GIVE ME A GROUP OF ISLANDS! REVISITING THE 12 FLOATING ISLANDS SHORTS, 24 YEARS LATER

Rewatching Floating Islands in 2024, I think, is simply a ‘tioh-si’ thing to do.

In the Taiwanese Hokkien language, ‘tioh-si’ is often used to describe fruits that are in season and at just the perfect ripeness to enjoy. As a pioneering visual experiment in 2000, Floating Islands is just as forward-thinking today, and an additional complexity rises into sharp relief as the film finds itself reflecting the islands of Taiwan as we see them now.

 

The documentary’s programme synopsis read:

‘In the summer of 1999, Firefly Image Company invited 12 directors to head out to 12 of Taiwan’s outlying islands, to collaborate on the largest experimental documentary project Taiwan had ever seen—Floating Islands’.

 

We ended up largely following the government’s administrative divisions in ‘selecting’ the 12 islands for our project. These were: West Islet (Penghu County); Little Liuqiu (Pingtung County); the Pratas Islands (Kaohsiung County); the three northernmost islets of Pengjia, Mianhua, and Huaping (Keelung City); Diaoyutai Islands (Yilan County); Orchid Island (Taitung County), Green Island (Taitung County); Matsu Islands (Lianjiang County); Quemoy Island (Quemoy County), Keelung Islet (Keelung City); Guishan (Turtle) Island (Yilan County); and Wuqiu Island (Quemoy County).

If we connect these islands with a line on the map, they perfectly encircle the main island of Taiwan to form a marvellous metropolis rising from the sea.

 

However, this concept of ‘encirclement’ might just as well be a product of 2024, instead of the zeitgeist of 2000. After all, the group email sent out at the launch of the project shouted:

Give me an island!

What characterises life on an island?

What characterises our own lives?

Last time we met with Shen at Underground Society [side note], we talked about how life finds its way

When we head to the extremities of Taiwan

And stand at the point where land meets the sea

Deserted at the absolute end of the road… The absolute way of life can only exist at such extremities

 

The email later formed part of the same-titled book, Floating Islands, accompanying the documentary as a memorable side note to the visual component of the project. Even today, our explorations of the island concept remain as current as they did back then. [note 1]

 

If we return for a moment to Taiwan of 2000, we gain a closer perspective on how the visual artists in this project, always keen on their craft, resonated with the island atmosphere of the time, as they ‘headed to the extremities of Taiwan / And stand at the point where land meets the sea / Deserted at the absolute end of the road… The absolute way of life can only exist at such extremities’.

Generally speaking, a new view of Taiwan as a shared community of various groups of islands began to arise from the vast horizon of the sea in the 1990s. In terms of the politics of the era, martial law ended in Taiwan and Penghu in 1987, and wartime restrictions on the frontline islands of Quemoy and Matsu were lifted in 1992. The spectre of total war and militarisation, which had long haunted these islands, finally loosened its grip, enabling their residents to explore what was possible in their newfound freedom.

Coming hand in hand with freedom was the concept of local identity and Taiwanese localisation. Beginning in 1949, the 38-year period of martial law not only restrained movements and thoughts but also fostered a misconception of how we viewed the locations and boundaries of these islands: We are under martial law because we are preparing for war because we are going to ‘reclaim the mainland’.

And so, throughout the period of martial law, the islands home to so many people served merely as a ‘military base’ for an upcoming ‘counterattack’, rather than ‘national territory’ in and of itself. Under this mentality, who cares what this piece of land looks like? Why would anyone living there bother to actually explore, touch, and gaze at the extremities of this parcel of land that’s simply a temporary base, when the true ‘extremities’ of the nation lie in places like Mongolia and the Tibetan plateau?

Yet as the promised ‘counterattack’ never came, the sense of locations and boundaries began to change; even the legitimacy of the country itself began to falter, swaying precipitously with the waves. Taiwan of the 1990s saw its people haltingly set foot in search of new answers, and the journey happened to begin at one of its outlying islands, with the Quemoy Agreement of 1990.

Prior to 1990, both governments on opposite sides of the Taiwan Strait claimed each other’s territory, and vowed to use military force to enforce these territorial claims. (Of course, the People’s Republic of China still retains these claims to this day, as well as the possibility of unification through military force. Meanwhile, even though the government of Taiwan still nominally adheres to the concept of unification under the banner of the Republic of China, virtually no politician nowadays mentions the all-pervasive refrain during martial law, ‘China united under the Three Principles of the People’.)

This led to an interesting situation given the circumstances of the time: the two regimes—the Republic of China on one side, the People’s Republic of China on the other—used to rely on mediation through Interpol or other third parties, to deal with deportation issues on a case-by-case basis. The uncertain border and a war that never ended between these two regimes created a void that allowed crime to seep through. Yet 1990 was when the first tentative step toward cross-strait relations began, and the two sides met in Quemoy, the site of many a bloody battle decades ago, and signed the first agreement in half a century that allowed direct cooperation between civilian organisations on both sides of the Taiwan Strait, with the tacit authorisation of both governments. After the agreement was signed, the two governments would deport each other’s fugitive criminals through their respective Red Cross societies.

This, however, did not mean that the bells of peace resounded across the land. Prior to Taiwan’s first-ever direct election for president in 1996, the PRC test-fired missiles into the seas surrounding Taiwan, and the ensuing Taiwan Strait Crisis left a mark on Taiwan’s consciousness as the closest its people came to war in the 1990s. Quemoy and Matsu, both island groups on the very frontline, returned to a state of high alert, and anxiety in their civilian and military populations reached levels far beyond that in Taiwan proper. In an ongoing game of dialogue—aggression—dialogue—no dialogue, the outlying islands always felt the heat rising far past what was felt in the ‘mainland’ of Taiwan.

Regardless, the ROC’s push toward localisation on the islands of Taiwan continued unabated. The residents of these islands, under the moniker of ‘the free area of the Republic of China’, chose to give another presidential term to the KMT’s Lee Teng-hui. An even more drastic change came in 2000, when what many thought was impossible happened: the opposition DPP won the presidential election with its candidates, Chen Shui-bian and Annette Lu.

These changes further solidified the boundaries that create the identity common to the residents of ‘Taiwan–Penghu–Quemoy–Matsu’. A new Taiwanese sense of community was irreversibly taking shape, and a new national border was irrevocably arising. The institution of the so-called ‘Republic of China’ now had to face the fact that it had long lost mainland China and that reclaiming the mainland was but a pipe dream.

As documented in the photo book accompanying Floating Islands, the zeitgeist was reflected in the name of the project’s earlier incarnation, ‘Developing the outlying islands’ images’. Taken as a whole, the events related to the outlying islands documented in Floating Islands (such as the Diaoyutai defence movement, the storage of nuclear waste, and the military withdrawing from frontline islands) illustrate the formation of this new boundary, with the project itself serving as a valuable cross-section of history.　

 

However, viewers who come to this project in search of a clear-cut national identity they can align with will most likely be disappointed. Indeed, we see in these 12 documentaries the intent to seek out or probe into boundaries, but at the end of the day, the project stays true to the stories it tells: how these islands are shaped, what their people are like, or even the directors’ own questions and self-explorations. In addition to being much more approachable and honest than waiving a great nationalistic banner, this method of storytelling falls in line with how Taiwan itself has sought to create its own identity: a slow, perplexing journey where one often seems in search of a direction, yet ensuring the dignity of every one of its people through tenderness and humour, as old institutions transition into new.

For example, the segment <The Pratas Islands>...Tong-Sha, an Isle Like a Crab begins with a black-and-white mock recreation of a military education clip, so real that it could actually fool someone into believing that it was produced by the military—until the glimmer of a smile appears, or the narrator or camera begin to show signs of sarcasm. As the fake military propaganda ends, the camera turns onto the island as colours appear, and we now see the island as it actually is. Bookended by a drawing in the sand of a map of the Pratas Islands, this segment left the strongest impression on me out of the entire series.

In Silent Delta, the definition of the ‘three northernmost islets’ that pops up on the bottom right corner of the screen is another nod to the aesthetics seen in the descriptive signs in natural history museums. The onscreen text first describes the characteristics, uses, and growth periods of each plant in a no-nonsense way, but then goes on to define ‘Soldier’ (Name of a job/Common name for all types of soldiers/Responsible for national defence), ‘Bamboo Hat’, ‘Meteorological Observer’, and even ‘Photo’, the comedy being that a documentary—shot on film—is now describing what a photograph—also shot on film—is. This deconstructive interplay sort of echoes what Han Shaogong did in his novel A Dictionary of Maqiao [note 2], or, as described in One Hundred Years of Solitude, ‘The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and to mention them you had to point your finger at them’. This helps to bring to life the three northernmost islets, remote places that many people even today are unfamiliar with.

Indeed, for many people the appeal of the documentary format is that it preserves the existence of those who have once graced this world, bringing their stories back to life. Instead of the tumult of cross-strait politics, or grand narratives of the quest for a Taiwanese identity, Floating Islands manages to touch hearts simply by overcoming obstacle after obstacle to capture these images of the islands and their people.

In Libangbang: Ching-Wen's Not Home, Ching-wen’s father slowly crouches with a fishing net in hand, and casts the net into the water: this simple act of steadiness and serenity tells the story of an older generation in Orchid Island, and the relationship forged with the surrounding sea with the grit of their legs. The younger generation still excels at fishing, but their bodies have taken up another form. Here, the camera has preserved how an older generation of fishermen walked, cast their nets, and smoked bamboo pipes made by younger folk, an invaluable series of images for the future people of Orchid Island, Taiwan, and indeed the entire world.

Turtle Island: Nostalgic Voices illustrates the island’s former residents’ longing for their old home, which has now become a playground for tourists. In Shadow Dancing at Ma Tsu, the island’s youngsters jump freely on the beach, as military restrictions have become a thing of the past, yet at the same time they voice their concern for the local economy once military institutions leave the island. In Who Is Fishing®?, the Diaoyutai Islands appear tauntingly out of the waters, but attempts at landing are thwarted by the Japanese coast guard. These segments each have their poignant moments that lend particular meaning when viewed today, with the additional backdrop of 24 intervening years.

Particularly noteworthy is The Floating Ball, shot on Little Liuqiu. Most of the segment documents Chinese fishermen in their ‘floating hotels’ (i.e., the boats that served as their lodgings). These were the first such migrant workers who came to Taiwan legally from mainland China, and as we see their down-to-earth gazes, and slender-yet-powerful bodies toiling away, the later Chinese documentary We Were SMART inevitably comes to mind [note 3]. In both documentaries, the subjects featured were migrant workers from China. With all the upheavals and turmoil China has seen in recent years, one cannot help but wonder if this ‘SMART’ generation of former migrant workers is still alive and well.　

With heightened tensions since 2020 brought in part by the pandemic, in part by a renewed Cold War between the US-led West on one side, and China and its allies on the other, Taiwan has seen its originally ambiguous status in the global arena change dramatically, and its people have also experienced a seismic shift in self-identity and their conception of borders and boundaries.

 

At this crucial moment in time, it seems especially valuable for us to review how directors in 2000 sought to explore their world from their island vantage point. In particular, the untamed atmosphere, recurrent diversions into self-reflection, and unwearying narration serve to manifest the declaration in another group email at the launch of the project:

We aim to make a series of documentaries about islands

12 islands with 12 authors, each cast away onto an unfamiliar island

Each conversing with the earth, and listening to the dialogue between sea and land

To produce a 15 to 20 minute documentary one year later

No objective journalistic reporting is allowed, and in a departure from mainstream aesthetics

We want you to think, feel, participate, engage, and fight for life with the island and the ocean, with all that is unpretentious in life…

12 unique, abstract, personal, and unflinchingly real documentary shorts

 

My gratitude goes to the Floating Islands team for their unpretentious, heartfelt efforts to live life with the islands. They are momentous, shining beacons that guide us through the dark seas, as we strive to ‘become citizens of the island(s)’.

 

 

Notes:
[Side Note] One of Taiwan’s most storied live house venues in the late 1990s and 2000s, which hosted a wide range of underground rock bands before its eventual closure in mid-2013.

1. Isaac Li et al., Floating Islands, Taipei: Tang Shan, 2001.
2. A Dictionary of Maqiao is a novel in dictionary form by Chinese author Han Shaogong. The novel consists of 115 articles depicting life in Miluo County, Hunan Province, from the perspective of a young student sent there by the Down to the Countryside Movement, in part realistic depictions of agricultural life, in part fictional accounts created by the author (e.g. ‘streetsickness’).
3.  We Were SMART tells the stories of China’s Sha-ma-te (referred to as SMART) subculture. Based on in-depth interviews with migrant workers born in the 1990s and 2000s, this documentary film focuses on their hometowns, educational backgrounds, destination cities, factory lives and spiritual world.

 

HO Hsin-chieh

Hsin-chieh was born in 1985 in Penghu, and currently heads the Offshore Islands Publishing, where she also serves as editor-in-chief. She is a co-author of Waters Divided, and helped produce the documentary Frontline Residents: An Island Story.

 

Translated by Kevin WANG