The surprising flavour of seaweed soup. The sharp sound of a knife slicing cucumber. The hiss and sizzle of mushrooms on a scorching fire. In Haribo Kimchi, South Korean theatremaker and composer Jaha Koo invites us into a pojangmacha, or a typical neon-lit street food tents from Korea. Get ready to meet a snail, a gummy bear, and an eel as they guide us through a surreal, sensory feast. Blending absurdist humour with piercing cultural insight, these unlikely companions unravel stories of migration, assimilation, and the complex emotional terrain of identity. Through food, they explore what it means to belong, and what it means to lose that belonging.

Koo, whose internationally-acclaimed Hamartia Trilogy explored the echoes of imperialism across East Asia, continues his signature fusion of multimedia, music, and robotic performance. His work dissects the contradictions of cultural adaptation with lyrical wit and emotional depth, offering narratives steeped in longing, shame, resistance, and the unforgettable taste of home. Previously in Singapore in 2023 to perform his works Lolling and Rolling and Cuckoo, on the occasion of Haribo Kimchi, we caught up with Jaha Koo over email to learn more about his process, his relationship with food and memory, and how humour helps him digest even the heaviest of truths. Read the interview in full below:

Bakchormeeboy: Hi Jaha, we previously caught both Lolling and Rolling and Cuckoo when you came to Singapore in 2023. Both were incredible pieces of work, and I wanted to find out more about how different Haribo Kimchi is from your Hamartia Trilogy, and was there any specific trigger for how you came up with its title and concept? 

Jaha Koo: Thank you so much for your kind words about Lolling and Rolling and Cuckoo.

The Hamartia Trilogy was essentially my first attempt to observe and analyse Korea from outside its borders. I started to create it soon after I left the country, so it focused on looking at the past through the lens of the present, tracing the tragic roots that continue to shape contemporary Korean society. Because of that, the trilogy has an inherently darker tone—it feels like cutting through the darkness to understand where we are now.

In contrast, Haribo Kimchi was created more than a decade after leaving Korea, at a point when I felt I was no longer fully Korean but also not European. It comes from a diasporic identity that is in constant flux. Rather than looking backwards, this piece is grounded in the life of a perpetual traveller, questioning what “home” means when you live between places and never feel entirely rooted anywhere. It reflects on non-places and uncertain identities that you encounter along the way.

While Hamartia is more somber and analytical, Haribo Kimchi tries to be brighter—almost playful—as a way of finding some energy to keep moving forward, though it also has a layer of melancholy and pain underneath. Living abroad for over ten years, I’ve often felt suspended between cultures. I became fascinated by the strange and sometimes absurd combinations that emerge in that space in-between.

This is where the title comes in: Haribo and kimchi—two things that don’t seem to belong together but somehow coexist. That unlikely pairing became a metaphor for my own experience of cultural and emotional digestion.

Bakchormeeboy: Based on reviews, some of the stories told by your character in Haribo Kimchi are quite traumatic. Why did you decide on these specific “memories”, and how did you find a way to connect all three of them? 

Jaha: There are six memories I share in Haribo Kimchi in total, and all of them come from my personal experiences. Some are deeply private and traumatic events, while others are lingering residues of emotions that have stayed with me for a long time.

I chose these stories because I felt they most honestly reveal what it means to live in a diasporic state. I don’t believe that diaspora is something that only happens when you cross a national border. Even within the same country, you can find yourself isolated, rejected by society, or in situations where it feels like there is no space left to breathe. So in a strict sense, this work isn’t about “diaspora” itself, but rather about lives that exist in a diasporic condition.

At first, these six stories felt separate, each with its own texture. But over time, I began to realise that they were all connected by a shared sense of not belonging anywhere and of living with an uncertain identity. That experience of disconnection and strangeness isn’t only a personal pain—it’s also something many people today can recognise in their own lives.

Another important idea in this work is what I call “Jelliness.” Jelliness is my own word for the flexibility and resilience of existing at the margins. It’s about never being fully fixed, constantly shifting shape, and still managing to hold yourself together. When I was weaving these six stories into one performance, I didn’t want to impose a rigid, logical narrative. Instead, I wanted the layers of feeling to flow naturally, like jelly—fluid and complex. I hope that audiences can discover something of their own experiences within this state of Jelliness, or at least find a space to pause and reflect.

Bakchormeeboy: You’ll be preparing food live onstage with a street food cart, utilising your own music, and even feature robots performing. How do you manage to train yourself and find the skillsets to do so many different genres of creative work? What drives your creativity in terms of both ideas and form?

Jaha: have always been deeply interested in how I can project or transform the theme and stories I want to tell into an artistic language. I constantly reflect on form and repeatedly imagine whether a story truly deserves to be brought into public discourse, and whether the way it is staged and delivered is appropriate and meaningful as an artistic attempt.

I don’t find much inspiration in the familiar/formulaic repertoire of conventional theatre or in the traditional directing methods and acting techniques taught in schools. Elements like actorly performance, theatrical illusion, or drama are not essential for me unless they are genuinely connected to the subject matter and form of the work. Instead, what intrigues me more is exploring the uncharted territory of what theatre has not yet become—and the possibilities within that. I am more interested in imagining not just the ways theatre has been done, but the ways it could be done.

Because of this, my process always involves dismantling, recomposing, reinventing, transforming, and devising. As a theatre maker, I don’t see this research into form as something special or exceptional—it feels like an inherent and natural part of my work. After all, form itself is also a form of storytelling.

This is why I have such a strong interest in working with media. Music and video have become my own artistic languages (in their own right for me): they can perform as text beyond the script, act in place of performers, or become the foundation of shared time and artistic commitment between me and the audience. Even before I began making theatre, I was creating music and video to expand the range of expression. Over time, these practices accumulated and became the primary artistic language of my performances.

Technical experimentation has always been an area of curiosity, but for parts I cannot manage alone, I collaborate closely with a technical team. My decision to bring non-human performers, like robots, onto the stage also stemmed from my desire to break away from the hierarchical, vertical structures I observed in theatre production environments and to explore new relationships and possibilities.

Ultimately, my creative drive comes from a combination of curiosity and a certain sense of unease. I draw energy from imagining how the contradictions and ironies of the time we live in can be transformed into a sensory experience—and how they can be embodied in a language and form that feel true to the work.

Bakchormeeboy: Your earlier work has a tendency to criticise South Korea and its policies or lifestyle. How do you really feel about South Korea, and how do you hope your work affects Koreans watching it? On the other hand, how do you hope international audience members view Korea after seeing your work? 

Jaha: It is true that when I first left South Korea over a decade ago, I held a strongly critical perspective toward Korean society. Even while living abroad and observing it from a distance, I continued to feel a persistent sense of discomfort and a critical awareness of its entrenched problems.

However, at some point, the realities and circumstances of Korea began to evoke not only critique but also a kind of sadness in me. I think this shift happened when I came to recognize that Korea is ultimately the place where I grew up, and that the contradictions, oppression, and frustrations I experienced there are an inseparable part of my life and its journey. From that realization onward, I believe my work has come to embody both affection and criticism in equal measure. Haribo Kimchi reflects this complexity of feeling more than my previous works.

When I was conceiving this piece, the idea of “Korean” people I had in mind was not limited to those living in Korea itself. I was also thinking about Koreans in the diaspora—those who have emigrated or who live in various states of dislocation around the world.

The reason I share Korean stories with international audiences is not to lead them to view Korea in any particular way or to impose a specific message. Rather, I hope it can be an opportunity for them to reflect on their own societies, histories, and cultural identities. Even when I use Korea as a point of departure, I believe the themes I address often remain relevant beyond that context.

In this sense, my work also serves as a critique of cultural arrogance—not only by influential countries like West Europe but also by Korea itself. It is a stance against the still ongoing cultural colonialism and the pervasive sense of cultural superiority that distorts how societies see one another.

Bakchormeeboy: This is a show that involves some degree of audience participation, unlike Lolling and Rolling and Cuckoo. While live theatre is in itself an unpredictable medium, adding in audience participation adds a new level of complexity. What purpose does having audience members onstage serve in Haribo Kimchi, and have there been times where they reacted in unexpected ways? 

Jaha: For me, inviting two audience members onto the stage in Haribo Kimchi felt completely natural and obvious. Since I am cooking food live onstage, it only made sense to share it with someone. The only reason I don’t serve everyone in the audience is simply because it would be too exhausting for me to do so.

At the same time, I never intended the moment of audience participation to function merely as a performative device. I see it as an important opportunity to temporarily dissolve the distance between myself and the audience and to create a situation in which we truly share the same space and time. I also wanted to establish a kind of in-between zone—between the stage and the auditorium, and between theatre and a place that is not quite theatre. Like being in a constant state of travel, I wanted to evoke a sense of placelessness, of not fully belonging anywhere.

Because my work deals with questions of home, belonging, and boundaries, I believe the moment when an audience member steps onto the stage is when those themes can be most directly experienced and witnessed. In performance, there are always multiple positions: the one who watches, the one who is watched, and the one who is obliged to see. Those boundaries can become mirrors for the audience themselves.

Of course, audience participation is always unpredictable, and it generates a different energy and tension every time. Some people become visibly nervous or even emotional simply by stepping onstage, while others respond with a lot of humour. There have even been times when I found myself in an awkward situation because the guest kept talking to me while I was trying to continue the performance. But overall, I find these moments enjoyable. The variety of reactions constantly transforms the atmosphere of each performance and offers me new challenges and things to reflect on.

Bakchormeeboy: You’ll be conducting a masterclass during your trip to Singapore, about empowering one’s art and remaining relevant in its articulation. Especially considering how resource-heavy it can be to produce a theatre production, what advice do you have for anyone looking to put on a show that is worth putting on? 

Jaha: Looking back on my twenties, I think I spent a lot of time feeling lost as someone who wanted to create. There was hardly anyone around me who could teach me or be a real point of reference. And even if there were, most of them were based abroad or were artists working in completely different fields.

Reflecting on that period, I’ve come to realise that recognising one’s own practice or own potentiality—both big and small—is an incredibly difficult and demanding process. Some people might simply say, “Just be confident.” But how can you have confidence when you don’t even know where to start? Even if you manage to summon confidence, it doesn’t mean the work will come easily. In fact, more often than not, you end up feeling even less confident and uncertain about where your work is going.

Ultimately, I think what matters most is to analyse and examine yourself, your practice and the world you are trying to create, with both depth and clarity. To develop, to reflect, to nurture, to train yourself consistently—these are essential. And as an artist and a member of society, it is also important to cultivate a sense of responsibility. You need to keep questioning and understanding the reasons and motivations behind how you relate to society, the world or your own world.

When that process is repeated over time, you gradually build the capacity to judge the value of what you are creating and, more importantly, to trust your own judgment. Over time, you also develop the patience to endure the long journey of moving toward your artistic goals. I am still constantly going through trial and error myself, doing what I can to keep growing as an artist.

In the masterclass, I hope to create a space where we can reflect on ourselves in the process of making work and explore the path ahead together. I believe that through this, you can eventually gain greater confidence and a clearer sense of conviction that what you are creating is truly worth bringing to the stage.

Bakchormeeboy: The theme of the Esplanade’s The Studios 2025 is “Sustenance”. What do you feel is the sustenance that the world needs most right now? 

Jaha: I believe that one of the most essential forms of sustenance in our time is the right to equal access to education. Recently, I have been researching the issue of child labour exploitation, which has led me to reflect deeply on the fundamental right to live without being forced into labor and the importance of a secure safety net.
In that sense, education that is equally supported and accessible to everyone is, for me, a vital form of sustenance. It is not only about providing knowledge but also about creating the possibility to overcome environments filled with exploitation, exclusion, and hatred. I believe that education, combined with basic income, can become the nourishment that enables a society to grow in a healthier and more sustainable way.

Photo Credit: Bea Borges

Haribo Kimchi plays plays from 1st to 3rd August 2025 at the Esplanade Theatre Studio. Tickets available here

The Studios 2025 – Sustenance runs from July to September 2025. Full programme and more information available here