English-language version of a guest post by Jisoo An, the author of Discovering Keystone Species (ISBN 9791112046659) and a student at Dwight School, Seoul.
On August 23, I traveled to Maehyang-ri, a coastal area about 80 kilometers southwest of Seoul, to join Dr. Moores and his team on a survey connected to the Blue Carbon Project. The focus that day was on how man-made structures affect the roosting behavior of shorebirds. Dr. Moores explained that most shorebirds need an open skyline when they rest, but buildings and installations can disrupt this, forcing them to avoid certain areas. To measure this impact, the team carefully recorded the distance between the structures and the birds while they roosted, hoping to determine whether the presence of these objects actually repelled the species.
Maehyang-ri itself carries a heavy history. For centuries, about 3,200 villagers lived from rice farming and harvesting crab, oyster, and other seafood. But in 1951, their lives changed when the U.S. Air Force took over the village as the Kooni Range. Until 2005, residents endured relentless jet noise, which caused hearing loss, house damage, and even livestock miscarriages.
When we first arrived at the harbor, the tide was low and the mudflat stretched out endlessly, looking almost empty. I couldn’t imagine that there were any birds here. The only ones I saw at first were seagulls circling above. But once Dr. Moores set up his telescope and motioned me over, my entire perception of this “emptyland” changed just through one lens of one telescope. Through the lens, I spotted a Far Eastern Curlew, a globally endangered species, digging a crab out of the mud with its long, curved beak. It shook off the mud as if it were standing right in front of me. That was my “wow” moment, the instant when the importance of this place and its wildlife became real. Just then, the moment was broken by the sudden roar of a passing truck. It was hot under the morning sun, so we moved to a cool, shaded cafe to continue the interview.
In our interview, many of his responses were meaningful, but these are the ones that left the strongest impression on me.
What is conservation?
Dr. Moores explained that preserve means “to keep something as it is,” while conserve is proactive. It’s about solving problems without fundamentally altering what’s natural. Conservation, he emphasized, ties directly to sustainable development and, more importantly, to changing our value system. Birds Korea, his organization, not only collects data to present to the government but also works to raise awareness and shift public values. This helped me realize the real difference between preservation and conservation, as well as what it truly meant.
What challenges do these birds face?
Dr. Moores shared a story from his childhood. At around 7 or 8 years old, his grandmother took him to a farmland being restored into a wetland. The wetland manager told him, “Look at these fields. In 10 years, this will be a wetland. And in another 10 years, it will be a place where thousands of people come to see birds. And when they leave, they’ll carry with them that sense of ‘wow, birds are fantastic.’” That place became Martin Mere, a famous wetland center in the UK. Dr. Moores explained that when people can experience nature in safe spaces, it’s easier for them to form their own “wow” moments. But he also stressed that this sense of value is fragile. It is easily disrupted by small distractions. Just like how my own “wow” moment seeing the Far Eastern Curlew was interrupted by the roar of a truck, people need protected spaces where they can truly connect with wildlife.
What advice would you give young people who want to work in ecology or conservation?
His advice was simple but powerful: “Hear your own voice.” He explained that there are many roles in ecology and conservation, such as research, advocacy, education, and more. But before deciding, young people should take the time to explore, discover, and listen honestly to their own genuine voice. That, he said, is the foundation for meaningful work in conservation.
Later, we moved to another bird-watching point (Maehwa-ri) as the tide began to rise. At first glance, it seemed like just another wide, empty stretch of shoreline. I was tired, but I decided to pull out my telescope for one more look. Adjusting the focus was tricky, but the moment it clicked into place, a whole new world appeared. What had seemed empty was suddenly alive. Hundreds, even thousands, of shorebirds clustered along the water’s edge, each moving at its own pace yet forming part of something larger. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. At that moment, I realized why this work matters: to ensure that these birds can continue to thrive in their own environment.
My experience at Maehyang-ri showed me the importance of collaboration in conservation work. The process of collecting data, analyzing it, and presenting the findings to decision-makers relies on cooperation among NGOs, research groups, and numerous individuals. This shared effort is what makes meaningful change possible.
