We also used technology in creative ways to bridge gaps. For example, we built a virtual-reality tour of the site so that people who couldn’t hike up to it—especially older villagers—could still explore it. Just as importantly, we made sure information flowed freely. We shared findings with Tanzanian museums and authorities in real time. We set up a WhatsApp group, Slack workspace, and online shared folders so that everyone, from village leaders to students in Dar es Salaam, could follow along with the discoveries. This kind of openness was a stark break from how research with foreign scientists is often done in Tanzania.
Reflections on Power and Privilege
This slower, inclusive way of doing science came with its own challenges. When we launched the Kisese field project in 2017, I was a young scholar fresh out of graduate school and under pressure to “publish or perish.” It might have been easier, career-wise, to stick to the conventional path—dig fast, collect data, and ignore the people living there. Spending time building local partnerships felt riskier, and some colleagues wondered if I was sabotaging my future spending all this time “in meetings.”
During difficult moments, I reflected on why I felt so strongly about sharing power in research. I realized it harked back to my own upbringing. I grew up relatively poor in peri-rural Florida, raised by a single mother, far from any centers of conventional “influence.” Even now, classist and dismissive comments about my upbringing circulate in academic spaces—“at least you don’t have to live in Florida,” one Ivy League colleague stated, and “I would never raise my family in the South,” said another, regarding career opportunities. These comments act as a reminder of the hierarchies that continue to shape who is seen as legitimate and who is considered inferior, even when it comes to writing deep history.
Being a woman with a career, especially in science, comes with different challenges too. In many ways, I know firsthand what it’s like to feel marginalized and voiceless in a field still largely dominated by male voices. This awareness gave me empathy for others who have been excluded. It fueled my conviction that science—especially about something as profoundly human as our origins—should not be a one-sided story told by outsiders.
Over time, I found mentors and ideas that gave me confidence. One framework that resonated was the idea of an “archaeology of the heart”—doing research not just with your head but with empathy and humility, intertwined with scientific rigor. By following my heart at Kisese II, we didn’t just unearth ancient beads and bones; we also built trust, local pride, and a sense of ownership among the people who are the custodians of this history. To me, those human connections are more valuable than scientific discoveries.
A New Way Forward
As my chat with Masao in Dar es Salaam wound down, we finished our Cokes and watched his grandson chase a lizard in the courtyard—a reminder of the next generation who will inherit this history.
Tanzanian research today is changing: More local archaeologists, like Arizona State University student Husna Mashaka Katambo, are earning degrees and leading research teams, though they still face serious challenges, especially a lack of access to sustainable funding, which programs like the The Leakey Foundation and Paleontological Scientific Trust are beginning to improve. In addition, communities like Machinjioni are being treated as true, equal partners in leading research and preserving heritage. Our ongoing work at Kisese II is just one small part of this broader movement toward inclusive, sustainable paleoanthropological research.