By: Mohsina Choudhury
Illustration by: Sylvain Chan
It’s easy to romanticise the idea of studying abroad in East Asia. The excitement of a foreign country with its new culture and first-time experiences can overshadow the reality of what it’s actually like to live as a foreigner.
When I first arrived in South Korea, I was wrapped in the safety net of orientation—a brief period where everyone around me was just as disoriented as I was. We were all fish out of water, so our differences didn’t stick out. It felt like a shared experience, as we were all foreigners navigating this space together. I didn’t feel ‘othered’, just ‘new.’ But stepping outside that bubble and into broader Korean society, the subtle undercurrent of xenophobia intensified, perhaps because the contrast between those early feelings of belonging and the reality of being an outsider was so stark.
One of the clearest reminders of this was during the visa application and the alien registration card process. The over-documentation as a foreigner is very overwhelming. Any small mistake could result in rejection. If you don’t have enough funds in your bank account, suddenly you’re not a good enough candidate. If one document isn’t perfect, you’re stuck. The whole process feels like you’re jumping through hoops to prove your worthiness to simply study in a country. You haven’t even arrived yet and already there’s a sense of exclusion built into the process. When you do arrive, the alien registration process takes that feeling to another level. As students here, we are all required to obtain an ‘Alien Registration Card’. I remember lining up, passport in hand, being assigned a number, and waiting to have my photo taken—no smiles allowed, hair tucked behind my ears. I had to hold up that number while looking into a camera feeling quite dehumanised. It felt oddly formal, like we were being catalogued, each of us holding our number in front of the camera, a permanent record of our foreignness. The term ‘alien’ itself carries weight and seeing it on an official document amplifies that feeling of exclusion. You begin to feel not just like an outsider, but as if you’ve been officially labelled as one. It’s one thing to feel different; it’s another to be formally classified as such.
Everyday life in South Korea also has its moments of subtle and sometimes, not-so-subtle othering. You’ll notice it when taxi drivers inflate fares for non-Koreans, when certain clubs in Seoul enforce a strict ‘no foreigners’ policy, or when locals on the bus hesitate to sit next to you. International students are sometimes left out of campus events or not even informed about them while domestic students are kept in the know. One moment that really stuck with me was when a friend tried to join the student football team. She asked if she could take part in training. In Korean, they said, “We don’t accept foreigners,” thinking my friend wouldn’t understand. When translated into English, it was softened to, “We can’t allow guests.” One of the coaches was laughing during this ordeal as if it were some kind of private joke. These small moments add up over time, and the line between ‘us’ and ‘them’ becomes impossible to ignore. No matter how long you’ve been here, being a foreigner means you’re automatically on the ‘other’ side.
Still, these difficult moments don’t define the whole experience. South Korea is an incredibly welcoming country, and I’ve encountered genuine kindness from people who often go out of their way to show warmth and courtesy – even to strangers. One moment that stands out is when I was on a packed bus in Jeju, struggling with multiple bags and a heavy backpack. I was trying to keep everything together when an elderly woman noticed and graciously took my backpack, holding it for the rest of the journey. Another is how customer service staff always greet you in Korean first, giving you the chance to respond—they don’t make the immediate assumption that you don’t speak the language. This feels like an attempt to let you in. To me, sharing language creates a sense of togetherness for both locals and foreigners, something not every country offers. In South Korea however, these efforts to bridge language barriers through small, considerate gestures foster a unique sense of hospitality that has left a lasting impression on me.
There’s so much goodwill here, and I really want people to experience and expect that. This is a country that is progressive in many ways, and it’s becoming increasingly open to greater immigration and international diversity. There is beauty in how much the country is evolving, and you will undoubtedly encounter moments of generosity and connection that make your time here worthwhile. I believe that the real value of studying abroad lies in navigating these obstacles and facing the uncomfortable truths that come with them. It’s important to recognise the good and the bad, to celebrate progress while being critical of the issues that persist. For those considering studying abroad, I urge you to embrace that experience but also to be prepared. Be open to both the highs and the lows. Discomfort is part of the process, and it’s through that discomfort that you’ll gain a deeper understanding of both the world and yourself. You’ll find your people, learn to settle in and confront the harsh truths that need to be spoken about, all while learning to embrace both realities and make peace with the tension between them.
