The forgotten genocide of the Urak Lawoi people echoes today's racial conflicts. Through deep-sea metaphors of trapped, dying creatures, this unrecorded tale from Thailand's margins connects ancient atrocities with contemporary ethnic cleansing, particularly the Israel-Palestine conflict. Marginalized voices carry memories of lost peoples, revealing humanity's tragic pattern: beauty and diversity replaced by systematic cruelty. Ancient genocidal echoes resonate with present brutality through haunting aquatic allegory.

Behind Open Doors is an autobiographical documentary that demystifies psychotherapy through the deeply personal lens of Nikola Kuprešanin, a Croatian filmmaker. Years after completing therapy, Nikola reunites with his former therapist Milena, to dissect their once-confidential relationship. Their candid conversations — filmed in Belgrade’s parks and cafés — reveal the turbulence of Nikola’s journey: crippling anxiety, resistance to treatment, and fears that therapy would ""steal"" his creativity (inspired by David Bowie’s scepticism). Parallelly, the film explores Nikola’s marriage to Ana, a psychotherapist whose profession amplifies their domestic challenges.

Braving The Breeze is a documentary that takes place across Malaysia and Taiwan, using real-life footage, reenactments, and poetic skills to follow people trying to find a way out of emotional storms. Xiao Wen left Malaysia to study in Taiwan, hoping to start fresh—but inskills a strange city, she found herself caught in a quiet battle with her emotions. Hua Hua, from Taipei, had her own sudden collapse, but slowly began to rebuild her life at her own pace. The two meet and walk together—through painting, music, daily walks, and quiet moments, they start learning how to live with what they feel instead of fighting it.

In the dim flicker of the night lights, we step into the immigrant workers’ world. A vulnerable space in between belonging, shown through a brief time gap of closing time of the street shops. Forgetting that they are still exposed, trapped in the neon night frames, touchingly unprotected from the outside gaze. The most honest moment of the day, with all the hours of hard physical work visible, while workers perform the closing operations. Reality starts to glitch, sides of the window switch and the inequality of immigrant workers comes to light.

Two Cambodian female contemporary dancers venture by boat along the Mekong river hoping to find inspiration for a new dance piece. Their journey was struck by an accident midway. They wake up and find themselves in a forest village, where people speak different language. They bond with the people and continue to find inspiration for their piece. The exploration leads them to get lost in a strangely nightmarish place, where they encounter people living in decaying wooden houses. The dancers start to feel like they were dead from the accident and now their souls wander the other space and time. They continue to wander the area to find a way out and a proof whether they were dead or still alive.

Olimbi Hoxhaj – Mother Courage is a documentary that follows the journey of Olimbi Hoxhaj, an Albanian mother who turned personal tragedy into a fight against stigma, discrimination, and systemic barriers. After the death of her husband in 2003, Olimbi discovers that she and three of her four children are HIV-positive in a country where treatment was unavailable. Confronting widespread prejudice and institutional neglect, she embarks on a determined struggle for survival, ultimately changing history by securing HIV treatment in Albania, establishing an organization to support HIV/AIDS patients, and advocating for protective anti-discrimination laws.

How do you make sense of the world when memory cannot be trusted? Our Imagined Islands is a poignant exploration of memory, identity, and the elusive search for belonging, told through my deeply personal journey of retracing my roots, abruptly lost with the disintegration of the former Yugoslavia. This self-reflexive documentary intertwines memory, loss, and the passage of time as seen through the lenses of two cameras—my grandfather’s photo camera and my film camera—offering a poetic narrative that questions the reliability of memory and the identities we imagine for ourselves. The journey begins with the discovery of my late grandfather’s photographic collection, years after his death.

In the middle of Dalmatia proudly stands the city of Split, one of the main European destinations for young partygoers. During the tourist season, the film follows Blanša (43) and her nephew Doni (10) who live in the old city center and whose life is limited because of the tourists. Blanša wants to stay in her home and fight, her only weapon is her mobile phone. From her window she starts to record vulgarity and night chaos that tourists produce hoping to be heard. The real question that arises is will the modern tourism swallow their way of life or will Blanša succeed in her fight?

The Shade of a Feather is a metafiction exploring a mother-daughter relationship across time. In 1997, Sun, a young Chinese woman in New York, gets lost in an industrial area of Brooklyn, where she meets Laia, a Chinese film student from 2024. As they search for Sun’s factory—abandoned for years—they bond and visit the beach. The film then reveals that Laia is a character based on Amie, the daughter of Zhan, a Chinese woman in her 60s, and that their encounter is a fictional story inspired by Zhan’s memories of 1990s Singapore.

Over the years, my mother has started to resemble her own mother more and more. That quiet realisation, paired with the fear of emotional distance and loss, became the driving force behind this film—a personal journey to understand what is passed between generations of women. The narrative is framed through letters to my late grandmother, which form the emotional and structural core of the film. Their tone is tender but searching, revealing a desire to reconnect with something irreversibly lost. These voice-overs are interwoven with intimate conversations between my mother and me, as well as slow, quiet images of the places we once called home.

On a quiet dusk, my mother—Lei Xia—sits alone in our home, praying to her God. Her back is straight, her voice steady. But her accent still betrays where she came from. I hear her prayers: that her children might return to church, that her family in China might one day worship legally—every day, every night. Suddenly, thunder cracks. Rain begins to fall. The sound takes me back to the 1990s, in Guangdong, China. My mother worked in a factory. I lived beside her. I remember waiting for her at the gate with an umbrella. That memory feels blurred and soaked, like an old photo left out in the storm. One day, I found her old Chinese ID card on the desk, half-covered by our faded passports. It reminded me of the lie I keep telling

Maung Saungkha, a poet and a human rights activist in Myanmar, was once a firm believer in peaceful protests. After he and his fellow artists faced deadly attacks by the military for demonstrating, he decided to take up arms.  Now the commander of one of the most influential people’s armies in Myanmar, he promotes women’s and LGBT rights, and hosts poetry readings in his camp, but he must also prepare soldiers for the realities of the frontline. “When a Poet Goes to War” tells the forgotten story of Myanmar, how young people have transformed from non-violent protesters to hardened soldiers, and how they wrestle with that impossible transition.