Nestled in the northwest portion of Gwangju, a designated metropolitan city within South Korea’s South Jeolla province, is the Koryeo-saram Village—a neighborhood that houses thousands of ethnically Korean migrants who have resettled in South Korea over the past twenty years. While completing my study abroad program in Gwangju this summer, I had the privilege of visiting the village’s museum that chronicles the Korean diaspora’s cultural presence in the former Soviet Socialist Republics and the neighborhood’s origins. Koryeo-saram share the general South Korean population’s ethnic identity, and their distinct cultural experience returning from the countries of the diaspora highlights the difficulties posed by the South Korean immigration system and the promotion of multiculturalism. 

The term “Koryeo-saram,” which roughly translates to “Korean peoples,” refers to members of the Korean diaspora who initially fled to the Russian Far East from the mid-19th to early 20th century and their descendants. As Korea endured natural disasters and Japan’s 1910 annexation, many citizens of the lower classes felt compelled to flee the region. Migrants primarily settled in the USSR city of Vladivostok and were tolerated as laborers. This trend continued until the late 1930s when Stalin grew wary of Japan’s increased encroachment on northeast Asia and paranoid about Koryeo-sarams’ proclivity to espionage—despite the population’s loyalty to the Bolsheviks during anti-Japanese resistance twenty years earlier. Koryeo-saram subsequently became the first victims of Stalin’s forced migrations and were sent on a deadly march to Central Asia’s Soviet Socialist Republics, namely Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, beginning in 1937.

Koryeo-saram slowly integrated into their respective Soviet Socialist Republics’ cultures and economies. Nonetheless, they maintained deep cultural ties to Korea and many desired to return to the peninsula. The USSR’s dissolution in 1991 and ensuing economic instability impelled Koryeo-sarams to return to South Korea or flee to Ukraine. The Russo-Ukrainian war’s outbreak in 2022 has placed further pressure on those remaining to return to Korea.

South Korea’s refugee status application process is notoriously selective and hotly debated among citizens. The sudden arrival of Yemeni refugees seeking asylum in Jeju Island using a visa-waiver program sparked outrage in 2018. In 2021, hundreds of Afghani asylees fleeing the Taliban takeover were designated as “persons of special merit,” granted short-term visas, and allowed to apply for long-term residence visas. Although Yemen and Afghanistan were embroiled in civil wars, surveyed Koreans expressed more positive opinions toward the Afghani migrants compared to arriving Yemenis. This phenomenon reveals inconsistencies in the South Korean public perception towards migrants.

Koryeo-saram are no exception to South Korea’s inconsistent and somewhat arbitrary treatment of refugees, suggesting that immigration may not be the best means through which to promote multiculturalism. Returning Koryeo-saram previously encountered roadblocks in the refugee application process due to the government’s classification of Koryeo-saram as the descendant of a grandparent or parent who had emigrated from Korea. A 2019 amendment to the country’s Koryeo-saram immigration laws relaxed this restriction and allowed further generations to receive temporary visas. However, the South Korean government must periodically extend such visas as they approach their expiration dates. Given the dangers of deportation, especially for Koryeo-saram hailing from Ukraine, South Korea's continual failure to remedy and standardize its refugee citizenship process leaves many livelihoods in limbo.

South Korea's liberalization of Koryeo-saram immigration policies, albeit incremental, shows signs of promise for Koryeo-saram seeking citizenship and prospects for South Korea’s future modifications to its immigration strategy. Nonetheless, xenophobia is still prevalent in South Korean society and continues to affect migrants who migrate from countries with socioeconomic statuses lower than South Korea—including Central Asian Koryeo-saram. This phenomenon reflects that barriers to attaining citizenship and culturally adjusting transcend Korean ethnic identity. While the group was perceived as a distinct ethnic group in Central Asia based on their Korean identity, Koryeo-sarams’ extended absence from the Korean peninsula and their adoption of foreign customs have distinguished them from Koreans who remained and inhibit their full integration, legally and culturally, into society. 

As solutions to domestic issues stemming from the birth rate crisis, especially labor shortages and an aging population, continue to elude officials, Koryeo-sarams’ predicament highlights that promoting deeper multiculturalism in South Korean society is an inevitability rather than a possibility. Government spending on family planning has resulted in staggering government deficits yielding little change, and current policies have somewhat addressed labor shortages but have yet to stimulate long-term population boosts. 

To attract migrants to not only work but also raise their families in South Korea, a standardized cultural exchange initiative is necessary to begin accustoming South Koreans to other cultures. If the South Korean government wishes to adequately prepare for this shift in policy, piloting a standardized program for Koryeo-saram can serve as an adequate benchmark for cultural integration policies. Ultimately, Koryeo-sarams’ experiences in South Korea will reflect whether the government’s policies of demographic stagnation will continue and set expectations for future immigration reform.