In order to map and compare the trajectories of militant, ultra-nationalist Buddhism in the three main Theravāda countries, namely Sri Lanka, Burma, and Thailand, I explore the commonalities as well as the differences of these movements, also putting them in the proper context: firstly, into the domestic context since, as we shall see, these militant movements usually do not remain unopposed; secondly, in the regional context in the shape of interactions between various strands of Theravāda Buddhism with those of other religions, namely Islam and Evangelical Christianity; and thirdly, in the global context, here defined as the return of religion as a major factor in politics and as a major challenge for secularism. With regard to the underlying theoretical and methodological approach, it is obvious that, as usual in social sciences, mono-causal explanations cannot sufficiently explain these complex interactions. Rather, as Charles Selengut suggests, a holistic approach needs to be adopted, with the assumption that indeed “each particular case will present a unique set of religious, historical, and sociological conditions that set off and, possibly, continue the violence” (Selengut 2003, 228). Hence, it will be assumed as well that “other factors like widespread poverty, grievances, and resentment against governmental authority or strong charismatic leaders” (ibid.) are required to trigger religious violence even if a doctrine justifying religious violence is present. On the other hand, this should not, and does not, allow us to simply ignore the messages and actions of those charismatic preachers such as Ashin Wirathu in Myanmar or Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara Thero in Sri Lanka by reducing them to nothing but politicking. Rather, I agree with Gilles Kepel who, in the context of fundamentalist movements within the three Abrahamic or ‘revealed’ religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam) argued that “if we are going to look at these movements, however strange, aberrant or fanatical some of them may seem to us, we have to take seriously both what they are saying and the alternative societies they are trying to build […]” (Kepel 1994, 11). But I also agree with his follow-on argument: “Taking them seriously does not, however, make us into either their advocates or their fellow-travellers, any more than a person whose eyes had been opened to the condition of the proletariat by reading communist literature had to become a member of the Party” (ibid.).

There are several different methodologies that would have been suitable for this task. I chose a socio-theological approach as defined and explained by Mark Juergensmeyer and Mona Kanwal Sheikh (Juergensmeyer and Sheikh 2013, 620–643) since this allows me to first take a look at the actors’ perspectives, and then contrast them with the bigger picture of the socio-political and socio-economic background in the countries under investigation. The first part of this twofold research agenda implies arriving at an understanding or verstehen in a Weberian sense of that concept, which, as Juergensmeyer and Sheikh point out, also requires an empathetic immersion as well as relational knowledge, the latter defined as “knowledge that is acquired not through inductive or deductive reasoning but through an interaction of ideas and worldviews with someone whose perspective on the world is quite different than one’s own. It is this knowledge that is possible only though [sic] an engagement of worldviews that comes about through informative conversations” (Juergensmeyer and Sheikh 2013, 632). In this context, it is important to note that the various monkhoods (Sanghas) should not be regarded as monolithic blocs: in all three countries, there are hardliners or extremists as well as progressives (for example, environmentalist monks) and moderates, while the majority of monks in all three Sanghas refrain from getting actively involved in politics.

For the case of Hinduism, Marc Gopin (2000, 14) describes the resulting research process in a way that can be easily adapted for my own research, just by switching religion, actors, and locations:

“What, for example, is the inner life of a [Buddhist monk] today in [Sri Lanka, Burma, Thailand] who is dedicated to peace, as opposed to another [Buddhist monk] who is prepared to destroy a mosque and die in the effort? What are the metaphysical priorities of each, and why do they attach themselves to differing versions of [Theravāda Buddhism]? […] For example, which sacred phenomena – texts, rituals, or images of [the Buddha] – emerge most often in the minds of the believers who are prone to violence, as opposed to those who are prone to conciliatory approaches?”

The process of ‘verstehen’ will also allow me to stay as clear as possible from some notional orthodoxical and orthopractical assumptions on what ‘authentic’ Theravāda Buddhism should look like—which, as a political scientist focusing on political violence, is neither my role nor my intent. In this regard, my approach follows Tessa Bartholomeusz’ approach for her impressive study on the relationship between just war ideologies and pacifistic traditions within Sinhalese Theravāda Buddhism (Bartholomeusz 2002), and Rachelle Scott’s approach on the relationship between piety and wealth in her important study on the controversial Dhammakāya temple in Pathum Thani, Thailand (Scott 2009).

As regards empathetic immersion, this part of the research process commenced in July/August 2014 with my first stay at a small and remote rural temple in Thailand’s Surat Thani province on invitation of a group of thudong (Pali: dhūtanga, lit.: wandering ascetic) monks who chose to stay there for a couple of weeks to teach me the practical basics of being a lay follower or phra khao (phram). It soon turned out that ‘understanding’ proved to be a somewhat lesser problem than simply ‘doing it’: I am not ...