The Symbolism Of White Rice đ
There is rarely a day where white rice isnât keeping warm in a cooker at my parentsâ house. It was our medicine when we were sick; while some offer toast and butter for an upset tummy, my mum would portion out small bowls of sticky white rice seasoned with soy sauce, sesame oil and toasted sesame seeds. I knew something was wrong when I didnât couldnât stomach it. In this way, rice became a barometer for happiness.
The symbolism of white rice becomes more stark when one parent differs from the other. My mother is Korean, so it becomes symbolic of her, as opposed to my Lancastrian father (although there are other foods that feel like a direct line to him). In that same way, rice becomes more symbolic when it is taken out of its context; for immigrants living in the West, it becomes a totem of belonging and identity. A cultural differentiator. Something to peel you away from the necessary assimilation.
Last weekend, I watched the entire series Pachinko whilst holding hands with my mother. I always think of my motherâs skin as impossibly smooth, something I recalled thinking even at a young age. She runs her thumb along the tops of my knuckles, occasionally squeezing it in little bursts. I ask her questions about the Korean theyâre speaking, but mostly we watch it in silence, moving from one episode to the next. Mum brings over some leftover kimchi-jeon and we eat whilst watching rice being washed, drained and cooked in a gamasot ê°ë§ì„, a big cast iron cauldron by the mother of Panchinkoâs protagonist, Yangjin.
Pachinko â originally a novel by Korean-American author Min Jin Lee â follows four generations of one family across 100 years, beginning during the Japanese occupation of Korea in the early 1900s. Food is central to the story because it represents both what has been taken and what is reclaimed. The market in Yeongdo, the small fishing village near Busan where the story begins is where the action begins to unfold. Here, even though Japanese officials patrol the perimeter, Koreans are able to make a living selling fish and grains.
But we see that white rice, the grain that belongs to Korean land, has become a precious commodity and its access to Koreans stifled by the Japanese. When Sunja, the protagonist, is married, her mother brings money to the merchant to buy just two bowlâs worth as a celebration and a parting gift. âI want only enough for the bride and groomâs dinner,â she pleads. âFor them to taste white rice again before they leave home.â During the occupation, white rice was reserved for Japanese customers, forcing the Koreans to eat cheaper grains like barley. Later on when Sunja is much older, she eats dinner with another woman her age, this time in Osaka, who asks her if she can taste it: white rice from Korea, not Japan. The difference is subtle â nuttier, they say â but again, it tastes like their homeland, a place they have not returned to for many years.
I felt a strange mix of pride and sadness watching and reading these scenes. Pride at the resilience and strength of Korean people who endured such suffering, from the Japanese occupation through to WWII and the Korean civil war. Sadness at knowing that such a culturally engrained ingredient like white rice, that I am able to eat any day I like, was once a symbol of everything that they had lost.
I feel a little ashamed at how I once distanced myself from my culture growing up, in an effort to assimilate and fit in. This might have happened outside of the kitchen, but in there, I still scraped the rice paddle clean at any opportunity, voraciously hungry for sticky rice and salty gim êč, not truly understanding what it meant to me, my mother or my ancestors. I think about what it feels like to be displaced and to instinctively reach for something that reminds you of home. A bowl of white rice seems like a good place to start.