‘Landmines have become the greatest protectors’: how wildlife is thriving in the Korean DMZ | Biodiversity

SPulling at the top of a small mountain, Kim Seung-Ho looks at a shiny rice field in their autumn gold, the ripening grains gently swing in the wind. In the distance, North Korea extends beyond the horizon.

“It’s so peaceful,” said the director of the DMZ Ecology Research Institute. “There, it was a range of artillery, but as they stopped shooting, nature has become so beautiful.”

The land in front of him is the demilitarized zone, or DMZ, a strip of land which crosses the Korean peninsula, roughly dividing the north and South Korea along the 38th north parallel.

This strongly fortified border was created after the devastating Korean War, which lasted from 1950 to 1953. The conflict ended with an armistice rather than a peace treaty, establishing a buffer zone between the two countries which remain in a technical state of war.

Extending 155 miles (250 km) through the peninsula and 2.4 miles wide, the DMZ is anything but demilitarized. There remains one of the most fortified borders in the world, dotted with terrestrial mines and flanked by military installations on both sides.

However, during the 72 years which followed the end of the war, this prohibited band has become an accidental ecological paradise.

The National Institute of Ecology of South Korea has documented nearly 6,000 species here, including more than 100 endangered species – representing more than a third of threatened fauna in South Korea.

The varied terrain of the area creates distinct habitats: the wetlands of the western sector migrating cranes, while the rugged mountains of the East provide a sanctuary for some of the most threatened mammals in the country, including Siberian musc deer and Asian black bears.

Kim and her small team of volunteers, working from their research institute in Paju, near the North Korean border, spent two decades document this unexpected sanctuary. Each week, make the rain or the sun, they study the civil control zone (CCZ), the restricted buffer area bordering the DMZ.

“In temperate climates around the world, big cities have developed,” he said. “There is nowhere else where nature has been left alone like that.”

DMZ and its surroundings, while covering less than 10% of the total area of ​​South Korea, housing 38% of the country’s endangered species and more than 30% of its flora and fauna. This ecological miracle, however, is delivered with a dark touch.

“I thought I was the best environmentalist,” says Kim, “but I realized that the terrestrial mines were more for conservation than anyone. It’s ironic, right? Weapons intended to kill have become the greatest protectors of life. ”

The Kim team has meticulously documented all the important species they encounter, building a detailed database of the region’s wildlife.

They map the location of each observation, depending on how species move and habitats change over time. Their meticulous documentation has become invaluable.

“During government meetings, the researchers sometimes hesitate to speak when we are present,” explains Kim. “They know that our data is more complete and precise than official recordings.”

Despite its ecological richness, the search for DMZ is heavy with challenges. The area itself remains prohibited for most civilians, strongly guarded and bordered by military facilities.

On the south side is the CCZ, where access is closely restricted. Civilians must go through military control points, requiring special authorization from the Ministry of Defense and, in certain areas, military escorts.

During our journey to one of the rare points of crossing leading to the DMZ, Kim notices that we are fortunate to have obtained access. “Usually, when relations are this civilian and civilian access is the first thing to be limited,” he says.

A few moments later, a telephone call from the Ministry of Defense informed us that our authorization was revoked due to a sudden military activity on the border.

“This is the reality in which we work,” sighs Kim while we return and go to survey in a non -militarized location nearby. “For a moment, we are planning research; The next one, the military situation changes, and everything is suspended. ”

It is a frustrating setback, but a team of Kim got used to. Later, it appeared that the North Korean military staff had approached the line of demarcation to plant explosives, before exploding the last remaining roads connecting the two countries.

It is a brutal reminder that if hostilities officially ended in 1953, tensions remain very real.

These setbacks underline a deeper concern: war and peace constitute a threat to the delicate Le Havre which emerged in the DMZ. Kim fears that any peace agreement could bring development, threatening the fragile ecosystem.

“The current generation should not decide the fate of DMZ,” he says. “We have to leave this to a generation that values ​​biodiversity. They should choose his future. “

When the tensions increase, Kim takes comfort while looking at the rare cranes that migrate through Northeast Asia, resting in the band for a while before flying in Siberia for the summer. He hopes that the conservation of these shared natural treasures could help bring the two countries together.

Looking through the restricted area, Kim is thinking about his meaning. “What is special in the DMZ is not only his remarkable ecology,” he said, looking at the magnificent birds surround.

“Here, war and peace, life and death coexist. The soil contains the remains of soldiers of many nations, but nature does not discriminate by nationality or ideology. She creates a feeling of harmony from these tragic elements. ”

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