Directed by Lee Jiyoon, When the Trees Sway, the Heart Stirs centres on the story of residents in Seoul’s Jeongneung Valley, who have begun relocating amid plans for regional redevelopment. The director turns her lens to the mundane, everyday moments of life, walking alongside both current and former residents to capture their experiences.

The film lays bare the impact of urbanisation on Jeongneung Valley, a forgotten corner of the modern city. Its title originates from a resident’s account: her favourite spot in her home was the window, where she could feel the cool breeze filtered through the leaves in summer, and where the foliage kept the biting winter cold at bay. Staring at those leaves filled her with a sense of peace.

She grew up in that neighbourhood, watching a castle-like mansion nearby for years. It was only when she faced permanent departure that she finally visited the mansion’s owner, sharing her long-held memories of the building she had never set foot in. She also formed a bond with a yellow dog that lived in an abandoned field; the dog would greet her every morning as she passed by. Her deep familiarity with the neighbourhood illustrates how communities take shape, and how much they mean to people. Such connections are not forged overnight but through the slow accumulation of daily interactions.

The film also features an elderly man who returns to his old farmland after moving into a new apartment assigned by the government. He notes with a soft smile that the pumpkins have grown well that year, and he had sown the seeds himself before leaving. “The old house was eventually better,” he sighs.

The young girl is from a family of five and tells the camera that her family will move out the following Monday. Due to their large household size, the government has offered them two small apartments instead of one spacious enough for everyone, forcing the family to split up. Former residents have no choice but to leave, heading toward what is supposed to be a better environment. The director refrains from judgment, instead gently preserving Jeongneung Valley’s final moments and the residents’ farewells, creating a record of the place for those who once knew it best.

As social beings, collective memory is both our legacy and our necessity. It carries unspeakable weight and attachment. No man is an island; collective memory is the bridge that connects us, even when we feel adrift like icebergs in a vast sea.

Directed by Kawauchi Ario and Miyoshi Daisuke, Rokkoku Kitchen follows a group of people striving to reclaim their shared memories through food. “Rokkoku” means “six,” referring to National Route 6—a highway stretching from Tokyo to Miyagi, passing through Chiba, Ibaraki, and Fukushima prefectures. After the nuclear incident, residents in affected areas were forced to evacuate. The film focuses on daily life and ways of living in towns along Rokkoku, such as Okua, Futaba, and Minamisoma.

For safety, residents in contaminated zones were ordered to evacuate, with no permission to return for at least several years. In some heavily polluted areas, they may never go back. Some of their homes have been demolished, while others remain standing, preserved as old architectural relics. The earthquake and tsunami swept through these towns in the blink of an eye, and with them, their existence followed into vanished.

We cannot undo what has happened, but the sorrow and loneliness of losing one’s homeland can be acknowledged and nurtured back to life. In Fukushima, there was once a restaurant called Penguin; for decades, nearly everyone in town was a customer, and the owner and patrons had become like family. For a long time, few dared to return to Fukushima, until the owner’s daughter became one of the first to move back. Not only did she return, but she also reopened Penguin. “This is my home,” she says, “and Penguin means just as much to so many people in Fukushima. No one else could have reopened it to welcome the returnees quite like I can.” This is the quiet effort of ordinary people: rebuilding a lost community, one small step at a time, to bring back the memories of better days. Settling down is never easy, and uprooting oneself is even harder; part of the land becomes a part of you, vice versa. 

These two documentaries, one from South Korea, one from Japan, paint vivid portraits of displacement, rooted in two distinct realities: one driven by human-led urbanisation, the other by unforeseen environmental catastrophe. Yet for all their differences, they share a common thread: a reverence for the places we call home, and the memories that bind us to them. 

Jeongneung Valley’s residents lose their neighbourhood to the march of progress, while Fukushima’s residents lose theirs to disaster, but both films remind us that home is more than brick and mortar. It is the feel of summer breeze through leaves, the taste of a meal from a beloved restaurant, the greetings of a stray dog, and the stories passed between neighbours. In preserving these small, precious moments, When the Trees Sway, the Heart Stirs and Rokkoku Kitchen do more than document loss, they honour the strength of human bond, proving that even when we leave, the places that shape us never truly leave us. Whether through a director’s gentle storytelling or a daughter’s reopened restaurant, memory becomes a lifeline: a way to hold onto the past, even as we step into an uncertain future.

Written by Jane Wei

Featured image courtesy of Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival 2025

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