A woman who came from Itaewon

“Yes, I’m a woman from Itaewon. So what?”
The words rose up in my throat and sat on the tip of my tongue, ready to fall out. But I held them back and shot out of the place like an arrow.

It happened a long time ago at a vegetable shop in Brooklyn.
The shop owner asked,
“Are you Korean? Do you live around here? When did you come to the U.S.?”
I didn’t feel like answering, but since he was Korean, I responded politely.

“Itaewon…”

Before I could even finish the word, his sharp eyes scanned me up and down like an eagle. Then his questions stopped altogether. His expression said it all—“Figures, if you’re from Itaewon.”

Not long after, a Korean woman from the neighborhood who knew the shop owner suddenly showed up at my place—without being invited. She looked around the house with sharp, suspicious eyes, like she was searching for evidence.
“There’s no wedding photo. Did you even get married?”
She asked, casting a doubtful look, as if she’d come to confirm what the shop owner had told her.

I was born in Namsan-dong and graduated from Namsan Elementary School before moving to Itaewon. I lived there until I left for the U.S. I often saw foreigners walking around, so unlike many other Korean immigrants, I had no discomfort around foreigners. As a child, I used to go with my father to a Western-style restaurant called Western House in the heart of Itaewon. Thanks to that, I was naturally exposed to Western food and culture.

The name Itaewon (梨泰院) is said to come from the pear orchards that once filled the area during the Joseon Dynasty. But there’s another, darker version: The name Itaewon (異胎圓)—meaning “a place of different births”—comes from the time of the Imjin War, when women who were raped by invading soldiers gave birth to mixed-race children and settled in that area. Later, during the Imo Incident, Chinese troops were stationed there. Under Japanese occupation, it became a residential area for Japanese nationals. And after the Korean War, the area turned into a U.S. military base town.

On the hillside near Itaewon, there was a dark, eerie shrine surrounded by thick trees.
It was said to hold the sorrow of women who had suffered dishonor at the hands of foreign soldiers during times of war. Even in midsummer, walking near it gave me chills down my spine.

There’s even a joke that goes:
“Have you ever traveled abroad?”
“No, I’ve never even been to Itaewon.”
That’s how foreign Itaewon felt to the rest of Korea—like another country within the country.

Coming from such a complicated and stigmatized place, I avoided Korean-run stores where the owner might start asking personal questions. Sometimes I’d peek inside from the street to see if there was a Korean owner or cashier—and if there was, I’d quietly turn around and leave. Those were uncomfortable times.

But these days, things have changed. Korean-American life has matured. Many stores now have non-Korean staff, or they’re run by 1.5-generation Korean Americans. Now I can go in and out of stores freely—no one asks me anything anymore.

The woman from Itaewon is finally free. But why does that freedom still feel so… empty?