It is now widely recognized that the planetary crisis in which we find ourselves today is largely the result of thinking in very short timeframes — two- or four-year elections, for example, or quarterly earnings targets, or media cycles that reward breaking news. 

It might be thought that these are primarily political or economic imperatives and that art and literature are free from these compulsions, but this is very far from being the case. In art and literature, too, there are huge pressures to stay abreast of emerging trends, and even a writer who is very far from being trendy, like me, cannot remain wholly immune from these pressures, especially at a time when writers can publish their work almost instantaneously in online magazines. 

This is exactly why the Future Library project appeals to me. It demands a conception of time that is completely different from the short-term temporal frameworks that have brought the planet to the brink of catastrophe. 

What, then, might be an alternative conception of time? One such conception is the powerful Indigenous ethical framework known as the ‘Seventh Generation Principle.’ Rooted primarily in the traditions of the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois Confederacy) and echoed in various forms by other Indigenous peoples from the Great Plains to the Andes, this philosophy demands that every decision made today must be evaluated for its impact on the people who will inhabit the earth seven generations into the future. 

At its core, the Seventh Generation Principle functions as a cognitive restraint on the human tendency towards greed and expediency. The Haudenosaunee Great Law of Peace — Kaianere’kó:wa, the oral Constitution that united five (and later six) nations — instructs chiefs to consider the welfare of descendants they will never meet. In practice, this means that decisions such as clearing a forest, signing a treaty, or adopting a new technology must pass a stringent moral test: Will this benefit the children of my great-grandchildren? This shifts the center of ethical gravity from the autonomous individual or the nuclear family to an unbroken chain of kinship stretching from the past to the distant future. 

Today, these principles are being codified in legal systems; for example, Ecuador’s 02008 Constitution recognized the Rights of Nature, and in recent years the Attawapiskat First Nation has cited the Seventh Generation Principle in court filings. These are echoes of an ancient legal logic that grants the unborn a voice in the chambers of power. 

In presenting writers and artists with the challenge of addressing an audience that is yet unborn, the Future Library project is, in effect, introducing the Seventh Generation Principle into literature and the arts. 

However, to truly understand Indigenous long-term planning, one must also appreciate its foundation in ritual and memory. The seven-generation horizon is sustained through oral tradition, ceremony, and place-based storytelling. 

This is another way in which the Future Library project accords with the Seventh Generation Principle. It has created new rituals and ceremonies to accompany the simultaneous birthing and burying of the objects it has brought into being. This is itself a story that demands to be told.

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This essay originally appeared in Future Library’s booklet on the 02026 handover. It has been reprinted with permission.

AMITAV GHOSH grew up in India, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka, and has a Ph.D. in Social Anthropology from the University of Oxford. He is the author of four books of nonfiction, two collections of essays, and nine novels. His books have been translated into more than 30 languages.