“Thanks to the fact that we’re hardworking people, we survived” (Babulya).
Strolling along the streets of Tashkent, Uzbekistan, I can’t help but notice the vibrant palette of faces — from Uzbek to Russian to Korean — and feel a sense of belonging.
Korea is miles from Uzbekistan, yet its culture vibrates through each bite of Uzbek-style Korean kuksi (cold noodle soup) and begodya (steamed bun). Stepping into this land of Central Asia, one may wonder, why is that?
***
In the 1860s, Russia shared the Amur region with China and the Maritime border with Korea. While Russia struggled to colonize the Far East, Koreans immigrated to the Ussuri region of the Maritime border. Disagreements over territories in Northeast Asia — specifically Manchuria and Korea — sparked the Russo-Japanese War of 1904, where Japan won and strengthened its hold on Korea.
When Japan officially annexed Korea in 1910, a massive wave of 200,000 Korean immigrants greeted the Far East of Russia. Their desirable Asian attributes reflected the friendly contacts between Czarist Russia and Korea. Though it was difficult for Korean immigrants to gain Russian citizenship, their lives remained peaceful until the rule of “the steel man”— Joseph Stalin.
In 1922, Russia became the Soviet Union and annexed the Far East Republic, further encouraging Korean immigration. Two years later, Stalin grew suspicious of Korean ties to Japan, their biggest enemy. Between 1928 and 1932, anti-Korean violence in Soviet land increased, pressuring Koreans to flee to Manchuria and Korea.
In 1937, on July 17, the Soviet government decreed the official cleansing of Korean “spies of Japan.” Leaving behind all of their belongings, cramped into cattle wagons, and starving from malnutrition, the remaining Koreans were forced to evacuate their homes. More than half died from disease and their corpses were tossed onto the unknown fields. These victims were known as the Koryo-Saram (Soviet-Koreans).
As a Russian-speaking Korean with parents from Uzbekistan, this story hits smack in my gut. Although my parents weren’t victims of this deportation, my great-grandparents were involved. When I interviewed Babulya about this topic, she was just as uncertain, to my surprise.
“After I got married, my mother whispered to me about the Koryo-Saram, who had no clothes, no food, and no direction in life. Instead, they worked in kolkhozes (collective farms).”
Despite her traumatic past, Babulya was a happy child.
“Of course, my childhood differs from yours. We didn’t have any toys and played with others. I believed that this was happiness.”
However, due to the majority ethnic Russian population, Babulya’s teachers and classmates mocked her with “uzko-glazie (narrow eyes)” remarks.
Like Babulya, my mother’s friend Olga Kim is a Russian-speaking Korean with Central Asian roots. Her father Doncher Shin was born in the Far East of Russia in 1933 and currently lives in Kyrgyzstan. Although Shin was just four at the time of the deportation, his parents’ memories have left indelible footprints behind.
“I had nine brothers and sisters, and I was on the younger side,” Shin said. “When the deportation began, there was a high possibility that I would be separated from my family.”
Life after the deportation was rough. In the mid-1900s, “The Koryo-Sarams survived under Celtic housing (domed-shaped huts). There was only one school, where children were already taught in Russian,” Olga told me. “My father only went to school at the age of ten. During this time, the Russian community certainly treated Korean children as “unreliable” people.
Everything changed when Shin’s father didn’t come home one day. He was a revolutionary who had moved to the Far East before the deportation. According to Olga, her grandfather couldn't be a revolutionary after moving because of his Korean ethnicity. With the government’s threats, he had to stay under the radar.
“This is why he was taken from my family,” she added.
The deportation would lead to the deaths of millions of ethnic Koreans in modern Central Asia. Doncher wrote letters to a government in the Far East, hoping to find out about his father’s sudden disappearance.
“After many years, he finally got a letter,” Olga said. “When my grandfather was taken, he was shot.”
After Stalin died in 1953, restrictions for ethnic minorities dissipated.
“My father graduated from a university in Uzbekistan and continued his education in Moscow. He’s the first one from my household to graduate from an institute. He later became a teacher in Moscow,” Olga said.
After Olga married Misha in Kyrgyzstan, they both migrated to New York by winning green cards. They live in Washington State with their six-year-old daughter Valentina (Valia).
My parents’ story takes a different turn regarding their U.S. migration. My father moved to the U.S. in 1998 before returning to Olmaliq, Uzbekistan, and meeting my mother in 2003. When they permanently moved to California in 2004, it was easier for Mother to adjust to the American lifestyle.
“Despite his guidance, he would force me to memorize the prices of products in different stores so we could pick out the cheaper options.” Mother added.
Even though she struggled with her music business in the first few years, her resilience transformed into fifteen successful years of domisolka singing and piano instruction. Thankfully, English wasn’t necessary for Mother’s business to take off, since she taught her lessons in Russian to Russian-speaking kids.
Unlike Babulya’s and Olga’s forced migration, my parents came to the U.S. by choice. Yet a common thread in these stories remains laced through my upbringing.
“My mother wanted us to study, forced us to study,” Babulya chuckled. “Because of her iron fist, I received a good education, which is what I did with your mother and uncle.”
This emphasis on education continues to resonate with my mother.
“Babulya was very fond of my and my brother’s education. It’s an integral part of raising you and your sister. I must admit that the pestering paid off in her acceptance to Stanford and will hopefully do the same for you,” Mother told me.
Whether it’s an extra hour of studying or preparing for a piano competition, “Uchitsya, uchitsya, e uchitsya (Study, study, and study)” remains our ultimate motto, a logical connection to the Koryo Saram: the hardworking Russian-speaking Koreans.
Comments