Tomb Raiders vs. Caretakers: Who Gets to Protect the Past?
I wanted to be an archaeologist. Like, badly.
As a kid, I was fascinated by ruins, mummies, artifacts — the whole dusty, mysterious puzzle of the past. My favorite college class? Anthropology. Total nerd alert.
When I was little, I told my mom I wanted to be buried when I died so that people could dig me up one day and learn about our culture from my burial. (I’ve since changed my mind. Cremation for me, thanks.)
My grandparents had visited Egypt and filled their home with relics and replicas that fueled my obsession — miniature pyramids, papyrus scrolls, and little carved scarabs that I would sneak off the shelf and pretend were ancient treasures.
And when Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark hit theaters in 1981, I was only five, but my aunt and uncle took me anyway. My mom thought I was too young — and to be fair, melting Nazi faces probably was a little intense for kindergarten. But I was hooked.
Adventures! Treasures! Tombs!
But now, decades later, wandering through the King Tut Immersive Experience, I see things a little differently.
Because for all the gold and glory, there’s a complicated question buried underneath it all: Who gets to protect the past — and who gets to profit from it?
A Short, Messy History of Tomb Raiding
Let’s start with the facts:
Tomb raiding wasn’t some modern scandal — it started while the paint was still drying. Ancient Egyptians looted each other’s tombs for wealth, power, and even political sabotage.
When Howard Carter discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922, it was one of the few that hadn’t been (completely) ransacked. But Carter’s excavation methods were… let’s just say aggressively colonial.
Thousands of Tut’s treasures were boxed up and shipped to Europe. Some made their way back to Egypt. Many didn’t.
That kind of extraction wasn’t just about preserving history — it was about control. About deciding who gets to tell the story, and who doesn’t.
Sound Familiar? Conservation Has the Same Issues
Just like archaeology, modern conservation has had a bumpy ethical track record. Swap sarcophagi for national parks, and you’ll find the same core tensions:
“Protecting” land by removing the people who’ve lived there for centuries.
Conservation programs that ignore Indigenous knowledge systems.
Eco-tourism that treats wild places like playgrounds instead of sacred ground.
Natural history museums filled with animal specimens taken without consent or context.
The big question is the same: Who gets to decide what’s worth saving — and how?
Toward Repatriation and Shared Stewardship
Thankfully, both fields are evolving:
Museums are increasingly returning artifacts to their countries of origin.
Archaeologists are working alongside local and Indigenous communities to study — and protect — sites more collaboratively.
Conservation efforts are shifting from fortress-style “no humans allowed” models to co-management practices rooted in community wisdom.
Because preserving something is only part of the story. Honoring it — and who it belongs to — is the real goal.
What to Look for at the Tut Exhibit
If you visit the King Tut Immersive Experience, here’s your ethical side-quest:
Read the room: Who’s telling the story? Who’s missing from the narrative?
Look at the objects: Do they feel like museum pieces, or sacred remnants?
Consider place: The original items were buried in the desert to stay buried. What does it mean that we’ve moved them into exhibits and replicated them for gift shops?
It’s not about shame. It’s about curiosity — the kind that digs deeper than gold and glory.
Whether you’re in a museum, a forest, or a faraway archaeological site:
Who originally lived here?
Who is protecting it now?
Who profits from it being “preserved”?
Who’s missing from this story?
Because the past isn’t dead, it’s just waiting for us to ask the right questions.
