Beyond Translation
The Korean word aenikkaeng comes from the Spanish word anequen, a Mexican agave plant found in the Yucatán Peninsula primarily used in making twine and rope. Just how certain words between the regions of Korea and the Yucatán have ebbed back and forth in translation, Korean bodies, too, have experienced forms of transcontinental interpolation.
More than a century ago, 1033 Koreans boarded the SS Ilford for the same reason many people emigrate today. Desperately in search of work, wages, and ultimately a better life for their families, they were willing to leave their only home. In what ended up being the only transnational migration from Korea into Mexico for the next three decades, this Korean diaspora quickly found that life on the Yucatán Peninsula was nothing even close to what they signed up for.
Before delving into this specific Korean voyage, it’s important to describe what was going on in both Mexico and Korea that sparked this migration to begin with. Around the last quarter of the 19th century, the Mexican-Caste war had winded down, and the henequen boom had begun. The plant formed the backbone for the Yucatán region, and by 1880, the state had become the richest in all of Mexico.
As demand picked up, a larger labor supply became crucial to cultivate the crop on henequen estates. Before the caste war, indios (indigineous Mayans and other indigenous Mexicans who were oftentimes deprived of rights by individuals with Spanish blood) would have filled this labor gap. But because the war decimated the indio population, plantation owners outsourced. Prisoners of war from Sonora, contract laborers throughout Mexico, and political dissidents were recruited as an alternative.
These groups of people were not sufficient to fill the entirety of the labor gap during the henequen boom, and eventually, the search for labor went abroad to both China and Japan. Unfortunately, the extent of value Mexican plantation owners saw in these contract-workers was tinged by racism and stretched only as far as their labor. “Yellow peril” actually comes from the term “peligro amarillo” – this epithet was used to describe Chinese laborers after they had fulfilled the terms of their contract. As Elizabeth Hu-Dehart explains, Chinese immigrants in the region were seen as a “social cancer of immorality.”
While this recruitment of Chinese and Japanese laborers was taking place, catastrophic events like droughts, food crises, disease spread, and economic instability were occurring in the Korean Peninsula. John Meyers, a henequen labor recruiter, ran advertisements in Korea for work in the Yucatán, and due to the calamitous state of their country, hundreds of Koreans were attracted to the opportunity. A total of 1033 Koreans (702 men, 235 women, and 196 children) signed four-year labor contracts to take Meyers up on his offer.
From the outset, ominous events took place that raised concerns for the Korean laborers. First, the ship was docked in Incheon for two weeks longer than anticipated because of an outbreak of smallpox. When family members of these future laborers found out the ship was still docked, they attempted to visit the ship once more to say a final goodbye. However, once they arrived at Incheon they were quickly turned away. Fearful that their family members were being trafficked and sold into slavery, they expressed their anxiety to the Korean government.
Second, it was revealed quite shortly that an emigration of this sort was unauthorized. At the time, King Kojong declared that all foreign labor-movements had to be approved by David Deshler, an American entrepreneur who would hand out Korean passports. Meyers circumvented this requirement entirely by having the French Minister issue passports instead.
After taking into account both the illegality of this transport and the skepticism raised by family members, the Korean government released a statement in a newspaper, “The Korean government, knowing that Koreans who emigrated to Mexico will be sold and treated as slaves, prohibits Koreans from going abroad in large numbers.” This announcement could not stop the transport as the ship had already left, and it effectively foreclosed the ability for future migration movement into Mexico from Korea. While this saved possibly thousands of Koreans from what the SS Ilford passengers were about to endure, it effectively placed laborers that had already left in a state of perpetual isolation.
The Korean emigrants arrived in Salina Cruz on May 15th, 1905, were transported to Progreso in the Yucatán Peninsula, and finally divided amongst 22 plantations. The working conditions were jarring to say the least – a Chinese resident in Merida at the time is recorded as saying, “In rags and worn sandals, the Koreans are laughed at by the Mexicans. You can’t watch them without tears, going in groups to henequen farms, men holding the hands of their children and women carrying their babies on their backs. They are worse than animals. Here in Mexico, the aborigines, are called the fifth or sixth grade slaves in the world, but Koreans are called seventh grade slaves. When they fail to finish the assigned work, they are made to kneel down and are beaten until their flesh is torn and bloody.”
While the government of Korea sought out to intervene, conditions in their own country inhibited them from having any leverage whatsoever. Japan forced Korea into signing the Japan-Korea Protectorate Treaty in 1907, which deprived Korea of any diplomatic sovereignty. Unsurprisingly, Japan had no interest in lobbying for the rights of Koreans in the Yucatán, and as a result, the Korean laborers were forced to carry out their four-year contracts.
The expiration of these contracts did not necessarily mean a return back to Korea either. The wages of the laborers’ contract was quite small, and as a result, many could not afford a voyage back. For those that could afford such a trip, they were still hesitant to return to Korea as it was still under the Japanese control.
With no other option, the Korean transplants attempted to make the best they could of the situation and lay down roots across the region. The Asociación Coreana de Mérida was formed, and the organization functioned as the center for post-plantation life providing cultural activities and support for Korean independence. However, just like their home eight thousand miles away, this organization also proved to be ephemeral.
While stories of Korea had been passed by the original SS Ilford voyagers down to their children and grandchildren, the home described became only more foreign and mythical to the stories’ listeners. Their homeland had not only been colonized by Japan, ravaged by the World War II, but also split into two. Accordingly, by 1962, the Asociación Coreana de Mérida was virtually shut down. Koreans in the Yucatán were in a paradoxical position – they could not call their country of residence their own and they simultaneously had no home to return to.
The effects of this assimilation produced a community that cannot be described as strictly Korean nor Yucatec. Intermarriage between Koreans and Mayans took place rapidly, and while some aspects of Korean culture like language were lost entirely (only 1% of third-generation of SS Ilford descendants can speak Korean), others morphed to accommodate for the features of the region. Mexicans found Korean surnames hard to pronounce, which resulted in Ko changing to Corona, Yang to Yánez, Chang to Sánchez, and Heo to Jiménez.
While some characteristics like surnames and language changed drastically, Korean food has endured the test of time and stayed relatively recognizable. Kimchi is still prepared, but instead of using napa cabbage and gochugaru, the Korean-Yucatecs utilize Mexican cabbage and jalapeños. Making guksu and gochujang with Mexican ingredients is a practice handed down from mother to daughter – both can still be found in pockets of the region today.
Michael Vince Kim completed a photography project titled Aenikkaeng in 2017 which sought out to give visibility to the forgotten community of Koreans who arrived on the Yucatán. By retelling stories of forgotten migration movements like this one, Kim provides a space where the Korean-Yucatecs who endured this journey can provide a poetic account of their stories. I’ve attached some of his beautiful images below:
— “Young Korean-Mayans play around in the pool at the 90th birthday party of Joaquin Poot Lee, a second-generation relative.”
— “The coastal town of Progreso, where Korean immigrants first arrived on the Yucatán Peninsula, Mexico, in 1905.”
— “Traditional Korean clothing, belonging to a Korean-Mayan.”
— “Sisters Olga and Adelina Lim Hi are among the few Korean Cubans who do not have a mixed heritage. Their grandfather was Cheon Taek, one of the leading figures of the earliest Korean community in Cuba.”
As someone who thoroughly enjoys cooking, I’ve felt that my food at times lacks a sense of authenticity. Sure I can utilize a bain marie to make pasta carbonara, but I’ve never had a family member pass a recipe for dinuguan to me. I’ve always wanted to visit the Philippines to learn how to make traditional dishes from my relatives, but I just kicked the can down the road and never ended up going.
My grandmother passed a few months ago, and it’s made me uneasy I could not pocket a powerful vestige of her presence before she died. There’s something powerful about food – the story of the Korean-Yucatecs demonstrates that its intergenerational power might even be stronger than that of language.
Maybe there’s a quality of rückkehrunruhe found uniquely in cooking. When everything around you feels so ephemeral, the fact you can make the same food over and over again despite being in a strange, new place must be comforting.
For part two of this piece next week, I’ll be sharing some of my thoughts on food, memory, and emotional labor. Until then, do me a favor and call your grandma asking for the recipe of that dish she always makes for you when she visits.
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