Standing on top of a small mountain, Kim Seung-ho gazes out over an expanse of paddy fields glowing in their autumn gold, the ripening grains swaying gently in the wind. In the distance, North Korea stretches beyond the horizon.
“It’s so peaceful,” says the director of the DMZ Ecology Research Institute. “Over there, it used to be an artillery range, but since they stopped firing, the nature has become so beautiful.”
The land before him is the demilitarised zone, or DMZ, a strip of land that runs across the Korean peninsula, dividing North and South Korea roughly along the 38th parallel north.
This heavily fortified border was created after the devastating Korean war, which lasted from 1950 to 1953. The conflict ended in an armistice rather than a peace treaty, establishing a buffer zone between the two countries that remain in a technical state of war.
Stretching 155 miles (250km) across the peninsula and 2.4 miles wide, the DMZ is anything but demilitarised. It remains one of the world’s most heavily fortified borders, strewn with landmines and flanked by military installations on both sides.
Yet, in the 72 years since the war ended, this forbidden strip has become an accidental ecological paradise.
South Korea’s National Institute of Ecology has documented nearly 6,000 species here, including more than 100 endangered species – representing more than a third of South Korea’s threatened wildlife.
The zone’s varied terrain creates distinct habitats: the wetlands of the western sector shelter migrating cranes, while the rugged eastern mountains provide sanctuary for some of the country’s most threatened mammals, including Siberian musk deer and Asiatic black bears.
Kim and his small team of volunteers, working from their research institute in Paju, near the North Korean border, have spent two decades documenting this unexpected sanctuary. Each week, come rain or shine, they survey the Civilian Control Zone (CCZ), the restricted buffer area bordering the DMZ.
“In temperate climates worldwide, big cities have developed,” he says. “There’s nowhere else where nature has been left alone like this.”
The DMZ and its surrounding areas, while covering less than 10% of South Korea’s total land area, harbour 38% of the country’s endangered species and more than 30% of its flora and fauna. This ecological miracle, however, comes with a dark twist.
“I used to think I was the best environmentalist,” Kim says, “but I realised the landmines are doing more for conservation than anyone. It’s ironic, no? Weapons meant for killing have become the greatest protectors of life.”
Kim’s team has meticulously documented every important species they encounter, building a detailed database of the region’s wildlife.
They map each sighting’s location, tracking how species move and habitats change over time. Their meticulous documentation has become invaluable.
“At government meetings, researchers sometimes hesitate to speak when we’re present,” Kim says. “They know our data is more comprehensive and accurate than official records.”
Despite its ecological richness, researching the DMZ is fraught with challenges. The zone itself remains off-limits to most civilians, heavily guarded and lined with military installations.
On its southern side lies the CCZ, where access is tightly restricted. Civilians must pass through military checkpoints, requiring special clearance from the defence ministry and, in certain areas, military escorts.
During our drive towards one of the few crossing points leading to the DMZ, Kim remarks that we are fortunate to have been granted access. “Usually, when relations are this strained, civilian access is the first thing to be restricted,” he says.
Moments later, a phone call from the defence ministry informs us that our clearance has been revoked due to sudden military activity at the border.
“This is the reality we work in,” Kim sighs as we turn back and go to survey a nearby non-militarised spot. “One moment we’re planning research; the next, the military situation changes, and everything is put on hold.”
It is a frustrating setback, but one Kim’s team has grown used to. Later, it emerged that North Korean military personnel had approached the demarcation line to plant explosives, before blowing up the last remaining roads connecting the two countries.
It is a stark reminder that while hostilities officially ended in 1953, the tensions remain very real.
These setbacks underscore a more profound concern: both war and peace pose a threat to the delicate haven that has emerged in the DMZ. Kim fears that any peace agreement could bring development, threatening the fragile ecosystem.
“The current generation shouldn’t decide the DMZ’s fate,” he argues. “We should leave that to a generation that values biodiversity. They should choose its future.”
When tensions rise, Kim takes solace in watching the rare cranes that migrate across north-east Asia, resting in the strip for a time before flying on to Siberia for the summer. He hopes that conserving these shared natural treasures could help bring the two countries together.
Looking across the restricted zone, Kim reflects on its meaning. “What’s special about the DMZ isn’t just its remarkable ecology,” he says, watching the magnificent birds circle overhead.
“Here, war and peace, life and death coexist. The soil contains the remains of soldiers from many nations, yet nature doesn’t discriminate by nationality or ideology. It creates a sense of harmony from these tragic elements.”
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