Page 13 - Proceedings book

Archaeology for Sustainability: Memory, Ethics, and Imagination

in a Fractured World

Professor Jagath Weerasinghe

Postgraduate Institute of Archaeology, University of Kelaniya

Introduction

"Can a ruined tank, a broken clay pot, or a forgotten monastic site hidden in the jungles
of the Vanni District teach us how to survive the climate crisis and the deep-rooted ethnic
conflicts of this island?"

That may seem like an unusual question to ask on National Archaeological Day—but I
want to suggest today that archaeology is not merely the study of the distant past. It is, or
can be, a way of thinking through our present crises—ecological, social, and political—
and of imagining more just and sustainable futures. This possibility exists because
archaeological data do not reside solely in the past; they are encountered, interpreted, and
made meaningful in the present. And we—as archaeologists, scholars, and citizens—are
never neutral interpreters. We are shaped by our political conditions, our training, our
cultural locations, and the often-unspoken assumptions we carry.
This is why I argue that archaeology must be understood not only as a scientific discipline
or a technical practice, but as a critical practice—a practice that reflects on its own
methods, interrogates its own categories, and remains open to its own fallibility. Like all
human sciences, archaeology is shaped by the limitations of the human condition: our
partial knowledge, our contingent positions, our susceptibility to power. A critical
archaeology does not chase a false ideal of objectivity. Instead, it cultivates accountability,
reflexivity, and ethical imagination. It asks: What questions are we not asking? Whose
histories are we silencing? What futures are we foreclosing when we tell certain kinds of
stories about the past?

If we accept this critical stance, then archaeology becomes something more than a window
into antiquity. It becomes a mirror held up to the present—and a compass that may help us
navigate toward futures that are more inclusive, more careful, and more alive to the
entanglements of people, land, memory, and justice.

In Sri Lanka, we are blessed with a rich archaeological landscape. We speak proudly—
sometimes too proudly—of ancient cities and monastic complexes, of tanks and reservoirs,
inscriptions, murals, and sculptures. These are the monumental legacies that form our
official past. But we must also acknowledge that we live among the scars of a long civil
war, the aftershocks of displacement, the weight of deepening inequality, and the signs of
accelerating ecological degradation. Our archaeological landscapes are layered not only
with the remnants of ancient civilizations, but also with the silences and ruptures of our
recent history. These are not separate domains—they inhabit the same spaces, they intersect
in meaning, and they call for a different kind of attention.