SPI (烤火房で見るいくつかの夢) directed by Sayun Simung, reveals a touching Tayal family story centring around ‘gaga’, certain routines and rituals that sustain solidarity and peace among Tayal people. After the death of Grandpa Wilang, Grandma Yabay can hardly break away from the sadness, followed by the pregnancy of the underage granddaughter, the camera unfolds how Sayun’s family is reconciled by ‘gaga’.

“SPI” means dream in Tayal, and “烤火房” refers to the fire room or kiln where the family gathers together and talks. There, the family of Sayun sits around and chats about their dreams of Grandfather Wilang. Tayal culture exists without a written language; hence, they depend on oral history to preserve family histories. They believe, through dreams, they are able to spiritually connect to ancestors and gain enlightenment from them. In the film, the kiln becomes a spiritual bridge connecting “past and present,” “individual and community.”

In SPI, we are presented with a live record of Tayal customs in mundane matters, such that when guests visit, they will sing a freestyle traditional Tayal song to welcome them; before an Tayal girl marries, the family-in-law should propose an engagement with a freshly butchered pig. Yet the film introduces a tender clash: the granddaughter’s fiancé is Paiwan, whose marriage customs stand in direct contrast to the Tayal’s. With their native languages unshared, Mandarin becomes the bridge that eases the gap between the two families. These details not only highlight the diversity of Taiwan’s Indigenous cultures but also add a layer of cultural integration to the theme of “family reconciliation.”

The documentary’s portrayal of Tayal traditions – including customs, language, and ways of life – is not presented as a series of isolated “cultural exhibits,” but woven into the director’s spiritual dialogue with her grandfather. Objects left behind by him – handwoven textiles, tools, and personal relics – serve as triggers for memory, while scenes of traditional Tayal ceremonies become moments of self-recognition, allowing the director to reconnect with her roots. This storytelling approach elevates the film beyond the framework of “Indigenous cultural education,” transforming it into a personal meditation on identity and the transmission of memory – one that easily resonates with audiences reflecting on their own sense of origin.

What stays with the viewer in SPI is not only the director’s gentle eye for family life, but the quiet, unpolished fragments of memory that reveal the family’s unspoken bonds of care. Longing doesn’t shout here – it slips through ordinary moments: a passing remark from an old acquaintance who recalls Grandpa Wilang, a brief silence when his name lingers in the air, those small, unplanned echoes of a life once shared.

The film opens with Sayun lying atop Grandpa Wilang’s tomb, her body pressed close to the earth as if trying to pull his presence back. In contrast, Grandma Yabay quietly avoids the grave in the years after Wilang’s death; she admits she cannot bring herself to visit, fearing that once she lay down there, she would never rise. Yabay’s grief is rendered with aching precision: a water droplet stretched to the edge of its surface tension, each unspilled tear a quiet struggle to hold back a tide of sorrow. It is a portrait of grief not as a storm, but as a slow, persistent ache – impossible to witness without feeling its weight in your bones.

Ultimately, SPI uses the crackle of the fireplace room and the soft echoes of dreams to turn an Tayal family’s private grief into a universal story of roots. ‘Gaga’ is no longer just a set of distant customs; it becomes the thread that weaves together Wilang’s memory, Yabay’s quiet sorrow, and Sayun’s search for identity, proving that even without written words, culture endures in the moments we share, the traditions we honour, and the love we carry forward. For audiences, the film is more than footage of an Indigenous family; it is a reminder of how our own connections to home, whether tied to heritage or heart, shape who we are, and how they sustain us when the world feels fragile.

Written by Jane Wei

Featured image courtesy of Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival 2025

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