Page 17 - Proceedings book

First, by reviving traditional ecological knowledge. Many of the technologies embedded in
Sri Lanka’s past—tank cascades, forest sanctuaries, dryland cultivation patterns—were
highly responsive to ecological constraints. They were systems of care and adaptation, not
conquest. These are not dead technologies. They are strategies of survival, and archaeology
can help us learn from them, not as curiosities, but as living options for a climate-stressed
future.

Second, by engaging communities as co-authors of their own histories. For too long,
archaeological expertise has been cast as the property of professionals alone. But history
does not live in archeologist’s field notes, in archaeological reports, in laboratories—it
lives in stories, rituals, memories, and everyday practices. Participatory mapping, oral
history projects, community exhibitions—these are not “soft” or secondary. They are
essential to building stewardship and belonging. Archaeology becomes sustainable when
it ceases to speak for communities and begins to listen with them.

Third, by practicing ethical conservation. Conservation is not merely about restoring ruins
or protecting artifacts. It is about respecting the life-worlds to which those objects belong.
This means intervening minimally, designing sensitively, and resisting the temptation to
turn heritage into spectacle. Resisting extreme commodification of heritage. It also means
recognizing that some ruins are still sacred, some traditions still alive, and that the
conservation of form and fabric must never come at the expense of cultural meaning.

Fourth, by telling plural histories. Our archaeological narratives must move beyond kings
and kingdoms, stupas and citadels. We must recover the voices of women, laborers,
migrants, outcastes, healers, and others who shaped and sustained past societies. This is not
just a matter of inclusion—it is a matter of justice. When we expand the field of memory,
we also expand the field of belonging.

Fifth, by minimizing the ecological footprint of our own work. Archaeology has long been
associated with extraction: digging, uncovering, removing. But we now live in a world
where care must extend to the earth itself. Non-invasive methods, low-impact surveys,
selective excavations—these are not limitations. They are ethical choices. In an age of
planetary crisis, archaeology must become an ecological practice as much as a historical
one.

And finally, by inspiring futures. Archaeology is not only about what “was.” It is also about
what could be. When we collaborate with artists, designers, and visionaries, we open the
past to the imagination. We move from critique to creativity. We begin to envision post-
crisis futures that draw strength from deep memory, and that allow us to dream of renewal—
not as nostalgia, but as a radical act of care.

Toward a Regenerative Archaeology
Regeneration is not a return. It is a re-beginning. It means to give life back—to that which
has been neglected, violated, or forgotten. For a country like ours, scarred by war,
displacement, and environmental destruction, archaeology has the potential to be
regenerative. But only if we approach it differently.

A regenerative archaeology does not extract—it gives
back. It does not impose—it collaborates.
It does not monumentalize—it listens.