Indigenous
Storytelling

Every story holds wisdom, and every living being carries a story within them. 

For this project, the stories shared by each storyteller were profoundly intergenerational and deeply personal. They were born out of lived experiences shaped through relationships with Elders, held within family systems, inscribed in bodies, and woven into the breath of the land. These stories were remembered through the Rongring, cultural practices, and fragments of long-dusted memories. Each story became both mirror and compass—reflecting who the storytellers are and guiding them toward what their lineages hold. Some came into this process already knowing, others uncovered truths along the way, and many are still in the process of remembering. 

Through this journey, the storytellers explored what being Mutanchi Rongkup meant to them or did not mean to them—not just through self-reflection or setting their own intentions, but by consciously building an ecosystem that allowed these stories to surface. Memories came in dreams, in creative expression, in quiet conversations, in humour, in kinship with land, waters, and community. 

At its heart, this is Indigenous storytelling—a storytelling of relationships with the land and ancestors. For this project, the story was a medium to find their ancestors and their connection to the land. With the hope that they might come to know themselves through the process. And for many, this process is not yet complete; it continues to unfold. The process is internal as well as external. This project is about each storyteller and their story. They balance each other. They are not separate.  

Every time I see a cloud drift above me, I’m reminded of your stories—of the shaman who summoned rain to a thirsty village. When I come across a quiet pond with two ducks gliding across, your stories of sacred lakes and two snakes stir within me. And as I walk past towering trees embraced by a tangle of leaves, I find myself searching for sambrang bur. I’ve come to understand the quiet significance of kumbyong and the meaning held within ancient boulders and Mong seeds. I now see hillocks not just as elevations of earth, but as keepers of memory and interactions—where treasure has never meant gold, but stories interconnected with spirit. 

Thank you—for showing me a new way to see the land. Through your eyes, through your hands, the ecosystem around me has transformed. I now see with a deeper sense of wonder, respect, and belonging. 

There will come a time when you will be asked to share your stories. When that moment comes, we urge you to share with humility, care, reverence, and responsibility—not just for yourself, but for the community, the surname you carry, the ancestors who walked before you, and the future generations yet to be born. 

These stories are sacred. They are not owned. They are held. They are not commodities to be bought or sold. They are not business. These stories live in the spirit of exchange, not transaction. They cannot be measured in monetary value. If money is part of the exchange, let it be guided by the intention behind its use—always in service of the story and the community/land it comes from. Learn to be accountable for it. Receive these acts of exchange with humility. And if no tangible exchange occurs, rest in the knowing that something greater is already in motion. The sharing of ancestral stories is itself a sacred exchange—one that takes place in realms beyond the visible, where understanding, memory, and spirit quietly meet. If the intent is right and you come from the space of love, you will be taken care of, eventually. Be patient. And if your intent is not right and you come from the space of greed and hate, you will still be taken care of. Be careful. Not everything is yours to take—some stories choose their listener. Be content even if you have one listener among thousand faces. Just make sure that you are heard. 

You are simply a keeper—a vessel through which knowledge passes. Protect these stories, honour those who entrusted them to you. Only give your consent to someone (this includes people from Mutanchi Rong community as well) who comes with clear intent and a deep understanding of what they wish to do with your story. If that clarity or purpose isn’t present, do not hesitate to ask questions—it’s your right to know how your story will be held and shared. Speak up when something doesn’t feel right. Return to your Elders, your mentors, your village Elders if you need support and more importantly return to the sacred within you—we are with you. 

Let there be courage in your voice, even when it trembles. But take that step.

Every time you tell a story, you are remembering your ancestors. And that remembrance is healing—not just for you, but for the land, the rivers, and all that they nurtured. 

You speak for the water, wind, hearth and earth of Ney Mayal Lyang.

All of you have come a long way. Including me. 

All the storytellers’ journeys have profoundly shaped the way I see the landscape—inviting me to imagine how the Elders must have once looked at the land, how they engaged with it, and how they carried a deep sense of responsibility to give back. I’ve witnessed their own personal stories unfold—some marked by loss, resistance, confusion, anger and the struggle to speak for the first time. Many have dared to step beyond the edges of their comfort zones, while others are still finding their footing. The path has not been easy—for them, or for us. And yet, together, we have woven these stories with care and intention, grounded in the belief that we belong to the land, and the land does not belong to us. The storytellers come from different walks of life, shaped by distinct social realities and conditioning. Still, each one arrived with a shared purpose—to contribute to their community, and perhaps, to begin reclaiming a part of themselves. 

Seek their consent with care. Good intentions are not enough—ensure your intent is informed, not impulsive. Be clear about where you stand, why you are engaging with these stories, and where you hope to take them. Transparency is essential. If you are unsure, take time to reflect before returning. These stories are not going anywhere. For some, this may be the first time anyone has asked for their consent—honor that moment with the seriousness it deserves. Come with a good faith and  break the pattern. 

Be kind to them. Be patient. Hold space for these storytellers. Invite them. Allow them to tell these stories themselves and resist from telling these stories for them. Speak with them and not about them or for them. Try. These voices were once silenced – both human and non-human, and now they need your ears, your eyes, your hands, your hearts. Protect them and their stories for the land and waters that they originate from. Uplift them—because in doing so, you also contribute to the healing of the land and waters you live upon and for your future generations. 

Achulay!