On the final day of the 2025 Philadelphia Asian American Film Festival (PAAFF), I arrived early and stayed until the end, moving through screenings and panels, trying to be present. By closing night, when The Rose: Come Back To Me began, I was mentally adrift, until I saw the fans holding handmade banners and plush dolls, buzzing with excitement. Their energy pulled me back in. On a Sunday night—the same night the Eagles were playing—people from across the world had gathered in Philly to see the documentary about the rise of the Korean indie rock band, which has built a global fanbase spanning more than 60 countries and tens of thousands of followers worldwide. I remembered that going to the movies is going to see people—and choosing to care about them.
Founded more than 15 years ago, PAAFF has grown from a volunteer-led annual film festival into a year-round cultural organization dedicated to supporting Asian American storytellers and communities. This year, however, the foundation finds itself at a turning point. Like many mission-driven arts organizations, PAAFF has lost key funding sources and is facing a shrinking landscape of public support. In response, it has launched a Capital Campaign with the goal of raising $150,000 by March 1. Executive Director Nani Shin writes, “PAAFF lost a major corporate sponsor, and we continue to face a highly competitive grant environment. As a result, PAAFF currently has less than six months of operating reserves, a reality that makes our very first Capital Campaign crucial to our survival.”
At a recent virtual town hall held as part of this campaign, filmmakers, board members, educators, and longtime supporters gathered to talk about the urgency and importance of funding PAAFF. The evening moved between personal testimonies, conversations about representation and survival, and reflections on what it means to build a true ecosystem. Filmmaker Nick Hartanto recalled drawing comic books as a child and only later realizing that “everyone was white.” That recognition led him to make the short film Daly City, centered on his own family. After filming, the 10-year-old lead actor, Jett, asked Hartanto to remove his glasses and hat and studied his face. “It’s so important to see someone who looks like you in positions of power,” Hartanto said. “I hope that Jett, through this journey, is able to see himself as the hero of his own stories.”
As Philadelphia approaches the nation’s 250th anniversary, Shin said, “We want to ensure our stories, cultures, and contributions are part of the American narrative.” The organization has transitioned into an independent nonprofit, carrying the responsibility not only of an annual festival but of year-round cultural work. The mission, she emphasized, goes beyond film: it is about opportunity, representation, and preserving memory. PAAFF feels to me like a living museum of the AANHPI tapestry. An established filmmaker Eugene Yi, who once worked at The New York Times, described that experience as “tremendously educational,” yet missing “that connection to community.” He returned intentionally to community storytelling.
In an era of streaming, we must ask: why do we still leave home to sit in the dark with strangers? What happens if spaces like this disappear? Last fall, my husband and I watched Cathy Linh Che’s We Were the Scenery at FDR Park at sunset. It felt as though something long obscured—justice, colonial truth—was brought to the forefront. Erasure doesn’t happen all at once; it happens quietly. PAAFF served as a fiscal sponsor for the film, which is now competing for an Academy Award. “The landscape for Asian American stories has always been severely underfunded,” Che said, and it “continues to be attacked federal government-wise.”
Others echoed similar concerns: University of Pennsylvania Asian American Studies lecturer Rob Buscher noted that Hollywood still “continues to prioritize upper middle class East Asian American stories,” and Dr. Van Tran Nguyen, who teaches performing arts at Georgetown University, observed that artists in mainstream systems “must kind of simplify, if not oversimplify, your existence, to be understood.” Community platforms like PAAFF allow stories to remain whole.
“What you heard [about PAAFF] was not a program,” said PAAFF Board Chair Kris Mendoza. “What you truly experienced was an ecosystem.” Careers begin here. Stories move from idea to screen to community. I graduated from grad school right after the pandemic. Everything was unstable and I felt lost. PAAFF kept a seat for me. It gave me opportunities to screen, to program, to show my film. More than that, watching films with this community led me back to writing—not for profit, not for industry, just writing as myself.
If erasure happens quietly, then so does disappearance. Festivals close. Spaces shrink. Not because they lack meaning, but because we assume they will continue without us. This is where PAAFF stands now. The organization is working to secure the funds needed to continue operating; they have until March 1 to raise $150,000 through their Capital Campaign. PAAFF is not abstract to you and me. It is a room we have sat in. A night in FDR Park. A child studying a director’s face.
In Philadelphia, hope is the thing with feathers—and I don’t just mean the Eagles. It refuses to disappear. If it is still flying, it is because someone is holding it up—someone like you and me.
*Featured Image: Image of PAAFF team members at the 2024 PAAFF Preview Party. Courtesy of PAAFF.
Chen-Yi Wu is a Taiwanese writer based in the Greater Philadelphia Area. She lives with a neighbor’s tuxedo cat.
