In the highlands of Minahasa, where villages stretch across a mountainous landscape and daily life remains closely tied to land, memory, and community, a film festival has quietly taken shape—one that did not begin with funding, infrastructure, or institutional backing, but with a realization. Festival Felem Orang Gunung emerged from a simple but urgent awareness: that the ability to create does not guarantee the existence of space. As digital technology became more accessible, young people across villages began making films—documentaries, short fiction, experimental works—using whatever tools they had, often just mobile phones. They recorded their surroundings, their families, their traditions, and the changes unfolding around them. Yet while filmmaking grew, the space to show, discuss, and learn from these works remained scarce. The festival was created to respond to that absence—not as a program designed from above, but as a collective response from within.
The name itself reflects the philosophy behind the movement. “Festival” signals a gathering, a shared moment of encounter. “Felem,” derived from the local pronunciation of “film,” reflects both adaptation and ownership of the medium. “Orang Gunung,” meaning “mountain people” or “highlanders,” refers not only to geography but to identity—specifically the people of Minahasa, whose lives are shaped by a mountainous landscape and whose communities remain rooted in village life. In this sense, the term also speaks more broadly to Minahasa Indigenous Peoples—those whose knowledge systems, traditions, and ways of seeing the world are inseparable from the land. The name is not simply descriptive; it is declarative. It defines origin, authorship, and belonging.
Its visual identity captures this philosophy with striking clarity. The festival’s logo features a manguni—an owl—standing on a clapperboard. In Minahasan understanding, the manguni is a sacred figure, a symbol of wisdom and a messenger between the Creator and humanity. It represents a worldview in which meaning is not limited to what is seen, but is interpreted through signs, relationships, and deeper awareness. The clapperboard, by contrast, represents cinema—the act of framing reality into narrative. The word “a manifesto” in the Festival Felem Orang Gunung logo carries the meaning of a collective statement of position by filmmakers from villages in Minahasa. It affirms that the festival is not merely a film screening event, but a declaration that people from villages and Indigenous communities have their own voice, their own works, and their own ways of telling stories. Through film, they do not only express creativity, but also document life, preserve identity, and maintain their relationship with land and ancestors. This manifesto is rooted in collective values such as Ru’kup and Mapalus, representing a shared movement that emerges from the village, from the mountains, to assert existence and build the future in their own way. Together, these elements suggest that filmmaking is not separate from Indigenous knowledge, but can exist as its continuation in a contemporary form.
“We cannot wait for others to create space for us. If it does not exist, then we build it ourselves,” says Indra Lumantow, a filmmaker and one of the organizers behind the festival. His perspective reflects not only a practical decision, but a deeper position about cultural autonomy. “This festival is not only about screening films. It is about making a statement—that we exist, that we continue to create, and that we have the right to tell our own stories in our own way. So when Kale (Kalfein Wuisan) was the first to introduce the idea of holding this festival, I supported it right away.
Lumantow also emphasizes that the festival is not exclusive, even as it is rooted in Indigenous ownership. “This is a festival from Indigenous peoples, by Indigenous peoples, and for Indigenous peoples. But it is also open—for anyone who wants to understand who we are, through our own lens. We are not objects to be interpreted; we are storytellers. If people want to know us, they should come and listen to our stories as we tell them.”
Since its first gathering in 2017 in Tombasian Bawah, Festival Felem Orang Gunung has functioned less like a conventional film festival and more like a living forum. There are no rigid hierarchies or formal industry barriers. Screenings are followed by open discussions, where filmmakers and audiences engage directly, often challenging and expanding each other’s perspectives. According to DR. Denni Pinontoan, a theologian, lecturer, and Indigenous activist, the importance of such a space lies in its grounding: “What we see here are films that grow from everyday life—films that carry cultural realities not as representation, but as lived experience. This is where culture speaks for itself.”
For DR. Ivan R B Kaunang, a lecturer, historian, and cultural activist, the significance of the festival extends beyond filmmaking. It is part of a broader effort to sustain cultural memory in a rapidly changing world. “When communities tell their own stories, they are not only documenting life—they are maintaining continuity. Memory is not something we store; it is something we practice. And film has become one way of practicing that memory today.”
The festival’s structure reinforces these ideas. Rather than being anchored in a single location, it moves—from village to village, from one Indigenous community to another. This traveling model ensures that the festival remains close to the people it represents, allowing films to return to their contexts and audiences to engage directly with them. It also fosters connections between communities, creating a network of filmmakers who share resources, ideas, and encouragement. For Rikson Karundeng, Director of Mapatik, this movement is essential. “If the stories come from the villages, then the festival must also return to the villages. It cannot stay in one place. It has to move, just like the people, just like the stories.”
As Nedine Helena Sulu, an Indigenous woman activist, explains, the significance of these creative practices extends beyond artistic expression. “This is one way we take care of the land and what has been entrusted to us. Through these works, young people are not only creating—they are continuing something that has always existed.”
Fredy Wowor, a lecturer, an artist from Minahasa, adds another layer to this understanding, reflecting on the long-term meaning of the works produced through the festival. “Maybe what we create today will not be fully understood now. Maybe it will not have an immediate impact. But we believe these films will live longer than us. In ten, fifty, even one hundred years, they will still speak. They will tell future generations who we were, how we lived, and what we believed in.”
Despite its growing network and influence, the festival does not measure success through scale or visibility. Many of the films shown remain outside mainstream distribution. They do not seek viral recognition. Instead, their value lies in endurance. They function as living archives—records of how communities see themselves, how they adapt, and how they remember.
Festival Felem Orang Gunung, then, is not simply about cinema. It is about presence. It is about asserting that Indigenous peoples are not objects of storytelling, but subjects—creators with their own voices, perspectives, and authority. It is about building a space where those voices can exist without compromise. And at the same time, it remains open, inviting others not to observe from a distance, but to listen, to engage, and to learn.
In a global context where cultural production is often centralized and mediated, this festival offers a different model—one that is decentralized, community-driven, and rooted in lived experience. It demonstrates that when space is not given, it can be created—and in creating it, communities do more than share stories. They define their own future.
Ultimately, Festival Felem Orang Gunung is not just a festival. It is a movement. It belongs to Indigenous Peoples. It grows from them. And through every journey from one village to another, it ensures that the stories from the mountains continue—not only to exist, but to be heard.