In 2024, in Seoul, South Korea, "I" stage a play with friends titled The Gaza Monologues, which opposes the ongoing massacres in Palestine. However, we are faced with an unchanging social reality. In response, "I" revise the plan to record and film the play, and instead meet Palestinian students living in Korea to interview them in public squares. One camera films reenactments of the play, while another shoots a documentary. Can we, while mourning, present you with a camera that invents hope?

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Just 0.2 seconds after a sound wave reaches the cochlea, the brain interprets the vibrations as a sound with unique qualities of distance, direction and speed. The emotions and meanings we attach to each sound are subjective. 　　Hyejin Jung realized this when she started hearing a constant buzzing in her right ear. Her doctor's explanation was that her ear was becoming a machine. While at the hospital she met Somchai, a construction worker with the same complaint, and they started to compare the ways their bodies sound on the inside. 　　In this fusion of medical reporting, societal reflection, soundscape, and personal poetic self-examination Jung reveals through image and sound just how thin the dividing line is between sound and noise. Going beyond her own, individual experience—which ranges from mind-blowing to claustrophobic—she argues that the powers that be regard the voices of marginalized people (who often perform work that causes hearing damage) as noise, and combat it as such.

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My first name is Sori. It means "sound" or "voice" in Korean. It sounds like the English word "sorry". My voice drowns out my mother's. The words I spat out right after my grandpa's funeral tormented her. The violence in my voice disregards her grief and sorrow. I justify that violence. But I want to hide. I call back the words I hurled at my mother and press them onto my face.

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Shin Mi-sik, a Korean documentary photographer who loves Madagascar, built four libraries for children in Africa. In order to protect children’s innocence and artistry, this time he want to convey music. With 50 ukuleles supported by a Korean cultural foundation, he leaves for Madagascar with composer Taehwa Jang and 14 volunteers. Although they are poor, they live with a positive outlook on life. The children, who find everything amazing, are absorbed in ukulele lessons and choir practice despite the hot weather. The beautiful performances and singing of a 50-member ukulele troupe and a 100-member choir resonate movingly at Trinity School, the beach, and Baobab Street in Morondava, Madagascar. Through the process of preparing for a ukulele performance with Madagascar children, we encounter the simple truth that the most beautiful gift to us is ‘music.’