Until They Knew I Was Korean
Yuliya Odintsova on being seen, belonging, and growing up Koryo-Saram in Uzbekistan
Yuliya Odintsova was born and raised in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. From kindergarten onward, she grew up in classrooms that reflected the diversity around her: Uzbek, Russian, and children of other ethnic backgrounds studied together. She remembers school as an overwhelmingly ordinary experience in the best sense. She did not feel that teachers treated her differently because of her ethnicity, and she does not recall experiencing discrimination in access to education.
When it came time for university, Yuliya’s path was not the result of a carefully constructed plan. She enrolled at a local Korean university— then called Yeoju— largely because her friend was going and she decided to join her. She studied tourism, although neither working in tourism nor eventually moving to Korea had been a predetermined goal.
Finances did shape what was possible. Yuliya had considered studying abroad, but financial constraints made that difficult. Staying in Tashkent allowed her to receive scholarships that reduced the burden on her parents. Her family, she explained, consistently supported her education without dictating what she should study. Even her decision to continue into a master’s program came from her own desire rather than family pressure.
An Education in Russian
Although Yuliya has spent her entire life in Uzbekistan, the language at the center of her education has been Russian. She studied in Russian throughout both school and university. At her public school, that sometimes created difficulties because many teachers were Uzbek speakers and, as Yuliya remembers it, there was a shortage of Russian-speaking teachers. University was easier: there were more foreign and Russian-speaking instructors, and students could communicate in Russian or English even without strong Uzbek.
Yuliya knows some Uzbek, in part because she hears it constantly from friends and others around her. She also spent several years studying Korean, although she described both languages as difficult for her.
Looking back, language is one of the few things she wishes she had approached differently. When I asked what might have expanded her educational opportunities, Yuliya immediately pointed to foreign-language study. And when I asked which language she most regretted not learning more deeply, her answer was Korean.
That question has become increasingly consequential as she plans what comes next. Yuliya completed her bachelor’s degree in tourism and initially considered continuing in the same field for graduate school. But her university’s tourism master’s program is offered in Uzbek and English, while she needs a Russian-language program. She therefore began looking instead toward an MBA. Studying abroad remains appealing, but without an IELTS score, she expects that she will most likely continue her education in Tashkent.
Language also enters into her thinking about work. Yuliya sees tourism as a flexible degree that could lead to hotels, restaurants, travel agencies, or other fields, and she has considered eventually opening her own tourism-related business. But in Uzbekistan, she sees her limited Uzbek as a potential obstacle in workplaces where the language is expected.
For Yuliya, then, language is more than a marker of cultural identity. It has had concrete consequences for which classrooms, graduate programs, and workplaces feel accessible to her.
“Until They Knew I Was Korean”
When I asked Yuliya how she identifies, her answer introduced another kind of boundary: one that had less to do with the languages she spoke than with how other people saw her.
Yuliya is half Korean and half Russian. Yet she told me that she has always associated herself more with Koryo-Saram. Growing up, however, she did not feel that other Koreans always recognized that identity immediately.
She remembers Korean children around her as often socializing primarily with one another. Because Yuliya says she did not look Korean, she sometimes found it difficult to enter those circles. The barrier changed once they knew about her Korean background.
“Until they knew I was Korean, it was really hard to build any kind of connection.”
Her experience draws a distinction between identifying with a community and being recognized by that community. Yuliya did not describe discovering later in life that she was Koryo-Saram. Her identification was already there. What was sometimes uncertain was whether other people could see it.
At the same time, she does not remember experiencing pressure to become more Russian or Uzbek. Both of her parents were themselves born in Tashkent, and when I asked whether she had ever felt pressured to assimilate into another culture, she simply said no.
Becoming More Connected to Uzbekistan
Yuliya’s relationship with Uzbekistan has actually become stronger as she has grown older. When I asked whether she felt that she belonged to Uzbekistan, she connected her answer directly to her university education. Studying tourism meant spending considerable time learning about domestic tourism and the development of Uzbekistan itself. Through that education, she began to see the country differently.
“After that, I started to feel more like part of Uzbekistan. I’m even proud.”
That growing connection also shapes how she thinks about migration. Yuliya once considered living in Russia for several years, attracted partly by its landscapes and universities, but she has since changed her mind. When I asked whether she wanted to migrate permanently, her answer was no.
Her extended family, however, stretches far beyond Uzbekistan. She described relatives as being scattered “all over the planet.” Some live in Korea, while others have migrated to Europe or the United States. Their educational paths have differed: according to Yuliya, many of her relatives in Korea do not have higher education, while relatives who moved to Europe or the United States did so intentionally and attended universities there.
Yuliya’s own path remains rooted in Tashkent for now. Rather than treating Uzbekistan as simply the place from which she might eventually leave, her study of tourism seems to have made the country itself more meaningful to her.
More Opportunities, and More Choices
When Yuliya compares her generation with older Koryo-Saram women, the difference she emphasizes most is opportunity.
She believes young Koryo-Saram women today have considerably more options than earlier generations, including possibilities that do not necessarily depend on having a university degree. When I asked specifically about careers, however, she resisted the idea that Koryo-Saram women belong to any particular profession. From what she sees around her, women work “in absolutely all fields.”
Her own life reflects some of that flexibility. She began in tourism without knowing exactly where it would lead. Now she is considering an MBA. Perhaps she will eventually start a tourism business. The path has changed as her interests, resources, and linguistic options have changed.
That openness is also different from the way she describes her family’s role in education. Her parents have supported her, but the decisions themselves have remained hers.
What Should Remain
Greater opportunity, for Yuliya, does not mean leaving Koryo-Saram culture behind.
When I asked whether she believed there was still a need to preserve Koryo-Saram traditions, she answered without hesitation: of course there is. She wants the traditions that exist today to continue so that younger generations will know them. When I asked what specifically she had in mind, she mentioned holidays and recipes for traditional foods.
There is something fitting about Yuliya mentioning recipes. Much of her interview shows how identity can exist outside the categories that appear obvious from the outside. It can be carried through family, food, memory, education, and the communities a person understands herself to belong to.
Yuliya’s story does not fit neatly into a choice between Korean, Russian, and Uzbek. She is half Korean and half Russian, was born and raised in Tashkent, received her education in Russian, and has always associated herself more with Koryo-Saram. Studying Uzbekistan made her feel more, not less, connected to the country she calls home.
And the childhood experience behind the title captures something that those categories alone cannot. Other children did not always recognize Yuliya as Korean when they first saw her. Sometimes they had to learn who she was before they treated her as part of that community.
But Yuliya did not need them to tell her who she was. She already knew.
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