Catching the hunters trapping rare songbirds in China

Silva Gu's eyes dart back and forth across miles of tall grassland, scouring it for signs of life in the darkness. He speaks in less than a whisper as we try to find a spot to hide in the fields. Behind us, the vast metropolis of Beijing has yet to wake. As we wait, we hear only our own breath.

And then, as the sky starts to lighten ahead of sunrise, we hear footsteps. The poachers are here.

Slim and stealthy, Silva heads out first. We eventually follow with our cameras. Slowly, we tread through a line of trees, into a small clearing. We only spot the bird net when it is a few inches from our faces.

Each year, tens of thousands of birds are caught in nets across China for the pet trade, or for meat. The pandemic and a property crisis have brought about an economic slowdown — making the catching and selling of songbirds on the black market a low-cost and often low-risk means of profit. A pretty songbird, such as a Siberian rubythroat, can often sell for nearly 2,000 yuan (£210; $280), which is more than many farmers earn in a month.

I want to protect them on this Earth controlled by humans, Silva says. For him, birds are a passion. I often dream. And in my dreams, I'm always flying.

Trapped

In the skies above us, billions of birds, many so small they can fit in the palm of your hand, are migrating south for winter. They have taken advantage of the long summer days in Siberia, or Mongolia, feasting on bugs and berries. As the year concludes and icy winds bring the first frosts of winter, they are flying to warmer places to nest and feed.

This was back in October, when flying through China is akin to rush hour for migratory birds heading to Australia, New Zealand, or southern Africa. China is home to over 1500 bird species, about 13% of the global population — with more than 800 of those being migratory birds. Four of the nine major routes they follow intersect in China.

These are long, often perilous journeys, where the birds navigate through storms and evade predators while looking for the ideal spot to spend the night. The patch of grassland where we were is an oasis for small birds — any further, and the city skies offer few options to rest among towering concrete.

It is also an oasis for the poachers and their mist nets, so thin you can barely see them.

We nearly walked into one stretched across half the length of the field and propped up with bamboo poles. In the middle, a small finch desperately tried to free its legs, but the more it moved, the more its claws became tangled. It was a meadow pipit, a protected bird in China and an important indicator species — meaning if its numbers are thriving, so is the environment.

When the poacher spotted us, he started to run. From a small pouch on his hip, he threw around half a dozen small birds into the air before sprinting deeper into the shrubs. Our cameras captured the moment he was stopped by Silva, who used his years of experience to detain poachers while calling the police. He blocked the poacher's path and refused to let him leave.

At the beginning I had no experience and was quite afraid, he says later. But if you really want to do something, those fears will all be forgotten. The police arrived about 40 minutes later to arrest the poacher.

Hunting the hunters

Silva, in his 30s, works for free using his own savings. He has given up many nights of sleep to set songbirds free over the last 10 years, persuading the police in Beijing to take this crime seriously. He recalls, Back in 2015, no one cared.

So he recruited volunteers who did care and launched a group called the Beijing Migratory Bird Squad. He conducted public meetings and invited heads of the local police and forestry bureau. These persistent acts of persuasion have proven effective, as police realized that catching poachers would also lead to solving other criminal activities in Beijing.

We discovered our goals were partially aligned, Silva says, though he adds that enforcement is still patchy.

Silva's passion for birds began in childhood as he roamed the grasslands around an older Beijing, where he found birds, frogs, and snakes. The population increase caused by China’s booming economy led to rapid urbanization — a shift that saw the grasslands shrink and habitats disappear. Silva decided to devote his life to conservation.

Busted

On a long low wall alongside the Liangshui river in Beijing, a trader sits with several small cages filled with tiny twittering birds. Another man outside a nearby vegetable market shrouds a bird cage in black cloth, claiming his songbird is rare and worth nearly 1900 yuan, or about $270. This situation offers a window into old Beijing, where unofficial traders run their own markets.

During one patrol, police arrived to question bird owners, quelling sales for the day. They were part of a wider campaign initiated by the Ministry of Public Security that year.

Interpol estimates that illegal wildlife trade is valued at nearly $20 billion, and China stands as the largest consumer of wildlife products. Wildlife trade pressures continue to grow, with calls for educating the public on ecological issues around the caged bird tradition that dates back to noble families in the Qing dynasty.

Silva feels isolated in his fight against these practices. Sometimes, I am so tired. I want to find someone, maybe a group of people, and we could combine our strengths — but right now, there is no one, he admits.

Despite the dangers and challenges he faces, Silva has rescued more than 20,000 birds while disrupting countless nets. He remains optimistic, believing in a generational shift toward appreciating and protecting China’s rare songbirds. Until that time, Silva vows to continue his nightly patrols, ensuring the dulcet tones of songbirds return to Beijings skies — a sound he longs for from his childhood.