Born in Taiwan shortly before the end of martial law, Hsu Ya-Ting has become an important voice in Taiwanese documentary cinema. Her films weave together the personal and the political, exploring how memory and place shape people’s lives. With Island of the Winds, she tells an intimate story of the elderly residents of Losheng Sanatorium, a former leprosy colony on the outskirts of Taipei, and their long fight to protect their home and their dignity.

Hsu’s relationship with Losheng began in her early twenties, when she first visited as a student filmmaker. What started as a graduation project evolved into a lifelong commitment: years of returning, documenting, and witnessing the residents’ resilience in the face of displacement. Her camera became a companion and a witness, capturing gestures of tenderness and protests. Through her empathetic work, Hsu turned a simple story into a moving look at belonging and aging.

Hsu is known for pushing the limits between documentary form and poetic expression. She creates spaces where forgotten lives speak, not as relics of the past, but as living reminders of endurance, care, and the unbreakable bond between people and the land they call home.

View of the Arts: First of all, I want to say how much I loved the documentary. Island of the Winds offers an incredibly intimate portrait of life inside Losheng Sanatorium. How did you earn the residents’ trust to tell their stories so openly, and were there moments that affected you on a personal or emotional level during filming? 

Hsu Ya-Ting: When I first met them, I was 20, a young college student who was curious about this social issue and making my graduation short film, “Life with Happiness.” With my classmate, Wan-Yu Lin, we visited them every week on my scooter. We attended their self-help meetings, visited their homes, and joined them at political demonstrations. We tried really hard to get to know them, and they all saw how hardworking we were.

Several years later, when I made Island of the Winds, I continued this commitment for even more years. I have seen them change and age. I have come to understand their struggles, both physical and political. I knew their patterns: when they would take a nap, and what kinds of food they loved to eat but couldn’t. I have carried my camera with me since the first time we met, and they knew I always tried to make their stories known. So naturally, they opened up and trusted me.

I remember one time, I didn’t have my camera when Old Chen was in the hospital. It was my turn to take care of him. (Most of the residents had lost contact with their families due to lifelong segregation and the social stigma placed upon them.) Because Chen was a powerful figure in the Lo-Sheng movement, he always treated students kindly, and the students had a deep relationship with him. Near the end of his life, the students (Lo-sheng Youths) took turns to care for him. Suddenly, the doctor told me to get Aunt Lan (his partner), saying that Old Chen was in danger.

I called Aunt Lan and the other students. I told them, “I will stay until Lan and the others arrive. I’ll make sure everything will be fine.” Aunt Lan arrived first. After I comforted her, she calmed down and held Old Chen’s hand. I realized I needed to document it. I used my cellphone and recorded this powerful scene, which is now in “Island of the Winds.”

VOA: What initially drew you to Losheng Sanatorium as the heart of this story, and how did your connection to the place evolve as you spent more time with its residents and their memories? 

HYT: I left Taiwan in 2007 to study for my master’s degree at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in the USA. I left at the peak of the Lo-sheng movement. Before I left, the percentage of the Lo-sheng sanatorium to be preserved was still under negotiation, so Lan, Ying, and some of the residents were still staying in their original places. The Lo-sheng entrance remained untouched by construction. In 2008, during the second year of my studies, several evictions happened in Lo-sheng. Then, the construction of the metro depot took over their land. However, some land was preserved for the residents. When I returned to Taiwan, seeing Lo-sheng in ruins was quite painful.

However, something remained unchanged: the residents. They are still fighting. They believe that even though they lost part of their land, they can fight the government’s original plan and rebuild with the combined efforts of students, professionals, and the wider community. So, every time I film, my mind travels through time with them. Their memories tied to the land are the core motivation of this resistance, and my challenge is figuring out how I can best present their rich memories.

Filming in Lo-sheng was so familiar that I could close my eyes and see what was going on in the dorms. Wen is waiting in his garden while Lucky comes and asks for a pat. Lee is sitting in front of the TV, watching political news. When guests come, he takes them on a tour along the same route. Even at political demonstrations, I could foresee when the event would peak and what the reaction from political figures and police would be. The past and present were always in my mind.

So, I sync with them, even as Wen loses track of time. Sometimes, he will confuse the timeline of events, but I can understand and follow his conversation. I don’t mind re-shooting scenes with him; the more he says, the more of him will be remembered. It wasn’t that he didn’t make sense; it’s just that most people couldn’t make sense of him. Sometimes, he would vividly give me a ‘performance’ – for example, chatting with his friends. At other times, he would be too weak to say anything. While I edit, it gives me the freedom to travel through time with his emotions and memories as well.

VOA: Memory and preservation emerge as powerful motifs, especially through the residents’ creation of landscape models. How did you come to see these acts of rebuilding and remembering as central to the film’s visual and emotional language? 

HYT: During the editing process, I realised there were many possible storylines within the complicated history of Losheng. However, what truly drew me in was the residents’ struggle to preserve their own memories in the face of demolition. Their efforts went beyond interviews or student-led activities; I was captivated by the landscape models they built, a profound attempt to make their memories tangible and allow the authorities to understand. This action is rooted in their deep belief in the value of this land, but more importantly, in their history and their very existence.

That existence is incredibly complex. Life-long segregation pushed them to build Losheng as their home. Yet, just as they came to regard it as such, the government tried to take it away, forcing them to be exicted and putting them into small units in the hospital. This threat sparked a fight. Through their resistance, they were transformed, finally seeing themselves not merely as “patients” but as brave citizens and human beings. In their struggle, we can see the changing of our times and a reflection of our own history.

Based on that belief, I chose to build the film’s visual and emotional language around the details of their actions. These actions were not just for themselves, but for future generations. My hope is that by following these acts of preservation, the audience can grasp the core concepts for themselves, without being guided by a forceful directorial point of view.

VOA: Leprosy has long been associated with fear and stigma in Taiwan and beyond. How did you approach representing the residents’ histories in a way that acknowledges their painful legacy while celebrating their dignity, humanity, and enduring spirit? 

HYT: The dignity and enduring spirit of the residents were already present, forged during their 20 years of struggle. In one sense, my job was easy: I just needed to reveal it.

The difficult part, however, was that I knew the stigma surrounding them could easily distort their stories. My approach, therefore, was to first acknowledge the common labels and then dismantle them by showing the reality. For instance, where some might see people who are “sick” and “old,” the film reveals individuals who are powerful despite their disabilities and have the wisdom to challenge authority. My goal was to tear down these labels and transform them into a truer meaning. I wanted the audience to connect with the residents as they would with their own grandparents. Ultimately, this is not a story about leprosy; it is a story about being human.

VOA: The sanatorium itself is almost a character in your film, reflecting on confinement and community. How did you use the physical space and its environment to shape the mood and rhythm of the documentary? 

HYT: Thanks for realizing that. Wonderful! We tried hard to make the sanatorium itself a character!!! While filming in Losheng, I truly felt the environment. Twenty years ago, I saw the beautiful landscape of Losheng’s past. Losheng is a hill that captures more than its share of wind and rain, so when I was filming, I had to leave at the first sign of a downpour. Otherwise, I might get stuck on the hill. At other times, I could hear the wind howling in my headphones; it was often so loud that it disrupted the interviews. Through this, I truly felt “Losheng.”

Then, as the land and its entrance were torn apart, I felt Losheng constantly changing. The first time I came back to film, it was difficult to find a way in. I took a long detour and even felt lost on the way home. After that, every time I filmed, I made a point of carrying my camera and walking all around the metro depot construction. I kept telling myself, “If I feel this much difficulty getting back to Losheng, the residents must feel it even more.” I knew I had to endure the weight of my camera and tripod to physically feel what it means to co-exist with the construction. In doing so, I would never forget the residents’ pain and their motivation to fight to build their entrance and home back.

Indeed, treating the environment as a character will allow the audience to find a connection with the Losheng residents, the land, and me.

VOA: Your film spans Taiwan, Japan, and France in terms of production. How did this international collaboration influence your storytelling choices or the way you approached the film’s universal themes? 

HYT: The Losheng movement has been well-known in Taiwan for the past 20 years. To tell the story of Losheng is to confront its immense historical baggage. Everyone has their own expectation of how this story should be told: some are interested in the role youth activists played, some want to use it to criticize the government in a journalistic style, and others are drawn to the depth of its historical context.

Given these varied expectations, I would have to work incredibly hard to persuade an audience of my specific perspective, and it would be an unnecessary effort to try and fit everyone’s preconceived notions. Instead, I feel it is much more important to give this story new life through a fresh eye, especially since I have been filming it for so many years.

After bringing on Huang Yin-Yu as my producer, whose career is based in both Taiwan and Japan, working with the Japanese editor, Hata Takeshi, became possible. Hata Takeshi is a very important documentary editor in Japan, and most of his work deals with long-term documentary projects and complicated social issues. I knew he was the one I should work with. We reviewed our footage meticulously, trying to show the true complexity of Losheng. My own documentary filmmaking background is greatly influenced by Japanese documentaries, so our aesthetic sensibilities were very similar. Although the language barrier was challenging, it was a very happy and productive working experience. Furthermore, using English to describe my film and articulate my ideas has helped me to see and tell my story more objectively. This has been incredibly helpful, especially when working on a film that is so close to me emotionally.

VOA: In many ways, the Losheng protests go beyond a fight for space – they represent a struggle for recognition and justice. What do you think the resistance of these elderly residents reveals about Taiwan’s broader relationship with history and social responsibility? 

HYT: I remember Lee saying that “Taiwan is a country that values human rights the most.” He said this in the Pengliao dorm, where the electricity and water had been cut off. It wasn’t sarcasm; it was his sincere belief. He fought for the preservation of his home for many years, driven not only by memories but by a firm belief in democracy. He believed in the system so much that he was willing to fight for all those years. Even though the authorities failed him, democracy itself had not.

This makes me value democracy even more. I know it has limitations and even drawbacks. However, this system offers hope to the poor and disadvantaged. My experience with the Losheng movement showed me that it gives people a platform to express their needs, desires, and even anger. Through such actions, people can be free to be themselves. The disabled can also be fighters. 

Since the COVID-19 pandemic, we’ve seen fewer demonstrations and protests on the streets. Young people are more drawn to the online world. Without a genuine connection to the physical world, their writing can seem weak and empty. I worry that future generations might lose sight of what is happening right in front of them, losing the courage to care for and fight for their rights and the rights of others. I hope that when they see these elderly grandfathers and grandmothers still fighting in their 80s and 90s, they are inspired to care more about the real world—to feel the land beneath their feet, to fight against injustice, and to strive to change the world for the better. By doing so, they will learn and gain so much more for themselves.

VOA: Looking back on the process of making Island of the Winds, what do you hope audiences will take away about the value of preserving marginalised histories, and how do you expect the film might impact ongoing conversations about heritage and social justice in Taiwan?

HYT: I hope the audience keeps in mind- don’t take advantage of what we have. Our present can be based on the minorities’ sacrifice, and based on the choice of power. Forgetting is never a passive process; it is often the deliberate result of power at work. What have we forgotten? Who wants us to forget? Preserving this memory itself is a resistance that we can do.

My hope is that this film pushes the conversation in Taiwan beyond just preserving buildings and towards preserving the human stories within them. I hope it can impact our ongoing conversations by reminding us that cultural heritage is not a cold object, but the living memory of people. This is the core of social justice in preservation. As a filmmaker, I would do my part to preserve their stories, their memories, and their once existence. 

Written and interviewed by Maggie Gogler

Featured image courtesy of Hsu Ya-Ting:

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