Our Ordinary Lives Are the History of Korean Immigration to Canada

As we prepare the oral history project to establish the Cyber Museum of Korean Canadian Immigration History, there is one massive wall we will encounter first and most frequently in the field. It is not a language barrier or a technological limitation. Rather, it is a psychological barrier: the modesty and hesitation of those who do not consider their ordinary lives to be "history."

When younger interviewers approach them with microphones and cameras, nine times out of ten, our elders will wave their hands dismissively and say:

"How could my ordinary life be history? I haven't achieved anything; I just struggled to make a living. Go ask those successful doctors, politicians, or business owners over there."

The success or failure of this immense project hinges on this very moment. How can we warmly ease that firm, dismissive wave of the hand? How can we help them realize that they are not "humble survivors," but rather the "witnesses to history" who built the great house of the Korean Canadian community?

To fully explain the project's meaning to the early immigrants participating and to encourage their voluntary involvement, we must sincerely propose the following three shifts in perspective.

First, a shift in perspective to realize that "survival" itself is great "history." Our elders often believe they have not left behind any monumental achievements. However, history is not merely a record of grandiose events created by a few heroes. True history is the strata formed by layer upon layer of sweat and tears from countless unsung individuals.

Staying up all night manning a convenience store counter in an unfamiliar land where the language was foreign; altering second-hand clothes to pay for their children's tuition; or heading out to work in cleaning or service jobs even in the bitterest of winters... Without these harsh and tearful "daily routines of survival," today's Korean Canadian community simply could not exist.

We must tell our elders clearly:

"Those ordinary days you endured counting change at the convenience store were the very bricks that laid the foundation of our Korean community. The accumulation of that ordinariness is exactly the precious historical record we wish to preserve in the Cyber Museum."

When they realize that their hardships were not just futile struggles but invaluable groundwork for future generations, the elders' demeanor will shift from shrinking hesitation to proud confidence.

Second, the meaning of stepping forward not just for personal reflection, but as a "witness of an era." Elders often close off, saying, "My story is nothing to brag about." But an oral history project is not a platform to "brag" about one's success; it is a space to "testify" to the truths of an era.

What the streets of Toronto or Vancouver were like in the 1970s; how lonely and daunting it was for Koreans when they first set foot on Canadian soil; how they held onto each other to endure the invisible barriers and discrimination in mainstream society... There are vivid answers that only the first generation, who lived through those times themselves, can provide.

If the voices of our elders are not recorded, a crucial piece of Korean Canadian history—personal experiences and everyday memories—will remain a blank void.

Therefore, elders can adopt a steadfast sense of responsibility: "If not me, who will pass the memories of this era down to future generations?" The moment they sit before the microphone, they are no longer just ordinary elderly individuals, but irreplaceable "witnesses to history" restoring lost time, and the most vital testifiers of their own lives. The interviewers must emphasize this point, gently awakening the historical responsibility lying dormant within the elders.

Third, explaining that this project is not for "oneself," but the greatest legacy for the "next generation." In many cases, love for one's children and descendants can be a powerful motivator for participation. For those who hesitate, asking "What's the point of telling my story?", we must clearly explain who this Cyber Museum is being built for.

"Please understand, this record is not meant to glorify you. Rather, it is about creating a compass for life so that one day, when your grandchildren and great-grandchildren look back on their roots and identity, or face major trials in life, they can see and learn, 'My grandparents pushed through immense hardships in this unfamiliar land so that I could be here today.'"

When they realize that their voices and memories will become a "spiritual legacy" more valuable than any material wealth they could leave for their descendants, the elders will finally unbar their hearts. For the sake of the next generation, they will find the courage to willingly share even their most painful stories of failure or the heartbreaking memories of facing racial discrimination.

100 Witnesses, and 20 Listeners Responding with Empathy

Ultimately, it falls to the 20 younger interviewers to help the 100 early immigrants accept their lives as history and willingly share their stories. Before presenting a pre-set questionnaire, they must first speak with utmost sincerity and respect for the elders' lives.

"We are not here to write a biography of a great hero. We came to hear the true story of your rough and ordinary life, through which you cultivated the very ground we stand on with your bare hands. Your life is our history."

When this sincere empathy and active listening touch the hearts of the elders, the resignation of "How could my ordinary life be history?" will transform into the pride of "My life, too, was our history."

The moment those 100 early immigrants recognize themselves as witnesses to history and sit proudly before the microphone, the Cyber Museum of Korean Canadian Immigration History will have already opened its first and most important door.