The Stories and Wisdoms of Koryo Saram Women’s Journeys

This summer, I’ve been based in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, collecting oral histories of Koryo Saram women, a Korean diasporic community in Central Asia whose voices are often left out of mainstream migration narratives. Through interviews across generations, I explored how memory, migration, and identity intersect, particularly around education and cultural transmission. I arrived in Tashkent with a camera, a list of questions, and a quiet sense of uncertainty: how do you ask someone to share a story that might be filled with loss, silence, or fracture?

Each conversation revealed a different emotional landscape. There were moments of laughter, quiet pauses, and stories that brought both of us to tears. In one interview, I sat across from a woman in her thirties who spoke softly in Korean, reflecting on her childhood pain: how her family’s financial situation prevented her from pursuing higher education. Her voice cracked as she recounted this memory. Yet just minutes later, we were smiling and connecting over our shared love of K-pop and the resonance of Korean culture. I was surprised by how a single question could uncover so many emotions so quickly, such as grief, pride, nostalgia, joy.

In another conversation, a woman in her fifties spoke with pride about becoming a grandmother. She shared her family’s traditions and the differences she’s observed between younger and older generations of Koryo Saram. Eventually, our conversation shifted to her memories of starting a small business during the Soviet Union. I had asked about Korean culture, but that question suddenly felt irrelevant in the face of such a deeply personal recollection. I remember setting my notes aside and just listening. That moment taught me something fundamental: to be a better listener than a researcher. The most powerful insights didn’t come from perfectly crafted questions, but from the silences I allowed to exist.

As the project deepened, I became personally invested in understanding the Koryo Saram experience beyond formal interviews. A friend introduced me to someone who collects and preserves artwork by Koryo Saram artists across Uzbekistan. Their collection, rich with pieces spanning generations, isn’t housed in a public museum, perhaps because cultural institutions haven’t prioritized Koryo Saram history. Through these paintings, I saw generational shifts in artistic expression, identity, and Korean cultural influence over time.

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I also visited a sanitarium called Arirang, a care home for elderly Koryo Saram. Many of the residents were first- or second-generation migrants. Their names fascinated me, as there were Korean names adapted with Russian phonetics, like “Jang Raida” instead of “Jang Rai.” Some elders spoke only Russian but understood Korean dialects from the North; many lit up when we mentioned folk songs like “Arirang.” We greeted them in both Korean and Russian, and their smiles felt like an embrace across generations.

I found myself reflecting on my own identity, too. Like many Koryo Saram, I’m ethnically Korean, but I’ve lived abroad more than I’ve lived in Korea. I’ve often wondered whether I’m “Koreanenough” or truly resonate with their culture. But Koryo Saram’s stories are not mine. And as I listened and continued my research, I began to question whether I was doing justice to their histories or unconsciously reframing them through the lens of my own diasporic experience.

Several research themes emerged: how food and traditions preserve culture more powerfully than language; how some women embrace Korean identity while others keep it at a distance; how education remains a deeply held value; and how Soviet, Uzbek, and Korean state policies have shaped complex forms of belonging. But beyond these insights, this project reminded me that memory isn’t just data. It’s breath, body, and belonging.

I’m now back from Tashkent and in the process of writing and organizing the oral histories. I miss the rhythm of the city, the warmth of conversations, the friendships I formed. I returned not just with interviews and transcripts, but with relationships and stories that will stay with me. Stories of resilience, joy, pride, and tenderness. I hope this project becomes part of a larger bridge between generations, between places, and between people. Not just recording history, but honoring it.