In one of his famous edicts, Maurya Emperor Ashoka (c. 268–c. 232 BCE) declared that under his enlightened Buddhist rule, the sound of war drums (bheri-ghosa) had been replaced by the rule of Buddhist law (dhamma-ghosa). Since then, a profound pacifism or rejection of violence (ahimsa; lit.: ‘do not injure’) has been the hallmark of Buddhism and its various traditions—at least from a somewhat naïve and romantic outside perspective. In the West, we are well aware of Christian fundamentalism, Islamist Salafism-Jihadism, militant Judaism, and maybe even of the ultra-nationalist Hindutva movement and militant Sikhism in India. Militant and violent Buddhism, however, features only rarely in Western debates, the current plight of the Rohingya in Myanmar (Burma)1 notwithstanding. Somehow, the idea of organized Buddhist mob violence targeting non-Buddhists seems to be outright ludicrous. A comment on Facebook which I came across when working on this book brought this scepticism to a point: ‘A Buddhist mob: is this really a thing?’ Unfortunately, it is indeed ‘a thing,’ and recent events in Sri Lanka, Burma, and, to a lesser extent, Thailand indicate that in Theravāda Buddhism,2 a militant, ultra-nationalist strand is on the rise, with prominent Buddhist monks such as Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara Thero in Sri Lanka and Ashin Wirathu or Ashin Parmaukkha in Burma acting as preachers of hate—an expression that so far seemed to have been reserved for Islamists calling for a global Jihad. So, how can the rise of this militant strand of Theravāda Buddhism visible in Sri Lanka, Burma, and Thailand be explained?3
We could start the debate with the doctrine of ahimsa, which, on the surface at least, should act as a powerful barrier against acts of violence committed by Buddhists. However, as in any belief system and doctrine, there are exceptions. For example, while expansionist and offensive warfare is prohibited, armed defence is seen as permissible under certain conditions, and even as unavoidable in this current age of suffering (dukkha). One such condition would be the impression that Buddhism is under siege by a hostile non-Buddhist enemy. Militant Buddhist violence defined in this way is actually nothing new. In Sri Lanka, Buddhist monks were actively involved in anti-Tamil political violence in 1915 (Sinhalese -Tamil race riots), and then again from the early 1950s onwards. In Burma, monks were actively involved in armed resistance against the British colonial system as early as the 1880s, in the Indo-Burmese riots of 1938, and again in armed resistance against various insurgencies of non-Buddhist ethnic groups after independence. And in Thailand, ‘cold war’ monks were actively involved in the fight against the communist insurgency of the 1970s. As of today, the most formidable and dangerous ‘other’ in the eyes of both Buddhist monks and laity in Burma, Sri Lanka, and Thailand are Muslims.
These few examples should suffice to demonstrate that militant, extremist, and ultra-nationalist Buddhist violence with millenarian overtones is not a new phenomenon, but rather an overlooked and under-reported one that was kept hidden for quite a while. In the era of modern media such as global television, Twitter, or YouTube, this is no longer possible: militant Buddhist violence and its current Islamophobia are out there for everybody to see. In the case of anti-Muslim violence in Burma, it already led to a backlash: the Taliban in Pakistan, the Indonesian Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), and, more recently, the Islamic State (better known as ISIS) issued statements threatening to attack Burmese Buddhists in retaliation for what they see as the ‘state-sponsored murder’ of Muslims, while Al Qaeda called upon its followers to support their Muslim brethren in Burma, “financially, militarily, and physically” (SITE 2017). Although at the moment, these threats have not yet been translated into action, terrorist attacks against Buddhist temples have actually occurred over the years—for example, in Bangladesh during October 2012, and on 7 July 2013 in India, targeting the famous Bodh Gaya temple as one of the holiest sites of Buddhism. Hence, the emergence of a tit-for-tat cycle of violence and counter-violence cannot be ruled out (Lehr 2016, 130; 2017).
Approaches: Theories and Methods
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 ...