Time to Rethink the “Non-Nuclear Homeland”?

A conversation with Thomas Seipolt, Chairman of the German Nuclear Technology Association
By ｜ Kolas Yotaka
For many years, I’ve taken issue with how the government, under martial law, chose to place nuclear waste on Lanyu (Orchid Island) — a decision made without consultation, consent, or regard for the island’s Indigenous people. It was a stark example of how the powerful exploit the powerless. In anti-nuclear circles, Lanyu stands as a living reminder — and often a moral boundary — against the return of nuclear energy.

In August, Taiwan People’s Party (TPP) initiated a referendum on whether to extend the operation of the Nuclear Power Plant No. 3 (Nuclear 3). Voter turnout in Lanyu was remarkably low — just 12.12%, indicating that even those who opposed the measure didn’t come out in force. In Lanyu, 344 voted “yes” and only 151 voted “no”. The results across the country defied expectations and upended long-held assumptions about Taiwan’s energy future.

Since coming to power in 2016, the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) has consistently opposed nuclear energy, planning a full phase-out by May 2025. Nuclear reactors have been systematically decommissioned since 2018, and the final shutdown of Nuclear 3’s second reactor is scheduled for May 2025 — marking Taiwan’s official transition to a "non-nuclear homeland."

Over the years, pro-nuclear voices have repeatedly challenged this policy. In 2022, a referendum to restart Nuclear Plant No. 4 failed, with 3.8 million voting in favor and 4.26 million against. But the tide seems to have turned around. In the August 2025 referendum to extend Nuclear 3, 4.34 million voted “yes”and only 1.51 million“no”. Although the proposal failed to meet the legal threshold for binding adoption (over one-quarter of all registered voters), the sheer scale of support — nearly three times the “no” votes — was eye-opening. It was only three short years — what caused such a dramatic shift in Taiwanese public opinion?

I don’t believe the results reflect a purely rational or scientific shift toward nuclear energy. Rather, politics played a major role. Public frustration with the ruling party — intensified by the DPP’s failed recall campaigns held alongside the referendum — combined with recurring power shortages, surging AI-driven energy demand, and mounting fears of a Chinese military blockade, all contributed to an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. The anti-nuclear camp, once resolute, found itself struggling to defend its position. Voter enthusiasm waned. Meanwhile, the opposition’s mobilization was fierce — electrified by momentum — spreading pro-nuclear messaging that combined encouragement with pressure. Public support for extending Nuclear Plant No. 3 quickly gained traction. The result: a surge in “yes” votes.

In Taiwan, opposing nuclear power once meant standing for freedom, democracy, and resistance against authoritarianism. Today, however, those former rebels are the ones in power — ten years into governance, still holding on to anti-nuclear ideals. But their arguments haven’t evolved. 

While the world races ahead with AI, science, and new technologies, anti-nuclear rhetoric has remained stuck in time. For younger generations, it became anti-technology, anti-progress, even anti-peace.

Germany, once the role model of the global anti-nuclear movement, officially shut down its last reactors in 2023. But the war in Ukraine quickly exposed the vulnerabilities of that decision. Before the invasion in February 2022, nuclear power still accounted for 13% of Germany’s electricity. The rest came largely from Russian natural gas. When war broke out and the Nord Stream pipelines were sabotaged, Germany lost its cheap energy supply overnight. The country had already committed to closing its final three nuclear plants by the end of 2022 — but amid the energy shock, it delayed the closures until April 2023.

At the time, Chancellor Olaf Scholz had to reassure the public repeatedly: even without nuclear, electricity supply would remain stable.

But the war’s ripple effects shook Europe. Spain and Denmark reconsidered their anti-nuclear stances. Finland launched a new nuclear reactor. France began building 14 new plants. Poland and the Czech Republic moved forward with nuclear energy. The UK expanded its nuclear program. The US pledged $30 billion in support. Japan restarted nine reactors. South Korea extended the life of 18 plants. Even the Philippines revived a plant mothballed for 36 years.

Germany’s nuclear debate is nothing new. Since the 1970s, after incidents like Three Mile Island (1979) and Chernobyl (1986), the country has been deeply divided. The 2011 Fukushima disaster finally tipped the scales, with then-Chancellor Angela Merkel — once a proponent — leading the charge to phase out nuclear entirely. Germany became a global poster child for the “non-nuclear homeland.”

But times change. Energy prices soared. Air quality worsened. In 2025, just two years after the phase-out, newly elected Chancellor Friedrich Merz repeatedly warned that the Russia–Ukraine war, combined with the Trump administration’s tariff war, had left Germany facing mounting economic strain. Under pressure, Berlin had little choice but to re-examine its energy strategy. Merz formally announced that national resources would be directed toward developing new nuclear technologies, such as Small Modular Reactors (SMRs).

Today, Germany’s official stance is murkier: it doesn’t support extending the life of old reactors, but it does support developing new nuclear tech. The country’s nuclear industry, long frozen, is beginning to thaw.

To better understand Germany’s evolving stance, I flew to Frankfurt to meet with my friend Thomas Seipolt, Chairman of the German Nuclear Technology Association and CEO of Nukem Technologies — Germany’s only company specializing in nuclear plant decommissioning.

After landing at Frankfurt Airport, I got into an Uber. The driver, an Iranian man who had moved to Frankfurt twenty years ago, told me he was still driving his conventional Ford, powered by fossil fuel.
The car drove out toward an industrial area on the outskirts of Frankfurt. Along the way, we passed a battery storage company before finally arriving at my destination. Nukem’s headquarters is located on the site of Germany’s first commercial nuclear power plant, which the company decommissioned 60 years ago.

“Now it’s a green field,”Thomas told me, smiling. “It’s a good reference. So when we had the chance two years ago, we moved back here — to the place where we gained our first experience in decommissioning. I considered it a good sign.”

Today, nearly a hundred engineers — nuclear, electrical, and industrial — work at the site. There’s even a cafeteria on the top floor. Thomas poured me a glass of water.

“It’s not dangerous, it’s clean. People would not accept anything else — and we wouldn’t either. For sure, we would never live next to a nuclear-spoiled, contaminated place,” he said.

As we sipped our hot water and looked out over the now-tranquil grounds of a once-active reactor, we spoke about the historic nuclear disasters — Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, Fukushima — and how a single war has now forced the world to rethink the balance between energy and security.