A bowl of che, a taste of home and a place for neighbors

Won Ok-kum

The author is a representative of the Migrant Center Donghaeng and is originally from Vietnam. 

Among Vietnamese desserts is che, a dish that instantly evokes memories of home for many Vietnamese people. Similar to Korean fruit punch, it combines rich coconut milk with softly cooked mung beans, colorful jellies, tapioca pearls, condensed milk and sugar, then is topped with plenty of crunchy ice and mixed before eating. As sweltering heat persisted last week, the Migrant Center Donghaeng was filled with the cool, nutty aroma of che being prepared.

It was a small summer gathering organized by migrant women living in the community. One woman brought ice to help everyone endure Korea’s heat wave, while others had risen early to cook mung beans and prepare coconut milk.

Che was not the only food on the table. There was banh mi along with the street snacks banh tieu, hollow doughnuts, and banh cam, sesame balls. There was also banh trung thu, or Vietnamese mooncakes, as if to celebrate the coming Chuseok holiday a little early. The spread was as abundant as a Vietnamese feast, seemingly enough to wash away, for a while, the fatigue of living far from home.

Once the food was served, the room quickly filled with loud laughter and warm conversation in Vietnamese. These women had come to unfamiliar Korea through marriage or for work, often finding themselves blocked by the language barrier. Their daily lives meant struggling to express themselves in imperfect Korean and remaining tense, worried about making mistakes.

But as the familiar flavors of home and a cold bowl of che reached our mouths, the tension of life abroad seemed to melt away. Over cups of iced che and chewy banh cam, we opened up about conflicts with mothers-in-law, difficulties raising children, the hardships of life in Korea and loneliness we had quietly accumulated.

It was more than simply sharing food. It was a moment of healing in which migrant women, so often left to feel small in the face of the walls of Korean society, comforted one another through the flavors of home and shared human warmth.

For women who spend much of their lives adjusting to someone else’s language, customs and expectations, such gatherings offer something deceptively simple: a place where explanation is unnecessary. Familiar food allows memories and conversation to flow naturally, restoring, however briefly, the ease and confidence that daily life in a foreign country can erode.

Korean society constantly demands “assimilation” from migrants. Learning Korean quickly, adapting to Korean customs and embracing Korean food are often treated as standards for being a “good neighbor” or a “successful multicultural family.” Migrant women must continually work to fit themselves to Korean standards both at home and in their communities.

But that moment, chatting over che, was different. We were not performing the role of the “desirable multicultural beneficiary” expected by Korean society. We were simply breathing as ourselves. Making and sharing the food of our homeland was a way of affirming that we are not passive outsiders, but independent individuals with cultures, identities and agency of our own.

Korea is now debating sweeping and weighty questions concerning migrants. Discussions are underway over reforming the Employment Permit System, expanding visas in response to population decline and restrictions on migrant workers changing workplaces. Structural reforms and stronger human rights protections are, of course, urgently needed.

Yet amid debates over laws and institutions, the human faces and everyday emotions of those who actually live within those systems are often left out.

The success of immigration policy cannot be measured merely by how many more workers Korea admits or how much it relaxes visa requirements. It depends on whether those who have crossed borders to come here have a warm home to return to after work, whether they have even a small community where they can speak openly when they feel wronged or lonely and whether Korean society is ready to welcome migrants not as abstract “foreign labor” but as genuine neighbors.

What we truly need is not another one-off multicultural festival staged by a local government for show, nor charitable relief handed down from above. We need modest, self-governing spaces woven into everyday life where people can gather whenever they wish, cook the food of home and comfort one another. And we need a social atmosphere that views our cultures not through a patronizing lens of charity, but as equals.