In the summer of 2023, I returned to Dharamshala, an Indian town famous as the home of the Dalai Lama, Tibet’s spiritual leader. Little had changed since my last visit nearly twenty years earlier. The roads were still a mix of rough asphalt and dirt, and Tibetan monks in maroon robes filled the streets. Despite the constant hum of traffic, Dharamshala held a quiet calm. The hills seemed to swallow the noise, and prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, each rustle a whisper of something lasting.
But beneath the surface, Buddhism across Asia has shifted. While still widely seen as a peaceful, nonviolent philosophy, it has been used in some places to fuel nationalism and support governments leaning toward majoritarianism and autocracy.
In countries like Sri Lanka and Myanmar, where the conservative Theravada tradition is strong, monks have become key figures in movements that stir up sectarian hatred. They have set aside the Buddha’s teachings to pursue a more worldly goal: political power. My journey to Dharamshala and other parts of the Buddhist world was an attempt to understand how this change came about.
I wanted to know not only what had happened to Buddhism in these places, but also what it had been before. One principle, above all, defines Buddhism in the eyes of the world: ahimsa, or non-harming. The Sri Lankan monk Walpola Rahula, who taught at Northwestern University, explained the Buddha’s ahimsa as a call not just to avoid harming others, but to prevent violence by others as well.
Mahatma Gandhi embodied nonviolence in modern times. He responded to British colonial exploitation with peaceful non-cooperation. His methods included a 240-mile march against unfair taxes and a 21-day hunger strike. In the 1950s, Martin Luther King Jr. adopted Gandhi’s philosophy for the U.S. civil rights movement. “Christ showed us the way, and Gandhi in India showed us it could work,” King said in 1956 during the Montgomery bus boycott.
Around the same time, events in Asia brought Buddhism into sharper focus for the West. In 1959, as Chinese forces tightened their control over Tibet, the 14th Dalai Lama made a dramatic escape on horseback across the Himalayas into India, capturing global attention and highlighting Tibet’s struggle. By the 1960s, Buddhist monks were teaching Americans how to sit still. Meditation and chanting, once seen as esoteric, came to represent Buddhism itself in the Western imagination. The Dalai Lama’s peaceful response to China’s aggression, promoted by supporters like actor Richard Gere, reinforced Buddhism’s image as a philosophy of nonviolence and inner peace.
For many disillusioned with materialism and searching for deeper meaning, it was exactly what they needed. But as feminist writer and Buddhist bell hooks later noted, the Western embrace of Buddhism often focused on the comforts of those already secure. Soon, Buddha statues were sold alongside crystals, incense, scented oils, and mindfulness apps. What had once been a radical philosophy of letting go and interdependence began to resemble the very consumerism it was meant to challenge.
As for nonviolence, certain historical complexities were overlooked. Few new followers knew that a previous Dalai Lama, Thubten Gyatso, had reformed the Tibetan army in 1913, or that rivalries between Tibetan monasteries sometimes led monks to take up arms. Even the distinct traditions within Buddhism—Mahayana, Theravada, and Tantric—were blended into a single, marketable idea: Buddhism as a balm.
This is partly why the idea of Buddhist militancy shocks many in the West. Yet by the 2000s, in Buddhist-majority nations like Sri Lanka and Myanmar,Nationalist groups have adopted strikingly similar tactics: spreading fear, organizing militantly, and inciting violence. A strategy of dividing communities, which originated in colonial-era policies, has been adapted to exploit modern anxieties and used to intimidate fellow citizens.
In Sri Lanka, the saffron robes of Buddhist monks have become a symbol of fear for the Muslim minority, as groups like the Bodu Bala Sena rally supporters under the guise of “protecting” Buddhism. In Myanmar, monks such as Ashin Wirathu, dressed in similar robes, have fueled hatred against the Rohingya. These monks leading violent movements appear motivated not by a quest for nirvana in the afterlife, but by a desire for power in this world. I realized that their actions are partly shaped by historical forces like colonialism, which imposed racial hierarchies and favored certain religions over others. Economic inequality has worsened these tensions, driving people to seek comfort in religion and giving monks excessive social and political influence. This pattern mirrors other regions where violent nationalist movements gain strength by targeting minorities, with those in power exploiting a sense of victimhood to tighten their control.
These monks also highlight a less-discussed aspect of Buddhism: its patriarchal structure. Across South and Southeast Asia, especially in the Theravada tradition, male monks hold privileges systematically denied to women. Figures like Wirathu, celebrated by followers and legitimized by their robes, reveal these hierarchies—who is elevated, who is heard, and who is silenced. Their rise demonstrates how nationalism intertwines with masculine ideologies to reinforce male dominance. In response, Buddhist nuns have emerged as some of the bravest opponents of political repression and religious patriarchy. In Tibet, many have protested Chinese rule at great personal risk, with some resorting to self-immolation and others disappearing.
At the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives in Dharamshala, scholar Geshe Lhakdor offered a sobering view of the moral crisis facing the Buddhist clergy. Paraphrasing Martin Luther King Jr., he said, “I don’t feel sad when bad people do bad things. I feel sad when good people don’t do anything.” He explained that the real danger isn’t just the extremists but the overwhelming silence of the majority.
In Dharamshala, I met Lhakpa Tsering, who gained international attention in 2006 when, at 23, he set himself on fire outside the Taj Mahal Palace hotel in Mumbai. A Tibetan refugee, Lhakpa timed his protest to coincide with a visit by Chinese premier Hu Jintao. Now in his 40s, Lhakpa is a married father running a small cafe in the hills of Dharamshala. His resistance has taken a new form: he writes and directs plays about Tibetan refugee life. The fire hadn’t left visible scars, but he told me he still feels occasional pain where his skin burned. As we sat in his cafe eating dumplings, he asked if I knew the story of the Buddha and the starving tigress.
In the tale, the Buddha, as a prince, encounters a starving tigress and her cubs. Seeing she is too weak to hunt, the prince leaps off a cliff, offering his body as a sacrifice. “I will kill my miserable body by casting it down into the precipice, and with my corpse I shall preserve the tigress from killing her young ones and the young ones from dying by the teeth of their mother.” The moral is clear: though the Buddha opposed even self-inflicted violence, such sacrifice could be justified for the greater good. “To sacrifice your body for the well-being of another,” Lhakpa told me, “is the highest form of nonviolent action.”For Lhakpa, self-immolation was not just an act of protest; it was the living continuation of an ancient Buddhist tradition of profound sacrifice. His willingness to give up his body echoed the transcendent generosity the Buddha showed the starving tigress. Yet I was aware that such stories had also been used as ammunition by violent Buddhists who justified aggression by claiming their actions were for the greater good—to protect Buddhists and Buddhism itself.
As I left, Lhakpa stacked our teacups and wiped the table. The prayer flags continued to flutter above the hills. In the town below, monks walked as they always had, but something had shifted. The silence no longer felt like peace.
Later that summer, I drove south from Colombo, the Sri Lankan capital, to meet Fazeena Fihar, a Muslim tutor who had survived a terrible ordeal. Her village, Adhikarigoda, was a breezy hamlet of whitewashed houses and fragrant trees. Fihar, a tall 41-year-old woman wearing a hijab, had sharply defined cheekbones. She led me into a living room where the sofa was still wrapped in plastic, and I noticed the walls were conspicuously bare—no family photos, no academic certificates, none of the proud displays common in Sri Lankan homes. I didn’t need to ask why.
In 2014, a mob had ransacked Fihar’s house, trampling through the family’s mango orchard, burning their tuk-tuk, and setting fire to all their belongings. Beds, tables, crockery, curtains, photo albums, schoolbooks, even a doll’s house—everything was reduced to ashes. All that surrounded me now, from floor to ceiling, was new, rebuilt over many difficult years.
Fihar brought me tea in a delicate white cup but refused to sit. She stood with her gaze fixed on the open window overlooking the empty road. “Did you see the videos?” she asked. “It was purely against Muslims. ‘Don’t go to their shops. Don’t eat their food.’”
Fihar was referring to a speech by a Buddhist monk named Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara. By 2023, Sri Lanka had no shortage of controversial clergy, but Gnanasara stood out. His exploits were legendary: he had been involved in hit-and-runs, pleaded guilty to drunk driving, and flaunted luxury cars and groups of bodyguards.
Understanding Sri Lanka’s complex religious landscape is key to making sense of Gnanasara’s rise. In this island nation of 22 million, Buddhism is not just a faith but a cornerstone of national identity for the Sinhalese majority, who make up over 70% of the population. The constitution itself grants Buddhism “the foremost place,” creating a delicate balance—or imbalance—between secular governance and religious preference. This often makes religious minorities, including Tamil Hindus (12.6%), Muslims (9.7%), and Christians (7.4%), feel like second-class citizens.
The reverence given to monks explains why figures like Gnanasara remain in the clergy despite repeated transgressions that, according to the Vinaya—the monastic code of conduct established by the Buddha himself—should lead to disrobing.
Gnanasara has a talent for reinventing himself. Born in 1975 in Galle, on Sri Lanka’s southwestern coast, he came from a very modest family. He has several siblings and remains close to his elderly mother. He says he began his monastic life as a forest monk, living in cave-like dwellings in the dry tropical forests, devoted to rigorous mental and moral discipline. Anyone familiar with the man he later became may find this origin story hard to believe. According to Gnanasara, within a few years he left the solitude of the forest for the bustle of Colombo, where he enrolled at a monastic university. In Colombo, a different story about his past circulated.Rather than being drawn to religion, he was widely seen as a minor criminal who had taken up monastic robes to escape imprisonment. In the mid-2000s, Gnanasara became a member of the Jathika Hela Urumaya (JHU), the world’s first political party composed entirely of Buddhist monks. He ran for parliament but was defeated. Gradually, he forged strong ties with Sri Lanka’s most influential and divisive political family, the Rajapaksas. Ambika Satkunanathan, former commissioner of the Human Rights Commission of Sri Lanka, explained, “No matter who holds power, all Sinhalese parties are somewhat wary of the monks. Before introducing any new policy, they consult the monks to explain it and secure their backing. The influence the monks wield is what politicians have granted them.”
In 2012, Gnanasara co-founded the Bodu Bala Sena (BBS), or Army of Buddhist Power, which claimed to defend the Buddhist majority from perceived threats by minority religious groups. Their main demands included preferential treatment for Buddhist students and bans on Muslim practices like ritual cattle slaughter and halal certification. Gnanasara and his BBS associates organized rallies that attracted thousands and used social media to amplify their message. Their language grew increasingly aggressive. At one event, Gnanasara proclaimed, “This country still has a Sinhala police and a Sinhala army. From today, if any Muslim or other minority harms a Sinhalese… it will be their end.”
This rhetoric didn’t arise in isolation. Sri Lanka had been devastated by a 26-year civil war that ended in 2009, pitting the government against Tamil separatists seeking independence. Although often portrayed as an ethnic conflict, with most Tamils being Hindu and Sinhalese Buddhist, the war left deep wounds and heightened tensions among all of Sri Lanka’s diverse communities.
Many people I spoke with believed that, despite his divisive stance, Gnanasara operated above the law. Sri Lanka’s president, Gotabaya Rajapaksa—who later fled by helicopter amid widespread protests—had appointed the monk to lead a task force tasked with making clearly anti-Muslim legal changes. Gnanasara enjoyed the typical privileges of a South Asian politician, including armed guards and obsequious respect. Rauff Hakeem, a parliament member and leader of the country’s largest Muslim political party, remarked, “The yellow robes are untouchable.”
When questioned about his actions, Gnanasara once told the press it was his duty to counter any threat to Buddhism. “Attaining nirvana,” he stated, “can wait.”
On June 15, 2014, Gnanasara arrived in Aluthgama, a town on Sri Lanka’s west coast, supposedly to support a monk who had argued with some Muslim youths on a busy street. The young men had already been forced by police to kneel and apologize to the offended monk, who had slapped them, and his supporters had attacked Muslim-owned shops.
News of Gnanasara’s arrival spread rapidly on social media, where his already large following was growing by the minute. A stage was set, and the media was invited. By the time he stepped out of his chauffeur-driven car, looking more troubled than usual, a crowd of 7,000 had gathered, including many robed monks, all eager to hear their leader speak.
Forty minutes away, Fihar was at home, recovering from the recent birth of her third child. As her older children played nearby, she nursed the baby and chatted with her husband, Muhammed. Soon, their phones buzzed with WhatsApp messages containing clips of Gnanasara’s speech. “Enough is enough,” he declared, urging the cheering crowd to “fight” the country’s minorities. After the speech ended, Buddhist mobs swept through Aluthgama, setting fire to Muslim homes and businesses.
The violence quickly intensified, and it wasn’t long before…Before the mob reached Fihar’s village, she stood by the window, clutching her newborn to her chest, listening as the angry shouts grew louder and closer. Frozen with fear, she told me, “We called the police. They said, ‘We’re coming, we’re coming,’ but they never did.”
Her Sinhalese neighbors, whose children Fihar had taught for years, were also nowhere to be seen. “That day,” Fihar said, “they forgot about me.” As the mob arrived at her gate, she and her family slipped away into the thick jungle, taking only their house deed and some gold jewelry.
Over the next several hours, Sri Lanka plunged into its worst religious violence in decades. Muslims were attacked in the streets, their shops destroyed and looted, their homes set on fire. Even mosques were burned.
On the night of the violence, when CNN contacted Gnanasara, he was unavailable for comment. Dilanthe Withanage, the head of the monk’s anti-Muslim group, told the network, “It is true our priest spoke strongly. He blessed the people after chanting and urged them to act peacefully.” Withanage claimed the accusations against the BBS were “an attempt to discredit Buddhist clergy and Buddhism.”
When the violence subsided, three people were dead—a surprisingly low number given the mob’s size and the police’s failure to intervene for nearly 24 hours. Fihar and her family returned the next day to find their house still standing, but the roof had caved in and the walls were black with soot. It took them a year to rebuild, she told me. Despite everything, she refused to leave the area and continues to teach the local Sinhalese children. When I asked why, she said she had no choice—but neither did they. “They need me to teach them,” she explained grimly, “and I need them to pay me. We need each other.”
According to Satkunanathan, the former human rights commissioner, the low death toll in 2014 may have been because the attackers were motivated more by “economic envy” than a desire to kill. Many Muslim families, like Fihar’s, owned their homes and had motorcycles or tuk-tuks. They were viewed as ambitious, successful in business, and upwardly mobile.
This economic aspect adds another dimension to Sri Lanka’s religious tensions. In the country, faith is deeply intertwined with politics and commerce. The perception that some minority groups have disproportionate economic success has long bred resentment among parts of the Sinhalese majority—a resentment that nationalist rhetoric and militant monks are quick to exploit.
I first visited Sri Lanka in the early 2000s, during the final years of the civil war. By then, much of the north was controlled by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), an armed separatist group formed in 1976 in response to decades of state discrimination against Tamils. Only the Jaffna peninsula remained outside LTTE control during my visit.
The Tamils I spoke with despised the Sri Lankan army and government and dreamed of their own country. While not all supported the LTTE’s tactics—such as suicide bombings and using child soldiers—they referred to the group as “our boys” and saw them as heroes. In contrast, most Sinhalese I met wanted the LTTE crushed by any means necessary. They were frustrated with the government’s inability to defeat the insurgents, despite military aid from India and Israel and widespread condemnation from Western governments.
One might have expected Buddhist monks to promote peace. Instead, many prominent monks advocated for escalating military action, shaping the national media’sI coined the term “war monks.” Among them was Athuraliye Rathana Thero, a key figure in founding the Jathika Hela Urumaya (JHU), or National Heritage Party, which Gnanasara would later join. In 2004, the year of its establishment, the JHU won nine seats in general elections, marking the first time Buddhist monks sat in parliament alongside career politicians.
The JHU is widely seen as the mother ship of modern Buddhist nationalism, fueling anti-minority sentiment in Sri Lanka much like the Hindu nationalist Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh has done in India. “Talk can come later,” Rathana told the Telegraph in 2007. “We need war.” Today, he is a four-term member of parliament who continues to deliver inflammatory speeches and stage hunger strikes to advance his agenda.
After the war ended in 2009 with the government’s victory over the LTTE, militant monks, supported by Sinhalese nationalist politicians, shifted their focus to Sri Lanka’s Muslims. They portrayed Muslims as outsiders whose religious and cultural practices threatened Sinhala-Buddhist identity, just as they had once claimed about the Tamils.
Muslims have been as integral to the island as any other religious group, having arrived as Arab traders in the seventh century and built deep-rooted communities. But for nationalists seeking to consolidate power, Muslims served a different purpose. By depicting them as aligned with a global Islamic order rather than the Sri Lankan state, nationalists argued they could never truly belong. Groups like Gnanasara’s BBS helped fuel a moral panic, casting Muslims as the ultimate “other.” According to state agencies and human rights groups, Muslims were targeted in hundreds of violent incidents between 2012 and 2015.
This narrative of Muslims as the “enemy within” clashed with the Buddhist ideal of ahimsa, or non-harming. Monks are meant to embody this principle. Yet in Sri Lanka, the militant monks who stirred anti-Muslim hatred were not outliers—they reflected how fully Buddhism had been enlisted to serve the state’s ambitions.
By the time I returned to Sri Lanka, over a decade after the civil war ended, new divisions had taken hold. The violence no longer resembled a single blaze but a series of smaller, smoldering fires, each capable of spiraling out of control. Sometimes, between interviews, I would stop at a Buddhist temple or shrine. You didn’t need to be religious to be moved by the rituals: lighting incense, offering fresh flowers, or turning a prayer wheel. Though I couldn’t understand the mantras, I felt the peace they evoked. In such moments, I struggled to reconcile Buddhism’s promise of compassion with the hostility unfolding around me.
As a Catholic, I’ve grappled all my life with the stain of complicity within my own faith. In Europe, many churches stand not only as monuments to devotion but also to empires built on the backs of enslaved people and stolen lands in the Americas, Asia, and Africa. Marble pillars and gilded altars were often paid for with blood money. These reminders were never far from my mind in Sri Lanka, where I found myself returning to a familiar question: Are Buddhist monks so different from priests and clerics who vow to serve a higher purpose but sometimes lose their way? They are expected to be better than everyone else. But in a world shaped by conflict and fear, perhaps no vow, no matter how sacred, is entirely safe from the pull of politics.
Three months after the 2014 mob attack in Aluthgama, Galagoda Aththe Gnanasara hosted a special guest in Sri Lanka: Ashin Wirathu. At the time of his visit, Wirathu was already the world’s most notorious Buddhist monk. In 2013, he had appeared on the cover of Time magazine with the headline “The Face of Buddhist Terror,” highlighting his role in inciting deadly riots in towns like Meiktila, where…Dozens of Muslims were hunted down and killed. Despite this, the Sri Lankan government not only approved his visa but also provided him with a security detail.
At a stadium filled with tens of thousands of monks, nuns, and laypeople eager to hear him speak, Wirathu announced that his 969 movement would join forces with Gnanasara’s BBS to “protect Buddhism around the world.” He offered no further explanation, leaving his message open to interpretation. “It is the responsibility of monks, as Buddha’s sons, to teach bad and uncivilized people to become good and civilized,” he said.
The rally was a major success for Gnanasara, raising his profile among Sri Lanka’s growing number of militant monks. As his influence grew, his speeches became more inflammatory. He expressed contempt for women wearing hijabs and spread false claims that the Qur’an allows Muslims to take non-Muslims’ wealth through fraud. When Muslim leaders disputed his lies, he threatened “another Aluthgama.”
Then, in late February 2018, an incident in Digana, a small town in Sri Lanka’s Central Province, sparked exactly that. A group of Muslim men attacked a Sinhalese Buddhist truck driver, who later died from his injuries. Mainstream media and social networks amplified the story. On Facebook and WhatsApp, people called for revenge. One widely shared post quoted a monk telling his followers, “The sword at home is no longer for cutting jackfruit—sharpen it and go.”
Among the militant monks, Sinhalese nationalists, and angry young men who gathered in Digana was Ampitiye Sumanarathana Thero, a notorious social media personality and ordained monk. Sumanarathana enjoyed filming himself threatening minorities. In one viral video, he marched up to a man and shouted, “Every single Tamil will be cut into pieces! They will all be killed!” In another widely circulated clip, he slapped a Christian clergyman he accused of missionary work in a Buddhist area.
In Digana, Sumanarathana stormed into a police station to demand the arrest of the Muslims responsible for the truck driver’s assault. Gnanasara also came to town, supposedly to offer condolences to the driver’s family. Within hours of his arrival, a Muslim-owned grocery store was looted and set on fire. Later, a mob of several hundred people armed with sticks, stones, and gasoline descended on the area.
By the time the violence ended, over 300 homes, more than 200 shops, dozens of vehicles, 20 mosques, and two Hindu temples had been destroyed. A 27-year-old man named Abdul Basith was dead. “The state failed in its duty to protect the Muslim minority during the attacks; hold perpetrators accountable; and deliver justice,” Amnesty International declared.
The international outcry finally prompted action. The government arrested more than a hundred people, including prominent Sinhalese nationalist leaders. Yet the monks Sumanarathana and Gnanasara were not approached by the police.
In Colombo, after days of waiting, Gnanasara finally agreed to meet me. When the time came, his armed guard led me into a dim room that smelled of stale incense. The militant monk sat at the far end, hunched over his phone. He was larger than I had expected, and his bright orange robe kept slipping off his shoulder, revealing loose, pale flesh. He didn’t bother to adjust it. A group of monks filed in, smiling blandly. One of them began lecturing me about Buddhism. “You have to practice it,” he droned. “Don’t do bad things.”
Gnanasara finally looked up, scowling. “Enough,” he snapped.
His spokesperson, Withanage, translated with an apologetic smile. Withanage was an odd character. Armed with an electronics engineering degree from Tbilisi, Georgia, he dedicated his time in Sri Lanka to defending Gnanasara’s hate speech.In a news magazine interview, he claimed that Christian evangelicals were enticing Buddhists to convert by offering material incentives. “They come here, preach, and damage Buddhism’s reputation,” he stated. “They provide jobs and housing to those who switch to Christianity.”
During my visit to the island, I observed a change: the animosity previously aimed at Muslims was now targeting Christians. News reports detailed assaults on pastors, vandalism of churches, and disruptions of worship services. It seemed the monks had pushed their anti-Muslim agenda to its limit and now required a new adversary to maintain their influence and audience interest. Rather than following religious teachings, their actions appeared calculated and strategic.
When I inquired if Gnanasara viewed himself as a political leader, Withanage translated with a delighted smile, as if anticipating the question would please him.
“That’s how others perceive me,” Gnanasara replied with a smirk, before launching into a familiar rant about safeguarding Buddhism from foreign influences. He shuffled over to a comfortable armchair, tucking his phone into his robe; each notification lit up his abdomen like a lantern. “We must protect our culture,” he asserted, “but we never resort to violence.”
I asked who exactly he was protecting it from. Without pause, he cited the 2019 Easter bombings—carried out by local Muslim extremists who attacked churches and luxury hotels—as proof of what he described as a wider Muslim plot to destabilize the nation. He darkly hinted at an “organized network” operating in secret.
When I suggested his rhetoric might incite violence, he scoffed. “The media distorts everything,” he retorted. “They even accused me of threatening to harm a Muslim politician. How could I say such a thing?” He burst into loud laughter, and the surrounding monks immediately joined in, their amusement swelling as if it were a shared joke. They sipped tea, nibbled on cashews, and encouraged me to partake before turning back to their phones, scrolling idly.
Withanage continued translating Gnanasara’s abrupt Sinhalese. The monk’s reinterpretation of history depicted a Ceylon united under Buddhism until the British introduced divisive Christianity. Now, Gnanasara proclaimed, the BBS was on a mission to correct this colonial interference. Throughout our discussion, his attitude shifted between smug self-satisfaction and thinly veiled aggression. He frequently spoke of “fighting” for Buddhist values, all while maintaining the BBS’s dedication to nonviolence.
As I prepared to leave, Gnanasara tried to lighten the mood. “We may have made errors,” he conceded, escorting me to the door. Then, with a grin, he added, “But we always serve tea to our guests.”
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about the topic The alarming surge of Buddhist extremism Nirvana can wait
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 What is Buddhist extremism
Its when a small minority of Buddhists use violence hate speech or political pressure against other religious or ethnic groups contradicting Buddhisms core principles of peace and compassion
2 I thought Buddhism was a peaceful religion How can there be Buddhist extremists
While the core teachings are peaceful like any major religion interpretations can be twisted Some groups blend nationalism with their faith believing they must protect their ethnic or national identity even by violent means
3 Where is this happening
This is most prominently seen in countries like Myanmar against the Rohingya Muslim minority in Sri Lanka against Tamil Hindus and Muslims and to a lesser extent in Thailand and Cambodia
4 What does the phrase Nirvana can wait mean in this context
Its a provocative way of saying that these extremist groups are prioritizing nationalist and political goalslike defending their race or nationover the ultimate spiritual goal of achieving Nirvana
IntermediateLevel Questions
5 What are the main causes behind this surge
Key causes include fear of losing cultural or majority status historical ethnic tensions political leaders using religion to gain power and misinformation spread about minority groups
6 Who are the key figures or groups involved
Notable examples include Ashin Wirathu and the 969 Movement in Myanmar and the Bodu Bala Sena in Sri Lanka
7 How do these extremists justify violence when it goes against Buddhist precepts
They often frame their actions as defensive They portray themselves as protecting the Dhamma and their community from what they see as an existential threat from other religions redefining violence as a necessary form of compassion for their own people
8 What is the 969 Movement
Its a nationalist movement in Myanmar that promotes a boycott of Muslimowned businesses and encourages Buddhists to only patronize Buddhist ones The numbers symbolize the virtues of the Buddha his teachings and the monastic community
Advanced Practical Questions
9 How does this extremism affect the global perception of Buddhism
It creates a major
