Carrying a Piece of Uzbekistan
Tatyana on language, Koryo-Saram identity, and the opportunities passed from one generation to the next
Tatyana grew up in Andijan, far from Uzbekistan’s capital. From childhood, she remembers education as something that was simply expected to be part of her future. “Even when I was in school, I never had any thoughts that I wouldn’t study.” She finished school, continued to university, and later completed Korean-language courses. For Tatyana, continuing her education was not a decision she remembers having to make. It was simply what came next.
Her school environment was also diverse. Tatyana studied in Russian, but her classroom included students from different ethnic backgrounds. She remembers having relatively few Korean friends; many of her friends were Uzbek, Russian, or from other backgrounds. She does not remember feeling that one group was treated as better or worse than another, and she describes her teachers as supportive.
At home, that support continued. Her parents encouraged her education without dictating what she should study. When it came time to choose a university, they asked what she wanted and supported the institution she chose.
Looking back, Tatyana’s main regret is not that an opportunity was denied to her, but that access to information was so different. The internet was only beginning to become available in Uzbekistan while she was studying. Had she understood and used it more, she thinks some parts of her education might have been easier. But there was one resource Tatyana already had that would become increasingly important throughout her life: language.
Growing Up Between Languages
Tatyana’s formal education was in Russian. But growing up in Andijan— and specifically in a mahalla— also gave her the opportunity to learn Uzbek well.
Rather than describing Uzbek as a barrier, she remembers it as an advantage. “Uzbek actually helped me a lot.” People were sometimes surprised, she said, when they learned that she was Korean and spoke Uzbek. English came through university. Korean came later.
After graduating, Tatyana began working almost immediately, first through part-time jobs and eventually for a company. She does not remember ethnicity, gender, or language creating significant obstacles in finding work. Instead, she believes knowing several languages expanded her opportunities: she had studied English, knew Uzbek, and began learning Korean after university.
Korean eventually changed the direction of her career. Her first work with the language was as an interpreter. Over time, after studying Korean herself, she began teaching it.
And she discovered that she liked being a teacher.
There are still other things she imagines trying someday. When I asked what she might do if she pursued another career, Tatyana mentioned design, perhaps clothing or interior design. She had never tried it professionally but remained interested enough that she could imagine studying it in the future.
When I told her she was still young enough to try, she laughed. “Me? No!”
“I’m Koryo-Saram”
When I asked Tatyana how she identifies— Koryo-Saram, Uzbek, Russian, or Korean— her answer required almost no thought.
“I’m Koryo-Saram.” Did she also consider herself Uzbek? No. Koryo-Saram.
Tatyana has lived in Uzbekistan her entire life, but she grew up in a Koryo-Saram family and lived with her grandmother. From childhood, she was surrounded by family practices that she understood as Koryo-Saram. Because of that upbringing, she told me, she had never really thought of herself as Uzbek or Russian.
She describes herself as third generation. Russian was the language she spoke with her parents, while her grandmother spoke a form of Korean that sounded similar to contemporary Korean but was not quite the same. It was Koryo-mar.
Tatyana could not speak it herself at the time, but she could understand what her grandmother said. She remembers that her grandmother spoke informally rather than using the honorific system Tatyana would later encounter in contemporary Korean.
Her family’s traditions were similarly distinct.
At weddings and other celebrations, Tatyana remembers observing customs practiced by Koryo-Saram in Uzbekistan. She is careful not to describe them as identical to contemporary South Korean traditions. They were the traditions that Koryo-Saram around her practiced there.
Even holidays existed within the rhythms of Uzbek life. Lunar New Year might matter to her family culturally, but it was not a day off from school. So she went to school.
“A Piece of Uzbekistan Lives in Me”
Tatyana’s answer becomes more complicated when the question changes from identity to belonging. She does not call herself Uzbek. But she unquestionably feels attached to Uzbekistan.
“I don’t think that I am a part, but a piece of Uzbekistan lives in me.”
She has lived there all her life. She likes Uzbekistan. She has visited Korea and likes Korea too, but when she stays there for a long time, she begins to miss home.
When I asked what she misses, her answer was expansive.
Everything. The city. The food. Her relatives. Her parents.
Interestingly, when I asked whether that meant she followed Uzbek traditions, she said no. Her attachment to Uzbekistan does not require her to redefine herself ethnically as Uzbek or replace the Koryo-Saram traditions she grew up with. The two operate differently in the way she understands herself.
She is Koryo-Saram, and a piece of Uzbekistan lives in her.
Leaving Home for More Opportunities
Feeling at home in Uzbekistan does not mean Tatyana has ruled out leaving it.
She has thought about moving abroad, although she had no immediate plans to do so when we spoke. Her thinking is directed less toward herself than toward a future family.
If she eventually has children, she wonders whether moving to Korea might give them more opportunities.
That possibility is not abstract. Tatyana already has relatives, including a younger sibling and cousins, living in Korea who do not intend to return to Uzbekistan. She sees their lives as, in some respects, more stable. Her younger sibling had struggled to find enough work in Uzbekistan before leaving for Korea; in Korea, Tatyana described a more predictable pattern of working and receiving a regular salary.
At the same time, she was careful not to generalize that experience to everyone in Uzbekistan. When I asked whether employment there was inherently unstable, she qualified her answer: it depends on the person and the profession.
That tension makes her migration story more interesting. Korea represents possible opportunity. Uzbekistan represents home. For Tatyana, neither cancels out the other.
“They Worked So That We Could Live This Life”
When I asked how the experiences of young Koryo-Saram women differ from those of older generations, Tatyana hesitated. She did not want to make a sweeping comparison about experiences she had not lived herself. But one difference stood out to her. She believes her grandparents’ generation had fewer opportunities than young people have now.
“They worked hard then to achieve all that so that we now live this life.”
Education offers one way of seeing that change across her own family. Tatyana remembers her grandmother studying despite the difficulties of her generation. Her parents studied and worked. By the time Tatyana was growing up, continuing after school felt so expected that she says she “had no different thoughts.” She would finish school. Then she would continue studying. That was simply how she imagined her future. This is where her interview becomes less about individual achievement and more about what one generation makes possible for another.
When I asked which Koryo-Saram traditions she most wanted younger generations to preserve, she surprised me by saying that specific traditions were not actually the most important thing she wanted to pass down. She wanted them to remember.
“I want not so much traditions specifically, but for young people to not forget how hard our grandparents lived.”
She worries that young people growing up with opportunities their grandparents did not have can easily forget what earlier generations endured to make those opportunities possible. For Tatyana, preserving Koryo-Saram identity therefore involves more than weddings, holidays, food, or language. It also means remembering the people who came before.
The Languages We Carry
Near the end of our conversation, I asked Tatyana whether there was anything else she wanted to share. At first, she wasn’t sure. Then she returned to the subject that had quietly connected almost every stage of her story. Language.
Tatyana believes Koryo-Saram should learn Korean because it is part of their heritage. At the same time, she believes that Koryo-Saram living in Uzbekistan should know Uzbek.
“Knowing the language of the country you live in lets you understand its culture well.”
Knowing Korean, meanwhile, can make life in Korea easier for those who choose to go there.
Her own life demonstrates both sides of that belief. Russian was the language of her schooling and family. Her grandmother’s Koryo-mar connected her to an older generation even before she could speak Korean herself. Uzbek allowed her to communicate with the community in Andijan where she grew up. English expanded her professional skills. Contemporary Korean eventually became both a language she learned and a language she teaches. None of those languages tells the entire story of who Tatyana is. Neither does a single country.
She can imagine Korea as a place that might offer her future children opportunities she did not have. She can love visiting Korea and teach its language professionally. She can identify, without hesitation, as Koryo-Saram. And still, after enough time away, she misses Uzbekistan: the city, the food, her family, her home. Because, as Tatyana put it herself: “A piece of Uzbekistan lives in me.”
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