Korean Expat Community for National Disasters

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For a long time, climate change felt like a distant, abstract concept—something about melting ice caps and polar bears. Even when the summers in South Korea grew hotter and the monsoon rains heavier, it was easy to seek shelter indoors and pretend everything was normal. However, a recent trip to my local grocery store shattered that illusion completely. I went to pick up some apples, a staple fruit in my home, and froze when I saw the price tag. A single apple was practically the price of a full meal. Local news has started calling them "gold apples."

My initial frustration was about inflation, but digging a little deeper, I realized this was actually "Agroflation"—a food crisis driven directly by climate change. Last year, South Korea’s apple orchards suffered a devastating chain reaction of extreme weather. Unexpected late spring frosts killed the early blossoms. Then, historically brutal monsoon rains swept through during the summer, followed by extreme, unrelenting heatwaves and new types of crop diseases. The climate simply didn't allow the fruit to survive.

This hit me harder than I expected. In Korea, apples are not just a healthy snack; they are deeply tied to our culture. They are central to our ancestral rites (Jesa) and our major holidays like Chuseok. Seeing the climate crisis actively disrupt our food supply and threaten our long-standing traditions made the abstract concept of global warming feel intensely personal and incredibly urgent. It was a stark realization that the environment doesn't just surround us; it feeds us.

This grocery store shock forced me to re-evaluate my own habits and look for ways to mitigate this crisis. One tangible action I've started taking is actively purchasing "ugly" agricultural products (mot-nan-i nong-san-mul). In the past, fruits and vegetables with slight blemishes or odd shapes were discarded because they didn't meet strict commercial beauty standards, creating massive food waste and unnecessary carbon emissions.

Now, I seek out these imperfect fruits. They taste exactly the same, they support local farmers struggling with unpredictable weather, and they represent a conscious rejection of the wasteful system that got us here. The climate crisis is no longer just outside our windows; it has officially arrived on our kitchen tables. We have to change how we consume, before the seasons change what we can grow entirely.