starlink deal with the Italian government, for example, have stalled as a result of Musk’s behavior. And as Juliana Süss, an associate fellow at the UK’s Royal United Services Institute, points out, Taiwan chose SpaceX’s competitor Eutelsat when it sought a satellite communications partner in 2023.

“I think we always knew that SpaceX is not always the most reliable partner,” says Süss, who also hosts RUSI’s War in Space podcast, citing Musk’s controversial comments about the country’s status. “The Taiwan problems are a good example for how the rest of the world might be feeling about this.”

Nevertheless, Ukraine is about to become even more deeply enmeshed with Starlink; the country’s leading mobile operator Kyivstar announced in July that Ukraine will soon become the first European nation to offer Starlink direct-to-mobile services. Süss is cautious about placing too much emphasis on this development though. “This step does increase dependency,” she says. “But that dependency is already there.” Adding an additional channel of communications as a possible backup is otherwise a logical action for a country at war, she says.


These issues can feel far away for the many Ukrainians who are just trying to make it through to the next day. Despite its location in the far west of Ukraine, Lviv, home to Kovalskyy’s shop, is still frequently hit by Russian kamikaze drones, and local military-affiliated sites are popular targets. 

Still, during our time together, Kovalskyy was far more worried by the prospect of his team’s possible mobilization. In March, the Ministry of Defense had removed the special status that had otherwise protected his people from involuntary conscription given the nature of their volunteer activities. They’re now at risk of being essentially picked up off the street by Ukraine’s dreaded military recruitment teams, known as the TCK, whenever they leave the house.

A room with walls covered by a grid of patches and Ukrainian flags, and stacks of grey boxes on the floor
The repair shop displays patches from many different Ukrainian military units—each given as a gift for their services. “We sometimes perform miracles with Starlinks,” Kovalskyy said.
COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR

This is true even though there’s so much demand for the workshop’s services that during my visit, Kovalskyy expressed frustration at the vast amount of time they’ve had to dedicate solely to basic repairs. “We have extremely professional engineers who are extremely intelligent,” he told me. “Repairing Starlink terminals for them is like shooting ducks with HIMARS [a vehicle-borne GPS-guided rocket launcher].” 

At least the situation seemed to have become better on the front over the winter, Kovalskyy added, handing me a Starlink antenna whose flat, white surface had been ripped open by shrapnel. When the fighting is at its worst, the team might receive 500 terminals to repair every month, and the crew lives in the workshop, sometimes even sleeping there. But at that moment in time, it was receiving only a couple of hundred.

We ended our morning at the workshop by browsing its vast collection of varied military patches, pinned to the wall on large pieces of Velcro. Each had been given as a gift by a different unit as thanks for the services of Kovalskyy and his team, an indication of the diversity and size of Ukraine’s military: almost 1 million soldiers protecting a 600-mile front line. At the same time, it’s a physical reminder that they almost all rely on a single technology with just a few production factories located on another continent nearly 6,000 miles away.

“We sometimes perform miracles with Starlinks,” Kovalskyy says. 

He and his crew can only hope that they will still be able to for the foreseeable future—or, better yet, that they won’t need to at all.  

Charlie Metcalfe is a British journalist. He writes for magazines and newspapers including Wired, the Guardian, and MIT Technology Review.

Why recycling isn’t enough to address the plastic problem

I remember using a princess toothbrush when I was little. The handle was purple, teal, and sparkly. Like most of the other pieces of plastic that have ever been made, it’s probably still out there somewhere, languishing in a landfill. (I just hope it’s not in the ocean.)

I’ve been thinking about that toothbrush again this week after UN talks about a plastic treaty broke down on Friday. Nations had gotten together to try and write a binding treaty to address plastic waste, but negotiators left without a deal.

Plastic is widely recognized as a huge source of environmental pollution—again, I’m wondering where that toothbrush is—but the material is also a contributor to climate change. Let’s dig into why talks fell apart and how we might address emissions from plastic.

I’ve defended plastic before in this newsletter (sort of). It’s a wildly useful material, integral in everything from glasses lenses to IV bags.

But the pace at which we’re producing and using plastic is absolutely bonkers. Plastic production has increased at an average rate of 9% every year since 1950. Production hit 460 million metric tons in 2019. And an estimated 52 million metric tons are dumped into the environment or burned each year.

So, in March 2022, the UN Environment Assembly set out to develop an international treaty to address plastic pollution. Pretty much everyone should agree that a bunch of plastic waste floating in the ocean is a bad thing. But as we’ve learned over the past few years, as these talks developed, opinions diverge on what to do about it and how any interventions should happen.

One phrase that’s become quite contentious is the “full life cycle” of plastic. Basically, some groups are hoping to go beyond efforts to address just the end of the plastic life cycle (collecting and recycling it) by pushing for limits on plastic production. There was even talk at the Assembly of a ban on single-use plastic.

Petroleum-producing nations strongly opposed production limits in the talks. Representatives from Saudi Arabia and Kuwait told the Guardian that they considered limits to plastic production outside the scope of talks. The US reportedly also slowed down talks and proposed to strike a treaty article that references the full life cycle of plastics.

Petrostates have a vested interest because oil, natural gas, and coal are all burned for energy used to make plastic, and they’re also used as raw materials. This stat surprised me: 12% of global oil demand and over 8% of natural gas demand is for plastic production.  

That translates into a lot of greenhouse gas emissions. One report from Lawrence Berkeley National Lab found that plastics production accounted for 2.24 billion metric tons of carbon dioxide emissions in 2019—that’s roughly 5% of the global total.  

And looking into the future, emissions from plastics are only set to grow. Another estimate, from the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development, projects that emissions from plastics could swell from about 2 billion metric tons to 4 billion metric tons by 2060.

This chart is what really strikes me and makes the conclusion of the plastic treaty talks such a disappointment.

Recycling is a great tool, and new methods could make it possible to recycle more plastics and make it easier to do so. (I’m particularly interested in efforts to recycle a mix of plastics, cutting down on the slow and costly sorting process.)

But just addressing plastic at its end of life won’t be enough to address the climate impacts of the material. Most emissions from plastic come from making it. So we need new ways to make plastic, using different ingredients and fuels to take oil and gas out of the equation. And we need to be smarter about the volume of plastic we produce.  

One positive note here: The plastic treaty isn’t dead, just on hold for the moment. Officials say that there’s going to be an effort to revive the talks.

Less than 10% of plastic that’s ever been produced has been recycled. Whether it’s a water bottle, a polyester shirt you wore a few times, or a princess toothbrush from when you were a kid, it’s still out there somewhere in a landfill or in the environment. Maybe you already knew that. But also consider this: The greenhouse gases emitted to make the plastic are still in the atmosphere, too, contributing to climate change. 

This article is from The Spark, MIT Technology Review’s weekly climate newsletter. To receive it in your inbox every Wednesday, sign up here.