Storytelling is Survival: What Gullah Folktales, Soviet Filmmakers, and TikTok Have in Common

Storytelling is more than words—it’s a force, a survival tool, and an inheritance. For me, it’s in my DNA.

I come from a lineage that reveres storytelling, deeply rooted in my Gullah heritage. The Gullah people—descendants of enslaved Africans who lived along the coastal regions of South Carolina and Georgia—did not just tell stories for entertainment. They told stories to preserve, protect, and pass down wisdom in a world designed to erase them. Their oral traditions weren’t just narratives; they were navigation systems—guides for survival, identity, and legacy.

The Gullah Tradition: Storytelling as Resistance

In Gullah culture, storytelling was a means of keeping—keeping history alive, keeping traditions sacred, keeping each other safe. Folktales often carried coded messages. Br'er Rabbit, for example, wasn’t just a trickster; he was a symbol of resilience and intelligence, a blueprint for how to outwit those who held power. These stories carried maps of survival, hidden within their lessons.

When enslaved people were forbidden from reading or writing, their voices became their books. Storytelling became a radical act, a way to retain cultural roots and create new ones in a land that sought to strip them of both. Language itself evolved—blending West African dialects with English to create Gullah, a creole that was not just a mode of speech but a form of resistance.

This practice of storytelling as survival wasn’t unique to the Gullah but is a thread woven through Black history in America. From call-and-response spirituals that signaled safe passage along the Underground Railroad to the spoken word movement that gave rise to hip-hop, storytelling has always been the vessel through which Black people secured freedom—physically, mentally, and spiritually.

History Repeats: Storytelling in Times of Political and Social Upheaval

What fascinates me is how this pattern isn’t unique to Black history. As a student at NYU, I took a film class on Eastern European filmmakers, particularly those creating during political oppression. What struck me was the parallel between their work and the ways storytelling was used during slavery-era America: when people are stripped of autonomy, agency, and even fundamental freedoms, they turn to story as both protest and preservation.

During the Soviet era, filmmakers like Andrei Tarkovsky and Krzysztof Kieślowski embedded deeply coded messages into their films—using allegory and metaphor to critique oppressive regimes without outright defying censorship. Just as enslaved Africans in the American South infused folktales with survival strategies and cultural memory, these filmmakers infused their stories with hidden calls for resistance, change, and hope.

When traditional forms of expression—written words, direct speech, or formal protest—are stifled, storytelling rises to take their place. It adapts, finds new forms, and, most importantly, continues.

The same can be seen in countless movements throughout history:

• Irish poets during British occupation used verse as a weapon of rebellion.

• Latin American magical realism masking political critique inside surrealist tales.

• Indigenous oral histories resisting erasure by passing down sacred knowledge through spoken word.

No matter the era, the geography, or the oppression, storytelling is the one human instinct we always return to when we need to survive, challenge, and push society forward. And while these examples may feel deeply rooted in history, we don’t have to look far to see this instinct at work. In fact, in one of the most recent global crises—the COVID-19 pandemic—we saw the same evolutionary reflex emerge in a digital space: TikTok.

Storytelling in the Digital Age: TikTok as the Cave Wall of Our Time

If history has taught us anything, it’s that humans will always turn to storytelling in moments of isolation, upheaval, or suppression. And we don’t have to look back centuries to see this—we just have to look at our phones.

During the COVID-19 lockdown, as the world came to a screeching halt, something fascinating happened. With nowhere to go and no one to see, people still found a way to connect—through story. TikTok exploded, not just as an entertainment app but as a cultural phenomenon. Digital storytelling became a revolutionary reflex.

People turned to video to document their lives, find humor in uncertainty, process grief, share knowledge, and create community. In a time when the world was collectively grieving, struggling, and recalibrating, storytelling—through 15-second videos—became the one constant. Just like the etchings on prehistoric cave walls, these digital etchings captured the raw, unfiltered truth of the moment.

And just as the Gullah folktales carried lessons for survival, Soviet filmmakers embedded resistance in their films, and every suppressed community throughout history has done, people instinctively told stories to make sense of the chaos.

Even beyond entertainment, we saw TikTok drive activism, education, and social change. The platform became a global storytelling machine that challenged traditional power structures by giving everyday people a voice. Whether it was a nurse sharing firsthand accounts from hospital ICUs, a Black creator educating audiences on systemic racism, or a small business owner telling the world why their shop mattered—stories moved people. And they moved the needle.

We often think of storytelling as something we craft—but in reality, it’s something we can’t escape. It’s the one human instinct that transcends geography, language, technology, and even time itself.

What this proves is that storytelling isn’t just a cultural artifact—it’s a fundamental human need. We saw it in the caves of prehistoric times, in the folktales of the Gullah people, in the cinema of Soviet filmmakers, and in the vertical videos of a generation trapped inside their homes. This isn’t coincidence. It’s survival.

The Evolutionary Need for Storytelling

Storytelling isn’t just a relic of history. It’s an evolutionary need—hardwired into us as humans. Studies in neuroscience reveal that our brains are biologically attuned to stories. When we hear a compelling narrative, our brains release oxytocin, the "trust" hormone, which fosters connection and empathy.

Cognitive scientists have found that stories activate multiple areas of the brain—far beyond what facts alone can do. That’s why we remember narratives better than statistics. It’s why we trust stories over cold data. It’s why movements, brands, and leaders who understand how to tell a story inspire deeper loyalty than those who simply state their case.

In today’s world—whether in boardrooms, on social media, or within grassroots activism—storytelling still serves the same purpose it always has: to shape perception, to influence, to create legacy. It’s why founders who effectively tell their why attract more investment. It’s why personal brand narratives help professionals break into spaces that once seemed inaccessible. It’s why marginalized voices continue to use storytelling to reclaim power, redefine narratives, and rewrite history in real-time.

Bringing It Forward: Storytelling as Legacy

For me, storytelling is more than a career—it’s a calling. It’s why I built Stories Seen and developed the StoryEdge Method™, helping founders, leaders, and changemakers craft narratives that captivate and create real impact.

Because here’s the truth:
The ability to tell your story effectively is the ability to shape the world around you.

The Gullah people knew it.
Our ancestors knew it.
And in a world that still seeks to define us before we define ourselves, it’s never been more critical.

Your story isn’t just yours. It’s a survival tool. A bridge. A weapon. A light.
So the question is: Are you using it?

Let’s talk. How has storytelling shaped your journey? Drop a comment or message me—I’d love to hear your story.