‘First conceived as a short film in the wake of a year she spent in the sanatorium, HSU continued visiting over two decades, nurturing a deep bond with its inhabitants. What emerges is an intimate portrait – not of leprosy as tragedy, but rather of lives lived in resolute defiance of systemic exclusion. Unadorned yet profoundly moving, Island of the Winds lays bare ableist structures, and honours its subjects’ ongoing fight for dignity and right to visibility.‘- Hyun Jin Cho (BFI synopsis)

The film was also an official selection at the Cannes’s Docs Projects in 2025.

Following the release of ‘Island on the Winds’ at the 69th BFI London Film Festival, I sit down with director Ya-Ting to discuss the film.

Senthoran: Given how this film and your life is so intertwined, could you please tell us about your time during university? How you were exposed to the issues at the sanatorium and the conflict with the government?

Ya-Ting: I was a student around 2005 studying Film and Visual Media. I was looking for topics to cover for my thesis.

I’ll give you some context first about the Losheng Sanatorium, which is a leprosy sanatorium. This was a lifelong quarantine enforced by the government, and it was built during the Japanese colonial period of Taiwan (1930s). Whilst the buildings had aged considerably, it was a site of historical importance.

Around 2004, the government was in talks to sell the land, that the Sanatorium was built on, to the Taipei Metro. I guess this would be the equivalent of the subway system in many countries. In Taiwan, it’s called the MRT – for Massive Rapid Transit.

This project would require a large portion of the Sanatorium to be demolished. At a time, the sanatorium housed over a thousand patients. In 2005, there were 300 patients remaining who were not willing to give up their right to their land and relocate. Students and supporters had visited the village, and soon after there was a group of student allies. The patients also started a self-help group to combat the government’s decisions to forcibly evict the patients and tear down their houses.

I wanted to learn more. Young people may not be familiar with social media pre-Facebook, but there used to be Word-style BBS forums which were mostly used by students. There was a lot of stories on there about young people who had shared information about the some of the patients at the sanatorium. Back then, Uncle Wen (present in the film), was a student at a top Univeristy and had a bright future ahead of him. When he was diagnosed with leprosy, he was forced into lifelong quarantine at the sanatorium. I distinctively remember reading about him writing love letters to his first love. He talks about how much she means to him. It was so poetic… it felt so lonely – and it just conveyed how much his life had changed because of the policy in place. I was truly moved. Those stories changed my perspective entirely on the lives of these patients.

Late 2005, I started visiting the village, and it was still an incredibly beautiful place because the Metro had not started construction yet, so the place was still preserved. All the buildings were so quaint – either red brick houses or Japanese style buildings. At the time, students were helping and interacting with the patients, and became really quite close. You can imagine the patients at the time were all 70 to 80 years old, and young student like myself were in their early 20s. It was amazing! A relationship that did not consider age, social status or health. We were unified in the fight to preserve this piece of history and the beautiful land around us.

This was an awakening as a uni student, understanding my responsibilities as a member of society. Why not be the loudspeaker for a muted voice? Maybe fighting for something you believe in is how democracy works. This was my first encounter with Losheng Sanatorium.

Senthoran: It was truly moving to see the students fight hand-in -hand with the patients. It is remarkable that the students respect the Confucius traditions of taking responsibility for the elderly, whilst the government is the one neglecting its filial duties. There is a unique scenario here. Vocal anti-government acts tend to stem from either a firmly idealistic view, or from a perspective that does not align with or support established systems. But this fight is a responsibility for something universal and the stance is universal. Under this specific context, it is anti-government. This broadens the appeal of the sentiment to audiences regardless of background.

For audiences, it is incredibly important to understand that Taiwan only became a democratic state recently – in the early 90s – so any display of protest that isn’t suppressed directly is new to the people. The struggles in Losheng is at the foreground for a nation figuring out democracy.

What led you to commit to the use of film as the medium of choice? Further, do you see Island of the Winds as film-as -protest, or film-as-archive.

Ya-Ting: At very first, my intention was to complete a graduate project. Once I started to film, it became so much more to me. My first short project was entitled Life with Happiness which featured two patients. One was Uncle Wen, who is featured singing at the beginning of Island of the Winds, and the other was Aunt Ying, who was forcibly evicted in the middle of the film.

This relationship started twenty years ago, and we build a beautiful and transparent friendship. At that time I was only 20 years old, and there was so much I had yet to learn. It was overwhelming to process. This movement is so complicated. It’s not just fighting for human rights. It’s fighting for legitimising medical history. The arguments for or against range from economic to ideas of historical preservation. So many debates that are had using this issue as a battleground.

At the time, I was not filming with a critical lens or to make a commentary, instead I wanted to document the lives of the patients. A part of me was trying to film their day-to-day and to show the value of their life. They want to be here. Even when their home is in danger, despite being financially poor, even when physically ill — they fight. They fight every single day, and it’s so difficult. Everyday you have to head out on the street and yell out, you have to plan. It’s exhausting and not simple at all. It’s stressful for those of us that are young and healthy!

I remember filming Uncle Wen cooking and drying laundry – doing his chores. Even though it’s difficult with the handicap, he tries to maintain a routine and live his life. It’s important for him as he preserves the sanctity of the only place he can live as a human being. The woman, Aunt Ying, does not look like a ‘typical’ leprosy patient. Her hands and legs don’t have any deformities, and she can manoeuvre normally. However, due to life-long quarantine, she did not have a chance to have a formal education or learn a trade. When she was moved to the Sanatorium, she spent her years taking care of the older patients. So removed from the rest of society, that house was her refuge. Why, and how would she move into a confined hospital condo?

I was documenting these two patients and developing an understanding of their resistance. I did not know I would get to known them this well, and here I am twenty years later. I didn’t that the process of making this film would take that long. It took that long to figure out what democracy was and casting my vote. When I was younger, I thought democracy was just a larger version of a classroom vote, deciding who was prefect, now I know it’s much more than that. It’s raising your voice. I was understanding democracy as it relates to Taiwan. And Taiwan as it relates to me.

As for film-as-protest, protest is a performance. It’s to be seen. But for those who are affected, it’s important to keep in mind that it is a reality. It’s not strictly a protest film. It is trying to understand the lives of the patients, and to do so you must know the political context. Once you follow the issues and conflict chronologically, you can empathise with their hardship and think about how government policy impacts this.

Senthoran: In the twenty years of observing the folks at Losheng, what has been the lessons you’ve taken from both the mundane everyday to the constant struggle?

Ya-Ting: They’ve been through so much. Uncle Wen was rejected by his parents. So many patients had forced abortions due to the quarantine. The disease itself induces pain. They suffer breaks in the nervous system. All the joints hurt. Imagine a toothache and then multiply the pain, and across the body.

They still survive. They learn to let go. How to love, how to be loved, how to sacrifice and know what not to sacrifice. So much learning that they’ve had early in life. Even though they are regarded as disadvantaged persons, they know their sovereignty.

When I see them being blatantly ignored by the government, I feel angry. But I never feel like the situation warrants giving up because they never gave up. I have to stay strong to document them. I want to be as strong as them.

Senthoran: When I think of Uncle Wen – a truly wonderful soul – my first thought is music. Music as resistance. Can you please explain why music is so important for the patients?

Ya-Ting: There are several things that can comfort a person. Of course, one is religion. The other is literature. For the patients, when they arrived at Losheng, they were either brought in as children or teenagers and most either didn’t have a background in reading or simply couldn’t. The most important and accessible form of expression is music.

I can say with confidence that every patient is a good singer. They write songs to illustrate their emotions and present an abstracted version of themselves. In the film you can hear a lot of singing. Ever since the Self Help Group was formed in the early days, the patients started writing songs specifically to convey their situation. For example, there’s an auntie that writes a song about how beautiful the sunrise is every morning in her hometown. Singing that this is why she does not want to leave. An uncle wrote that he came to Losheng all alone with no family, and that in the Sanatorim he found his people. The music universalises the yearning for the fundamental needs of people.

There’s another layer to, this in the sense that twenty years later, the former students wanted to preserve the music and messaging. There is a lot of layers to the use of music, therefore. And the intent changes across time to reflect the situation at Losheng. I believe music is close to the human soul, so it is both important to the patients and to the viewer.

Senthoran: And if I’m not mistaken, the folks at Losheng have a studio album on the way very exciting!

I spotted the flag of the United Nations at the Self Help Club meeting room. What role did the UN have in this fight with the government? Was it interventionist in nature or did the patients appeal to the UN?

Ya-Ting: Twenty years ago, at the height of the student participation at Losheng, many students did raise the issue to the UN. It’s a very interesting situation because Taiwan is not recognised by the UN. So by default, nearly all appeals from Taiwanese citizens cannot be raised to the UN.

But because of the history of the patients is so unique across time, they were able to get this raised to a stage, raise awareness, and even involve press. At the time, the attention was huge nationwide. For the patients this was a huge shift. In 2004, they were unnoticed, fighting a one-sided battle. In 2005, they were being heard from the UN. This instilled such a strong belief even though this was not officially recognised on paper.

This was a monumental event in Taiwan’s recent history. For the patients, in one year, such a stark shift in perception. They were seen as frail and unable to be independent, and now they are human rights advocates that have fought for a hearing at a global stage.

The patients struggle is, in some sense, a microcosm of democratic protest in Taiwan. As you mentioned, Taiwan only shifted to being a democracy in the early 90s. To put into perspective, the movement at Losheng was only 10 years after this. This is why at the time, the nation was invested in the developments at the Sanatorium. The students wanted to support grass-root issues and people wanted to see how a local protest would develop.

Fast forward 10 years on from then to the 2010s, the focus of the Taiwanese mainstream shifted to, ‘What’s going on in mainland China?’, ‘How would we defend against an invasion?’. I could see society shift their focus from the local to the trans-national, and debates went from the immediate real to the hypothetical imminent.

So the reason the movement was so strong in 2005 was not just because of the will of the patients, it was because it set a stage for the Taiwanese people at-large to figure out their political identity through the events at Losheng. ‘What would I do if the government evicted me?’, ‘What does eviction look like?’, ‘Can forced eviction ever be justified in a democratic nation?’. These were the questions that people were asking themselves at the time.

Fast forward to today, in a constantly changing global equilibrium, the concerns of the regular person in Taiwan has shifted scale significantly. The average person would question the value in a local issue over the scale of a global one. ‘Our nation is at threat, who cares about this small community?’, ‘Do we have the privilege to entertain minority communities when there’s a potential war?’. These are the sentiments around me. Whenever you bring up Losheng sanatorium, people will shrug it off as an ‘old issue’. There’s a collective sense of hurry to move on to another conflict. I guess in a way, it reflects Taiwan’s progress, but it is deeply sad too.

Senthoran: It’s incredible that the patient’s sovereignty and pursuit for self governance was recognised earlier than the state of Taiwan. Such a complex dynamic that runs through the events at Losheng.

I wanted to make a comment about the government — the ‘other side’ in the film. There’s a feeling that Losheng is a proverbial castle and the state officials attempt a siege. Every chapter, there is a new attempt at infiltration, whether it’s the construction of the bridge, and then the rail, and then the police interventions. The film conveys this feeling that the government can simply outlast a stuggle by waiting for protest to age and wither.

Can you please share your choices when it came to co-production and your decision to work with collaborators from France and Japan? Was this a way to recontextualise the events, both domestically and overseas?

Ya-Ting: It’s interesting, 5 years ago, I tried to get funding in Taiwan and had such a difficult time. It’s not that the topic was not important, but because it was covered extensively twenty years ago. During pitching, I would always be asked, ‘What separates your coverage?’, and I would say that it was the relationships I had developed with the residents at Losheng.

I started realising, that most people I had met were ‘fatigued’ with this issue. It was very difficult to convince people to hear my voice because this topic had been covered by not just many people, but esteemed professors and intellectuals who had made up their mind on what happened and what is right. Maybe they are right, but maybe they’ve overlooked the depth of the reality at Losheng.

So I knew it would be hard to get the people to revisit the events with a fresh perspective. If I had engaged in an all Taiwanese crew, the Taiwanese people would have waived the film as ‘another Losheng documentary’ and see it as a made-for-television recollection.

To be clear, I didn’t feel the need to explain my perspective. In fact, I was learning and forming my opinion as I was going through the footage. So part of the reasoning to bring in an objective third-party was to help me with the editing. I consulted with Hata-san, a renown Japanese editor. He has a body of work focusing on long-term social movements. I knew he could handle a subject with a lot of moving parts, and he is very patient as a person. I respect his work a lot.

Concurrently, before I had met Hata-san, one of the option I was considering was to alter the perception of the work by engaging with foreign markets and tell the story from an outside perspective to heighten the matter’s perceived importance in Taiwan. This would be a way to tell people there’s something new here and really spotlight media attention.

This started a 4-5 years co-production journey. At first, I worked with Hata-san. Because I couldn’t speak Japanese and he can’t speak Mandarin, our common language was English. And, when I stared processing and communication my thoughts in English, it became clearer. The events at Losheng have shaped me, and the relationships so personal to me. Using English made me step back and look at things more objectively. English, compared to Japanese and Mandarin is incredibly straightforward.

So, through the process of editing, and working with Hata-san, I was able to sort out my thoughts internally. Between the two of us, we discerned the reality of the footage, and came to a mutual understanding of the events. However, we were conscious of the possibility that we would convey our own judgements and interpretation as opposed to focusing on the patients’ perspective. Through the editing, we aimed to present patients’ experience as authentically as possible.

Senthoran: You explain the sensibilities of Hata-san and preference towards a comprehensive retrospective as opposed to a dramatised heroic narrative. Can you explain the difference between the ‘Japanese cut’ and the ‘European cut’?

Ya-Ting: So, we had a European advisor who had a background in Hollywood filmmaking. Culturally, I believe there are different aesthetic and moral storytelling between the Europeans and the Chinese. For example, the Chinese ‘hero’ has a different character to the western ‘hero’.

When we showed the cut to the consultant, they were worried that the ‘life’ element of the documentary weighed down the urgency of the narrative of struggle. So, they were concerned about the pacing of the documentary. Also, they primarily considered this as a powerful ‘protest film’ – but for me, it was not only protest. For me, it is crucial to understand the full context of the events, as to carry why the subject matter has meaning and political potency in Taiwan.

So, at the time, they (European consultants) were trying to convince me to cut the film shorter to make it more digestible to the non-Taiwanese audience to process. Honestly, I was hesitating for 3 months, because I was unsure whether or not I should change the cut I had. I decided I will edit a version that was in line with the recommended modifications – which there were 15 or so cuts suggested. After I had finished cutting, I played it back, and was taken aback that I had made a ‘Netflix-style’ documentary with fast edits and continual tension throughout.

What I found was that by focusing solely on the protests – instead of the protests being shown in the context of the patients’ experience – the suffering becomes a throwaway reference to highlight the protest footage. And this does not align with my initial motivation of making this documentary. I wanted to foster an understanding of the patients’ suffering and why we were fighting for twenty years.

I reviewed the cut again with Hata-san, and we decided that the previous cut was the right way to go. I remember, at the time, my editing assistant asked me whether we should try one more time to see if there’s anything we could alter to shorten the run-time. But, I decided that I would not compromise by removing what I felt was vital. Even though, perhaps the final result shows that the film will not be able to travel far into the international markets. And even if it is not appreciated by the western audience, I stand by my final choice of showing the work of twenty years on behalf of all those who worked and are working to carry the legacy of the story.

In fact, recently my editing assistant reminded me that I had spent twenty minutes crying in a bathroom, and then came out apologising that I was not willing to alter the film in any other way. ‘Island of the Winds’ will have to take on a life of it’s own from now on.

So, in the end, it wasn’t that we thought ‘Asian cinema is more thoughtful and patient’, it was simply that I gave up and found that this was the limit of what I was willing to edit. Even though I created what I had set to make, there is always a strong voice questioning me – ‘is that all you can do?’

Senthoran: Speaking on behalf of the audience at the festival, we are glad you committed to your vision because it was a truly moving portrait, that I am sure will resonate with anyone who has the opportunity to watch ‘Island of the Winds’.

I found the timing of the release of the documentary interesting, given that it coincides with a global pandemic, and these patients have been in a literal lifelong quarantine. Do you think this helps with personalise the situation and make the film resonate on a deeper level with audiences?

Ya-Ting: Thank you so much for bringing this up! The pandemic plays an instrumental role towards the eviction of the patients. Because of the restrictions imposed, as a result of Covid-19, young people and activists could not support the patients or stage demonstrations. Disadvantaged communities were disproportionately impacted by this. The government could impose their plans, not just in Losheng Sanatorium, by the Taiwanese state, but this happened all over the world to minority communities.

There are two forces at play, one is the political control imposed by restrictions, the other was that the patients had a repressed fear of vaccinations. For example, one patient refused to take vaccinations, as when he was first taken to the Sanatorium in the 1950s, he was given multiple vaccinations that essentially failed due to overdosage. The adverse side-effects gave the patients’ immense pain and trauma.

So, in order to demonstrate, you had to be vaccinated. But the fear of being mistreated by the authorities again was overwhelming for many of the patients. At the time, I remember being vaccinated for the purpose of entering Losheng, and when I met with the patients, I tried my level best to convince them why getting vaccinated was important for both their health and ability to make public appearances without being antagonised by society. But how can I ask them to trust the same institutions that have betrayed them time and time again?

Covid-19 also meant the students were more wary of entering Losheng in fear of spreading the disease to the elderly, and simultaneously, the virus led to a number of the patients being hospitalised. It thinned out the united front.

This is why online meetings became such an important organisational tool towards the end. It was a show of resilience that the elderly still had that internal flame to share their message and learn the ropes of a new form of communication. You have to consider, there was no internet at the Sanatorium so it was a surprise to others that we had organised this. In reality, this consisted of me bringing in a laptop and setting up a Zoom meeting and setting up a system so that they can contact government agencies to ask questions.

Not every community had help. Outside Losheng, it was worse for those who had no internet or access to information at all. The pandemic was a huge factor, who knows what the situation would be had it not happened.

Senthoran: So many changes over twenty years.In this time period, how did your filmmaking and attitude towards the craft change?

Ya-Ting: Technology advances played a major role in how I shot and selection of resolutions. Between when I started, and 9 years later when I had returned to Losheng, the change from camcorders to large bulky cameras was difficult at first. Also, with the new cameras, I had more options with 4K being possible now.

I used a smaller camera to imitate the hand-held style of my earlier footage to make sure that I had a consistent style and framing. Losheng stayed the exact same, so that was a big help!

I changed too. My eyesight had gone worse, so things became out-of-focus due to that. The patients had changed – they moved around lot slower than they had used to. Through time, I recognised that I wouldn’t have company filming through to the end, whatever that was. I had to keep going myself.

In the film, the elders look into the camera as though they were looking directly at me, because I positioned myself right behind the frame. This gives the viewer the feeling that they are being directly spoken to. Towards the end of the film, as less and less students were allowed to enter the village, there was not as many hands to help. This meant my role changed from being just a documentary filmmaker to include chores and practical help. They have known me since the beginning so trust that I carry myself with the truest of intention. When construction workers or police officers hassle the elders, or there is a government meeting excluding the residents, I became somewhat important in the context of their story as I support them in these situations. For example, when Aunt Ying was evicted from her home, the construction workers called the police on me. So, I had to start talking to Uncle Wen about matters that were more personal to the residents. At that point, I can’t simply just observe, I have to do what I can to protect their rights.

Senthoran: Wow, at a first viewing, I had assumed this was a narrative device to show that you had become closer to the residents over the two decade. It was, in fact, circumstance that had you as the documentarian involved in a hands-on capacity.

I wanted to say, during the festival I found myself discussing Taiwanese Cinema with a fellow festival-goer. When asked for recommendations, I shared three. Hou Hsaio-Hsen‘s ‘A time to Live, and A time to Die’, your own ‘Island of the Winds‘ and Edward Yang‘s ‘Yi Yi’. I positioned your film right in the middle, because I felt that Losheng Sanatorium felt frozen in time, and for the viewer there is that unmistakable quality that is present in the typical settings of early Hou Hsiao-Hsen films. In many ways, the events and protests that you show are synchronised with Taiwan’s journey into modernity, though the setting itself feels anachronistic. Could you share any comments on this aesthetic similarity?

Ya-Ting: A lot of the settings for Hou Hsaio-Hsen films have been demolished, or no longer exist. Actually, in 2005, when the student’s were petitioning to preserve Losheng village, Hou Hsaio-Hsen came to the village to shoot a film with Losheng village as a setting. When I look back, it really is a beautiful coincidence.

Hou Hsaio-Hsen came back to the village a few times for location scouting for a feature film. In 2006, he came back again. I was a student back then, and I showed him around Losheng. He was very interested in making a film there. Later on, the plan changed as he started to travel abroad more often.

He donated what would be equivalent of £20,000 to the Self-Help Group. This donation helped sustain the organisation for a long time and we always talked out it as an important contribution to the movement. I personally love Hou Hsaio-Hsen not just because I love his movies, but because he genuinely cares for cultural preservation and has true affection for the resident community. I remember the way he talked to Aunt Lan, and she even cooked for Hou Hsaio-Hsen!

Hou Hsaio-Hsen, Lin Kuo-min, all these legendary artists came and sat and talked with us to help protect Losheng. It showed that we care about our home and political events in every part of Taiwan. When we shoot a film, we show our love to our country, our love for our memories. It is impossible to detach filmmaking from political events.

When I saw Hou Hsaio-Hsen, I was overjoyed. Everyone was nudging me, saying that I was the film student and that I should be the one to show him around. I was so nervous! I was so enthusiastic, I told him everything I could. I took him up to the mountains, and explained the history of this area during World War 2.

Senthoran: That is so incredible, you should definitely include this in any future introductions!

Back to the ‘three film recommendation’, in the final shot off ‘Island of the Winds’, it almost resembles a spiritual transition from what Taiwan used to be, and what it is in the modern day. What has changed, and what has not. You can see the everything in one frame: resilience, futility and hope. You can see the fork road that was mentioned at the very beginning of the film and the train stations that has been a threat throughout. What was your thinking when concluding the film on this note?

Ya-Ting: When I got feedback from test screenings, the audience were not sure of where the film was set geographically. I knew then, that I had to show that Losheng was a large area, and I had to show how much of a reality that the events that occurred there are. So, I knew I wanted that final shot and at a time closest to the end of the film. I believe it was in 2024, and I had already sent the rest of the film for colour grading.

I had heard news that the MRT (the train network), was up-and-running, and I felt that this was a marker of change over time. I was concerned that the final image was too bright, but I was happy with it because the film is not just a set of tragic events – it opens up a wide range of discussion for the audience.

Senthoran: That view alone, could have so many interpretations, and is a wonderful note to end such a sprawling work.

This has been an undertaking that has taken twenty years of your life. The next stage is sharing this film as far as possible. What can we expect from you and ‘Island and the Winds’?

Ya-Ting: Over the twenty years I did some editing work and narrative short films, but nothing is more important to me than ‘Island of the Winds’.

Right now we are distributing the film in Taiwan. Next year, we will be releasing the film in Japan. It will be difficult to get theatrical releases for a documentary in other countries, but the focus is getting as many people in Taiwan to see the film as possible.

I am interested in exploring the intersection of illness and trauma in a future work. But there is still so much left to do for ‘Island of the Winds’.

Hsu Ya-Ting’s poignant documentary follows the lives of residents at Taiwan’s Lesheng Sanatorium, where leprosy patients have been confined since the 1930s.

Image credits: Film stills from Island of the Winds (大風之島), sourced from Golden Horse Film Festival, WaBay, The Reporter Taiwan, GoTeamJosh, and the official Island of the Winds website. Images are used for editorial purposes only. Copyright remains with the respective rights holders.