The Robe and the Sword, Unpacking the Troubled Intersection of Buddhism, Nationalism, and Violence in Modern Asia
In 1988, Philip C. Almond published a book with a deceptively simple title: The British Discovery of Buddhism. But as Rohan Manoj’s review of Sonia Faleiro’s new work reminds us, Almond could just as easily have called it The British Creation of Buddhism. For it was the colonial encounter that took disparate Buddhist traditions across Asia and reified them into a single, coherent “object”—a religion called Buddhism, with a canonical text, an essential nature, and a set of doctrines against which contemporary practices could be judged and often found wanting.
This act of colonial construction has had enduring consequences. Today, as Faleiro’s The Robe and the Sword: How Buddhist Extremism Is Shaping Modern Asia demonstrates, the question of what Buddhism “essentially” is remains deeply contested. And nowhere is this contest more fraught than in the countries where Buddhist monks have become entangled with ethnonationalist violence, military juntas, and majoritarian politics.
Faleiro’s book, structured around three country studies—Sri Lanka, Myanmar, and Thailand—offers a journalist’s eye view of these developments. It places each crisis in historical context, shows how religious revivalism and majoritarianism have been intertwined, and introduces readers to the human beings at the heart of these conflicts: victims, perpetrators, and resisters alike. But as Manoj’s review suggests, the book also raises profound conceptual questions. Is this really about Buddhist extremism, or is it about ethnonationalism that manifests through Buddhist symbols? Can a religion of non-violence produce violent actors, and if so, what does that say about the religion itself? And is there any possibility of salvaging a “pure” Buddhism, unsullied by its practice?
Sri Lanka: The Monk as Political Warrior
The first part of Faleiro’s book takes readers to Sri Lanka, where the figure of Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara looms large. Gnanasara is a Buddhist monk who has become infamous for his role in inciting violence against the Muslim minority. He is the leader of Bodu Bala Sena (Buddhist Power Force), an organization that has been implicated in anti-Muslim riots and campaigns of hate speech.
Faleiro’s account situates Gnanasara within a longer history. Sri Lanka’s post-independence politics have been shaped by a powerful Sinhalese Buddhist nationalism that sees the island as a sacred land destined for the protection of the Buddha’s teachings. This ideology was mobilized in the decades-long civil war against the Tamil Tigers, a conflict that ended in 2009 but left deep scars. In the post-war period, some of the nationalist energy that had been directed against Tamil separatists was redirected toward the Muslim community, which constitutes about 10% of the population.
The involvement of monks in politics is not new in Sri Lanka. But the explicit incitement to violence by figures like Gnanasara represents a radicalization that has alarmed many. Faleiro interviews Muslim victims of the violence, giving voice to those who have suffered from the rhetoric and actions of Buddhist extremists. She also explores the institutional responses—or lack thereof—from the broader Buddhist clergy, many of whom have remained silent.
Myanmar: The Monk and the Generals
The second part of the book turns to Myanmar, where the figure of Ashin Wirathu has become synonymous with Buddhist nationalism. Wirathu, a monk from Mandalay, gained international notoriety for his sermons demonizing the Rohingya Muslim minority. His 969 Movement called on Buddhists to boycott Muslim businesses and avoid interactions with Muslims, framing the Rohingya as a threat to the Buddhist character of the nation.
Faleiro’s account traces the deep historical roots of this conflict. Myanmar is a country of extraordinary ethnic and religious diversity, but the Bamar Buddhist majority has long dominated the state. The military, which ruled the country for decades and remains a powerful force, has cultivated an alliance with nationalist monks. Wirathu’s friendship with the military, Faleiro notes, “had saved his life—and cost many others.”
The violence against the Rohingya in 2017, which sent hundreds of thousands fleeing to Bangladesh, was accompanied by rhetoric from monks like Wirathu that legitimized the military’s actions. But Faleiro also introduces readers to a different kind of monk: the dissident Abbot Zero, who dared to stand against the rising chauvinist tide and now lives in exile. His story is a reminder that Buddhist responses to nationalism and violence are not monolithic.
Thailand: A Conceptual Puzzle
The third part of the book, on Thailand, poses a conceptual difficulty, as Manoj notes. It does not deal with extremism and violence in the same way as the Sri Lanka and Myanmar sections. Instead, it focuses on the patriarchal nature of the Thai monkhood, its commercialization, and its corruption.
The central figure here is Phra Dhammachayo, the founder of the Dhammakaya movement, who amassed enormous wealth and promised merit to those who gave generously. The movement’s opulent temples and accumulation of luxury goods stood in stark contrast to the ascetic ideals of the Buddha. Dhammachayo was eventually accused of money laundering and faced arrest before disappearing from public view.
Faleiro uses the Thai case to explore a different dimension of the “worldliness” of monks. This is an eternal question—British writers in the 19th century were already railing against the dissipation and profligacy of Siamese and Chinese monks. But it sits uneasily alongside the accounts of violent extremism in the other two countries. As Manoj argues, it might have been more cohesive to leave Thailand out and focus solely on the more specific issue of Buddhist monks’ links to ethnonationalist violence.
The Common Thread: Ego, Power, and Corruption
In the epilogue, Faleiro attempts to weave these three strands together: “The ego and power—its lure, its ability to corrupt. Monks who had renounced the world now sought to control it. In Thailand, Phra Dhammachayo promised wealth to those who gave generously, turning merit into a commodity. In Sri Lanka, Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara incited violence to win political influence. In Myanmar, Ashin Wirathu’s friendship with the military had saved his life—and cost many others.”
This framing shifts the focus from Buddhism as such to the universal human problems of ego and power. Monks, after all, are human. They are subject to the same temptations as anyone else. The fact that they have renounced the world does not immunize them against worldliness.
But this framing also raises a question: if the problem is ego and power, why focus on Buddhism? Why not write a book about how power corrupts religious figures across traditions? The answer, perhaps, is that Buddhism’s emphasis on non-violence and renunciation makes the gap between ideal and practice particularly stark. When a monk incites violence or accumulates wealth, it is not just a personal failing; it is a violation of the very teachings he is supposed to embody.
The Ahimsa Question
This brings us to the moral and intellectual heart of the matter. Buddhism is centrally associated with ahimsa, or non-harm. The first precept of Buddhist ethics is to refrain from taking life. How, then, can monks be involved in violence?
Faleiro engages with this question through a conversation with a scholar in Dharamshala, who describes the clergy’s helplessness in dealing with violent monks. There is no Vatican in Buddhism, no central authority that can defrock a wayward monk. The sangha (monastic community) is decentralized, and local abbots have considerable autonomy. This makes it difficult to discipline those who stray.
But the problem is not just institutional; it is also doctrinal. Buddhism does not necessarily entail absolute pacifism. Throughout history, justifications have been offered for war. Faleiro recounts a story from the Sri Lankan chronicles: a Sinhalese prince who massacred Tamil forces and was consumed with regret. Monks were there to absolve him, arguing that only Buddhists were fully human, and the Tamil troops were not. This chilling logic—that the lives of non-Buddhists count for less—has been used to justify violence in multiple contexts.
The Resistance: Engaged Buddhism
Faleiro also points to a growing realization within Buddhist communities that “merely refraining from harm is no longer enough. The cries we face demand a more engaged Buddhism—one that responds to violence not only with contemplation but with action.”
The instances of resistance she narrates—from the dissident Abbot Zero in Myanmar to the rebel temples of Thailand that are non-commercial and female-led—may be the forms that action takes. These are Buddhists who are not content to sit in meditation while their co-religionists incite violence. They are speaking out, organizing, and offering an alternative vision of what Buddhism can be.
This “engaged Buddhism” movement has roots in the work of figures like Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Zen master who opposed the war and called for a Buddhism that engages with the suffering of the world. In the contexts Faleiro describes, it represents a fragile but vital counterweight to the forces of nationalism and extremism.
Conclusion: Can Buddhism Be Saved?
The questions raised by Faleiro’s book are not easily answered. Is it possible to salvage a pure Buddhism, shorn of the inconvenient specificities of its practice? The Victorians thought so; they believed they could extract the “essence” of Buddhism from ancient texts and judge contemporary traditions against that standard. But that approach is itself a colonial construct, one that denies the messy reality of how religions actually live and evolve.
Perhaps a better question is not whether Buddhism can be saved, but whether Buddhists can save themselves from the temptations of power and nationalism. The answer to that question will be determined not in texts, but in the struggles of people like Abbot Zero, in the resistance of non-commercial temples, and in the courage of those who speak out against violence.
As Faleiro’s book shows, the robe and the sword can coexist. The question is whether the robe can be reclaimed.
Q&A: Unpacking The Robe and the Sword
Q1: What is the central argument of Sonia Faleiro’s The Robe and the Sword?
A: The book argues that Buddhist extremism, manifested through the involvement of monks in ethnonationalist violence and political power, is shaping modern Asia in profound ways. Through case studies of Sri Lanka, Myanmar, and Thailand, Faleiro shows how religious figures have become entangled with majoritarian politics, military establishments, and commercial interests. The book highlights the human stories behind these developments—victims, perpetrators, and resisters—and places each country’s crisis in historical context. It ultimately raises questions about the relationship between Buddhism’s non-violent ideals and the violent actions of some of its adherents.
**Q2: Why does the reviewer suggest that the Thailand section of the book poses a “conceptual difficulty”?
A:** The reviewer notes that the Thailand section does not deal with extremism and violence in the same way as the Sri Lanka and Myanmar sections. Instead, it focuses on the patriarchal nature of the Thai monkhood, its commercialization, and corruption—exemplified by figures like Phra Dhammachayo, who amassed wealth and turned merit into a commodity. While this is a valid critique of Buddhist institutions, it sits uneasily alongside the accounts of violent ethnonationalism in the other two countries. The reviewer suggests the book might have been more cohesive if it had focused solely on the link between Buddhist monks and ethnonationalist violence.
**Q3: How does the book address the apparent contradiction between Buddhism’s emphasis on non-violence (ahimsa) and the violent actions of some monks?
A:** Faleiro engages with this question through a conversation with a scholar in Dharamshala, who notes the institutional helplessness of the Buddhist clergy in dealing with violent monks due to the decentralized nature of the sangha. She also points to historical justifications for violence within Buddhist traditions, such as the story of a Sinhalese prince who was absolved by monks on the grounds that only Buddhists were fully human. The book also highlights the emergence of “engaged Buddhism”—a movement that calls for responding to violence with action, not just contemplation—as a counterweight to extremism.
Q4: What role does colonialism play in the book’s analysis of Buddhism?
A: The review begins by invoking Philip Almond’s argument that Buddhism was, in a sense, “created” as a coherent object by colonial scholars who synthesized disparate traditions and judged them against ancient texts interpreted through Victorian minds. This colonial construction created the idea of an “essential” Buddhism against which contemporary practices could be measured. Faleiro’s book implicitly challenges this essentialist view by showing the messy, contested reality of Buddhism in practice—a reality that includes violence, nationalism, and corruption alongside peace, compassion, and resistance.
Q5: What examples of resistance to Buddhist extremism does the book provide?
A:** The book introduces readers to several figures who have resisted the tide of Buddhist nationalism and extremism. In Myanmar, there is the dissident Abbot Zero, who dared to stand against the rising chauvinist tide and now lives in exile. In Thailand, Faleiro highlights rebel temples that are non-commercial and female-led, offering an alternative to the corruption and commercialism of the mainstream monkhood. These instances of resistance, while fragile, represent a form of “engaged Buddhism” that responds to violence and injustice with action rather than silence.
