Making Peace with Nature: Ecological Encounters along the Korean DMZ ~ By Eleana J. Kim
(Duke University Press, Durham/NC, 2022, ISBN #978-1-4780-1835-3)
Review by John Feffer (Summer 2024)
I have had the rare opportunity to visit the Demilitarized Zone from both sides of the divided Korean peninsula. On the northern side, the excursion was part of an itinerary to demonstrate to visiting Americans the peaceful intentions of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) and the aggressive posture of the joint U.S. and South Korean forces.
Our North Korean military guide was mostly intent on proving that the U.S. and its puppet ally had constructed a concrete wall spanning the peninsula along the DMZ that could only be seen by binoculars from the northern side. The view through the lenses was not convincing, although South Korea indeed has put in anti-tank fortifications along the border that might, if you squint at a section obscured by trees, look like a wall.
The trip from the southern side was organized by a peace organization and focused on the poignant reminders of a divided land and a separated people: We viewed the severed train line, the razor wire, the evidence of land mines, the abandoned buildings, the military installations. Also accessible from the south were the farming villages that abut the Civilian Control Line, which marks the beginning of a highly regulated area just south of the DMZ.
What lies between the two frontiers that one can visit from the north and the south is a narrow band of land that stretches across the 160-mile width of the Korean peninsula. The DMZ is a mere 2.5 miles wide. Given the million-plus landmines in the area as well as the military installations on either side, it is far from a “demilitarized” zone.
But the DMZ, because of the absence of people in that 2.5-mile-wide strip, has also been celebrated as a nature preserve, home to cranes, bears, and otters. For several decades, activists and academics have emphasized this ecological rarity — a strictly monitored no-go zone — as a potential model for transforming the division of the peninsula into a jointly-administered peace park. Let the animals show the way.
For the most part, the governments of both sides have not cooperated on such a vision, either because of cycles of mutual hostility or, when that hostility has ebbed, the ambitious plans they have cooked up together to promote economic cooperation that would come at the expense of this militarized nature preserve.
These are the contradictions that Eleana Kim explores in her book Making Peace with Nature, a deep dive into three case studies of nature in and around the DMZ. She looks at how ponds, birds, and landmines all challenge conventional notions of the DMZ as a pristine preserve, a land of economic opportunity, and/or a zone of peace.
Along the way, she grapples with the essential problem facing those who desire an environmentally sustainable reunification of the peninsula. When the two Koreas are at odds with one another, nature flourishes during the standoff. But when the two countries are busy negotiating — as they did during the era of the sunshine policy and, again, during Moo-Hyun Roh’s subsequent “peace and prosperity” tenure — their joint plans for economic development cut right through the zone of biodiversity, just as a reconnected north-south train line, in the works for a couple decades, would eventually do. “Peace and life” was one such South Korean government tagline, and both sides have also spoken of “peaceful utilization.” Environmentalists, however, see through these anodyne slogans to the grubbier economic plans that threaten the balance of nature in and around the DMZ.
That balance, Kim explains, can be seen not just in the large and easier-to-spot mammals (bears, deer) that live in or near the DMZ. It can be found also in the humble pond, or dumbeong, that support an endangered giant water bug and a variety of aquatic plants. These are not untouched areas. In the inhabited region south of the DMZ proper, where farmers grow rice and other products, the dumbeong are an old-fashioned resource for irrigating rice paddies. The geopolitical peculiarities of the DMZ region have thus preserved older forms of human interaction with nature.
Birds, meanwhile, have become a prominent symbol of the shadow reunification of the peninsula, for they cross back and forth across the DMZ without any regard to military checkpoints. Ornithologists on both sides of the border have long engaged in the routine banding of birds to determine their migration and flight patterns, discovering in the process this aerial reunification. Kim cites the famous story of a pair of father-son ornithologists separated by the Korean War. The son, based in the south, received a notification one day that one of the birds that he had banded, a purple-backed starling, had been captured and identified in the north by none other than his father.
“Due to the near-total impossibility of communicating between the two Koreas, neither father nor son had known during the intervening 15 years whether the other had survived the war,” Kim writes. “As the story goes, Pyong-Oh’s parents treasured the aluminum metal band, imprinted with the code C7635, weeping as they caressed it, missing their distant son.”
But, as she points out, this sentimental story obscures the fact that the birds are not free, how their existence depends on places to feed, rest, and breed, and those are under constant threat from human encroachment in the form of farming, industry, residential construction, and military installations. At the same time, the military standoff between the two Koreas has also preserved sites vital for their survival. And despite the standoff, the flyways of the birds have led to transnational networks of scientific cooperation that go well beyond the father-son team separated by the DMZ.
Kim’s third case study, landmines, deliberately challenges the notion of a pristine environmental enclave at the DMZ. Upwards of a million landmines are buried in and around the zone. Accidentally triggering these mines, farmers and other residents of the towns bordering the DMZ have lost their limbs and their lives. Periodic flooding has sent mines even further south, and the government in Seoul has been slow to acknowledge, much less compensate, the victims of these mines.
Though a powerful chapter, the section on landmines reveals a curious blind spot in the research. Kim rarely discusses how North Korea has contributed to the militarization and environmental degradation of the border region. She hammers home the unfortunate reality that neither the U.S. nor South Korea has signed the Treaty to Ban Landmines, but fails to point out that North Korea hasn’t signed it either. For obvious reasons, Kim was not able to conduct research on the other side of the border. But she has a tendency in the book to ascribe all negative attributes of border militarization to the U.S. and South Korea, as if North Korea is just a passive observer in this process.
Making Peace with Nature is a powerful, though often overly theoretical, analysis of the nature-culture-military dynamic at play in the DMZ. It offers a useful corrective to the twin narratives that the DMZ is either just an untouched zone of nature or an area to be exploited economically for the purposes of peaceful reunification. The DMZ is certainly a geographic and geopolitical anomaly that lends itself to high-flown rhetoric and ambitious plans. But it is also a real place that deserves the careful study that Kim has produced.