When I first arrived in Korea as an international student, I was full of hope and excitement. Everything felt new—the streets, the food, the language, and the people. Slowly, I adjusted. I learned the basics of Korean, made some friends, and found a part-time job at a seafood restaurant. My boss was kind, and my coworkers treated me well. It felt like I had found my place here.
But after returning from a one-month visit to my home country, things changed.
I didn’t rejoin my previous restaurant job due to schedule issues, and from March onwards, I started searching for a new one. I explored job portals like Karrot, Alba Heaven, and Albamon. There were so many kitchen helper jobs posted. I felt hopeful again.
But as soon as I sent messages like “I am interested in this position,” I received almost the same reply every time:
“Sorry, we don’t hire foreigners.”
Not even once did they ask about my experience. Not even once did they offer a trial or interview. I had worked before, I knew how to handle kitchen pressure, how to communicate with basic Korean—yet that one label, "foreigner," was enough to reject me.
It wasn’t just me. I talked with my university friends—Nepalese, Bangladeshi, Uzbek. We were all facing the same reality. We were not even being given a chance. That hurt more than rejection itself.
It made me ask: Why?
Is it the fear of language barriers? Cultural misunderstandings? Or simply a habit of staying within the comfort zone?
In the eyes of many foreigners like me, Koreans feel distant. Not because they are rude or unfriendly—but because they often hesitate to truly open up to us. In university classes or cafés, they’re kind. They smile, they help. But when it comes to working together, living together, coexisting beyond formal kindness—there’s still a noticeable wall.
Yet, I don’t want to generalize. I remember the kind ajumma from my previous restaurant who gave me snacks on busy days. I remember the famigo owner and their staff behavior with a warm smile. I remember my professor who encouraged me to speak more in Korean, even if I made mistakes.
Those moments keep my hope alive.
I believe it’s just a matter of time and exposure. Maybe Koreans are still not used to seeing foreigners as part of their daily lives, especially in local jobs or close-knit environments. But the more we interact, the more we share space—the more we’ll understand each other.
Living in Korea as a foreigner is not always easy. There are moments of loneliness, confusion, and disappointment. But there are also moments of connection, kindness, and growth.
We are here, not just to study or work, but to build bridges. I hope one day, those replies won’t say, “Sorry, we don’t hire foreigners,” but instead, “Tell us about your experience.”
Because all we want is a chance—to prove that we can be part of this society, not as outsiders, but as fellow humans.
When I first arrived in Korea as an international student, I was full of hope and excitement. Everything felt new—the streets, the food, the language, and the people. Slowly, I adjusted. I learned the basics of Korean, made some friends, and found a part-time job at a seafood restaurant. My boss was kind, and my coworkers treated me well. It felt like I had found my place here.
But after returning from a one-month visit to my home country, things changed.
I didn’t rejoin my previous restaurant job due to schedule issues, and from March onwards, I started searching for a new one. I explored job portals like Karrot, Alba Heaven, and Albamon. There were so many kitchen helper jobs posted. I felt hopeful again.
But as soon as I sent messages like “I am interested in this position,” I received almost the same reply every time:
“Sorry, we don’t hire foreigners.”
Not even once did they ask about my experience. Not even once did they offer a trial or interview. I had worked before, I knew how to handle kitchen pressure, how to communicate with basic Korean—yet that one label, "foreigner," was enough to reject me.
It wasn’t just me. I talked with my university friends—Nepalese, Bangladeshi, Uzbek. We were all facing the same reality. We were not even being given a chance. That hurt more than rejection itself.
It made me ask: Why?
Is it the fear of language barriers? Cultural misunderstandings? Or simply a habit of staying within the comfort zone?
In the eyes of many foreigners like me, Koreans feel distant. Not because they are rude or unfriendly—but because they often hesitate to truly open up to us. In university classes or cafés, they’re kind. They smile, they help. But when it comes to working together, living together, coexisting beyond formal kindness—there’s still a noticeable wall.
Yet, I don’t want to generalize. I remember the kind ajumma from my previous restaurant who gave me snacks on busy days. I remember the famigo owner and their staff behavior with a warm smile. I remember my professor who encouraged me to speak more in Korean, even if I made mistakes.
Those moments keep my hope alive.
I believe it’s just a matter of time and exposure. Maybe Koreans are still not used to seeing foreigners as part of their daily lives, especially in local jobs or close-knit environments. But the more we interact, the more we share space—the more we’ll understand each other.
Living in Korea as a foreigner is not always easy. There are moments of loneliness, confusion, and disappointment. But there are also moments of connection, kindness, and growth.
We are here, not just to study or work, but to build bridges. I hope one day, those replies won’t say, “Sorry, we don’t hire foreigners,” but instead, “Tell us about your experience.”
Because all we want is a chance—to prove that we can be part of this society, not as outsiders, but as fellow humans.