She repeated, “I’m going to have to call the police.” I braced myself… What? Come again? “Yes, if you ask me again, I will call the police.”
From the banking days when secret PIN numbers were written on slips of paper to the days when nobody waited in line and there was nothing to stop someone from tossing their cash on the counter during your transaction, going into a bank in Korea has always been an adventure. One that makes you ask yourself if you’re mentally prepared to handle the ridiculous, to fight for what you want.
But this was a whole new level. This was “Banking Survival: Pro-Gamer Edition.”
The police? Where was the nice lady at the bank? I was ready for the usual “it’s impossible” reaction, quickly followed by “we can do that for you.” But who was this woman? And why was she clutching her pearls like I’d walked in to rob the place?
Ms. Not-So-Friendly Teller, are you sure you want to call the police because I want to withdraw *my* money?
I had gone in to withdraw 50 million KRW. “50 million? I will have to call the police,” she said flatly, as though we were discussing the weather.
“Really?” I said, still smiling. “Why?”
Blank stare. Hand poised over the telephone receiver. “Okay then, how about 20 million?” I tested her, playing along.
“If you ask me one more time, I will call the police,” she said, tone flat, no room for negotiation.
At that point, I did what I’ve learned to do in Korea: breathe, empty my mind, and let peace fill the space. When smiles and jokes don’t work, empathy can sometimes be the best defuser.
“You look tired,” I said, noticing the picture of two kids on her desk. “They’re adorable. How old are they? I have two of my own.”
Small talk between working parents seemed to soften her. She admitted, in a tired tone, that just yesterday, a young man had attempted to take out a large sum of money as part of a voice phishing scam. And I, by default, was just as suspicious in her eyes. After all, “foreigners don’t have that kind of cash.”
Wait, what? I’ve been banking here since 1998. My bankbook practically has seniority over the manager! But the mistrust was undeniable.
The truth is, experiences like this happen far too often in Korea. It’s not always about actual concerns or bank policy. More often than not, when someone says, “A foreigner can’t do that,” it’s because they’re unsure how to handle the situation. Rather than admit their uncertainty, they default to making things unnecessarily difficult.
And then came the kicker: “The bank doesn’t trust foreigners.” Cold. Final. No apology, no softening the blow—just the blunt truth.
This is why daily life as a foreigner in Korea can be exhausting. Even in a vibrant, welcoming country like Korea, systemic issues and cultural biases still exist. One of the biggest obstacles is the absence of laws against racism and discrimination. There’s no legal recourse when you’re treated unfairly due to your nationality or ethnicity, and it leaves foreigners in a constant state of bracing for the next hurdle.
Whether it’s the bank, the immigration office, or simply signing up for a service, I’ve learned to expect that someone will say, “No, a foreigner can’t do that.” Not because the rules say so, but because it’s easier to deny the request than admit they don’t know how to process it.
Until there’s a law that protects against racial discrimination, these experiences will likely continue. For now, all I can do is take a deep breath, prepare myself for the next battle, and remind myself that, yes, I belong here.
