Journal of Global Buddhism 2024, Vol.25 (1)
https://doi.org/10.26034/lu.jgb.2024.3813

Special Focus: Buddhism in the Anthropocene

The Ceylon ironwood trees stand tall like giants in the forest. They are in bloom, but I only know this from the soft, white petals that float down through the canopy. These trees have been standing tall here for hundreds of years, in a forest grove that possibly dates back to the time when the first Buddhist monasteries were established in Sri Lanka. A rock inscription in a nearby cave declares that a pleasure garden of a king was converted to a monastery here two millennia ago. Did these trees witness that change, I wonder, from a place for indulging in sensual pleasures to one that facilitates sense restraint?

I come around a bend in the narrow footpath through the forest and notice a great migration underway: a thick column of black ants, stretching out as far as one can see before it disappears into the undergrowth at both ends. I know that a monk has passed this way before me, for there are small twigs laid carefully alongside the ant column where it shares our path, alerting passers-by to be mindful of other beings using it.

On the way back, I witness a great massacre. The visiting hours, during which lay people can explore the monastery, bring eyes that are not as mindful, feet that are not as gentle. Thousands of ants lie dead along the footpath, crushed under the feet of lay Buddhists.¹

Evaluating a wide selection of contributions to the field of Buddhism and ecology, Donald Swearer (2006: 124–25) proposes a five-fold taxonomy of Buddhist eco-philosophical positions: (1) eco-apologists, who hold that a Buddhist eco-ethic extends naturally from the “Buddhist worldview;”² (2) eco-critics, who do not see the Buddhist worldview harmonizing with an eco-ethic; (3) eco-constructivists, who maintain that one can construct a Buddhist eco-ethic, though this is not co-terminus with the Buddhist worldview; (4) eco-ethicists, who draw an eco-ethic from Buddhist ethics rather than the Buddhist worldview; and (5), eco-contextualists, who define an effective eco-ethic as one based on each context and situation.³ An analysis of these positions reveals that some of them tend to place great emphasis on doctrine, derived primarily from how the Buddhist texts are interpreted by their proponents rather than how they are put into practice by Buddhists. Some eco-apologists, for example, ascribe an ecological significance to seminal Buddhist doctrines such as paticcasamuppāda (dependent co-arising) and anattā (not-self) in ways that seem to transcend their conventional religious confines, especially in Theravada Buddhism. Eco-critics, on the other hand, fail to see how the soteriological focus of early Buddhist teachings would leave the practitioner any room to accommodate a worldly concern for the environment. According to them, the ideal Buddhist seeks the end of existence and the world,⁴ and at most can only be equanimous to the happenings of the “world outside.” The other three positions appear less dogmatic and seem to find more ready support in actual Buddhist practice, but one may question their authenticity: it is not always obvious as to what extent, and in what sense, they are based on Buddhist teachings rather than modern sensibilities (Harris 2000).

What is not in question, however, is the importance of distinguishing a Buddhist ecological ethic that would help the religious tradition formulate a basis to answer the challenges posed by the Anthropocene. As argued by Stephen Gardiner (2011: 20), the Anthropocene can be seen primarily as an ethical failure. While dominant discourses about the nature of climate change tend to be scientific and economic, he views the deepest challenge as an ethical one, because “we cannot get very far in discussing why climate change is a problem without invoking ethical considerations.” He further points out that, at a more practical level, making the necessary policy decisions to deal with climate change would involve grappling with ethical questions. If the Buddhist teachings are to remain relevant in the worldly sense in these troubled times,⁵ the definition of an effective Buddhist eco-ethic is imperative.

The aim of this autoethnographic study of Theravada Buddhism in Sri Lanka is to discuss how one may identify such an ethical foundation based on the praxis of a unique community: the forest-dwelling (araññavāsī) “radical virtuosi” (Silber 1981: 165), a distinct group within the monastic Sangha “adhering to a more radical renunciation, entailing a greater disconnection from the lay world”. This sets them apart from the conventional village-dwelling (gāmavāsī) Sangha, referred to as the “institutionalized virtuosi” by Ilana Silber. These forest monastics are few in number, yet wield a disproportionately significant influence over how Buddhism is conceived in contemporary Sri Lanka, personifying an ideal against which other ways of Buddhist practice are measured. In the eyes of lay Buddhists, the forest monastics’ strict adherence to the Vinaya (Buddhist monastic code) positions them “as close as it is possible to get to acting out in daily life the spiritual goal of attaining Nibbāna” (Gombrich 2006: 89). Thus, we find the forest monastics’ relationship with the natural environment standing as the ultimate practical expression of any foundation for an eco-ethic that might be inherent to Theravada Buddhism, adding a complementary dimension to the current discourse on “Buddhist environmentalism” (Clippard 2011; Darlington 2018).

The Elusive Radical Virtuosi

The early Buddhist texts of the Theravada tradition record the Buddha repeatedly exhorting his followers to meditate, pointing out, “there are these roots of trees, these empty huts.”⁶ The texts also claim that many hundreds of monastics followed this advice successfully.⁷ The Theravada commentarial literature also names numerous disciples who have supposedly heeded this call during later centuries. Quite oblivious to the scepticism expressed in some academic quarters about the historicity and practicality of this Buddhist ascetic ideal (e.g., Schopen 2004), a small number of present-day Theravadins continue to place faith in the ancient texts, and have made it their life’s mission to seek out the roots of trees and empty huts in which to meditate. They are the forest-dwelling radical virtuosi.

Despite the long history of Buddhism in Sri Lanka, contemporary forest monasticism is not an uninterrupted continuation of an ancient way of life; it is a result of a series of reform movements that swept the Theravada world in the past two centuries. The ascetic dimensions of modern Buddhist reform in Thailand have been studied by Stanley Tambiah (1976, 1984) and Kamala Tiyavanich (1997, 2003), and in Myanmar by Erik Braun (2013) and Guillaume Rozenberg (2010). In Sri Lanka, the anthropological and historical study by Michael Carrithers (1983) remains the singular major work on this subject, in which, among other things, the origins and early years of the country’s primary forest monastic institution, Śrī Kalyāṇī Yogāśrama Saṁsthāva,⁸ have been examined. Today, almost half a century since the time Carrithers conducted his fieldwork, the forest sangha of the Saṁsthāva continues to play an important role in Sri Lankan Buddhism (Sirisena 2021). This is no small achievement.⁹ Even under the best of conditions, few Buddhists find the austere way of life of the forest monastic an appealing prospect for themselves. And yet, over the past seventy years—a period in which Sri Lanka has seen many disruptive changes, including a devastating civil war—the Saṁsthāva has been able to steadily grow its community to about seven-hundred monks, and remains largely consistent with its originally purported values. This modern, and evidently resilient, reconstruction of forest monasticism is probably the form of contemporary Theravada practice that is closest to the asceticism followed by the Buddha and his direct disciples. As Reginald Ray (1994: 397) has suggested:

[T]here can be no doubt that the forest ideal was earliest (the Buddha himself followed it), was seen as superior (it led directly to realization), and was considered normative for earliest Buddhism (it represented direct emulation of the Buddha’s example, and, furthermore, those who followed it practiced what the Buddhist town-and-village renunciates would have preached).

Its religious significance notwithstanding, forest monasticism—and the Sri Lankan variety in particular—continues to be an understudied aspect of Theravada Buddhism.¹⁰ This can be attributed to several reasons. Broader trends within the anthropology of Buddhism (Sihlé and Ladwig 2017; Gellner 2017) seem to emphasize the study of more conspicuous phenomena. Heterodox—and in the case of the Saṁsthāva, “ultra-orthodox” (Silber 1981: 183)—practices of individuals that embody “extreme” expressions of religious commitment appear to not have drawn much academic interest. Even when there is such interest, the secluded, ascetic nature of the forest monastic lifestyle, bound by a Vinaya interpretation that restricts engagement with non-monastics, makes scholarly access difficult.¹¹ Where access could be gained, language barriers and the need for specialized knowledge of Buddhist and cultural practices may further limit the extent of the engagement. The lack of insight into this community due to these reasons leaves a significant gap in our understanding of the diversity of contemporary Theravada Buddhism and the multiple ways it can contribute to environmental conservation.

I was able to circumvent these obstacles inadvertently, by having been a forest monk myself. I became an anagārika (a candidate for ordination) in the Saṁsthāva in December 2007, received the pabbajjā (going forth; novice ordination) in March 2008, and had the upasampadā (higher ordination) a year later, after completing the required training for each step. My intention was to remain a forest monk for the rest of my days. However, due to a multitude of reasons I had to return to lay life in October 2011, but I remain a practicing Buddhist and continue to maintain a close affinity with the Saṁsthāva.¹² Thus, the primary sources for what is discussed here are my own memories, as well as records in the form of personal journal entries, published and unpublished essays, and correspondence carried out as a monastic. This autoethnographic account has been enriched by conversations with current and former forest monks who were my contemporaries. As with all autoethnography, my main objective here is the purposeful and evocative sharing of personal experience in order to facilitate a nuanced understanding of the subject (Adams and Herrmann 2023).

Forest Monastics of the Saṁsthāva

The defining characteristic of the Saṁsthāva as a monastic organization is taking the texts seriously and trying to put them into practice.¹³ They profess a strict adherence to the Pali canon and the Theravada commentarial literature. Naturally, there are differences between individual monks with regards to what they consider canonical, the level of importance they attribute to the commentarial interpretations, and the level of intensity and commitment of their practice, but these have not been large enough to cause division within the community. The Saṁsthāva, by and large, remains the Buddhist monastic organisation that is the most faithful to the forest ideal in contemporary Sri Lanka. Its primary concern is with doctrinal studies and meditation practice, leaving most social obligations towards the laity in the hands of “village” monks.

Forest monastics are quite easily recognized by their comportment. Most of them—and exceptions are rare—conduct themselves in a calm and aloof manner, their actions marked by an attempt to maintain mindfulness. Their robes are of a duller and darker hue than those of “village” monks, and because a monk may only have two outer robes as stipulated in the Vinaya,¹⁴ theirs tend to appear timeworn. When outside the monastery, forest monastics wear the robe covering both shoulders and carry their bowl with them, also in contrast to their temple counterparts. The daily schedule of a forest monastic is simple: there are some communal duties, but most of the time is devoted to study and meditation.

Much of my monastic life was spent in one of the largest forest monasteries in Sri Lanka, which occupied an entire mountain range of about five thousand acres and was home to about one hundred monks.¹⁵ Over the years, it gained a reputation for being one of the main “meditation monasteries” in the Saṁsthāva, where monastic practice was given precedence over the study of texts. There are three large meditation halls where daily group meditation sessions and biweekly silent retreats are conducted, but most monks tend to prefer the solitude of their own hut (Sinhala: kuṭiya). These huts come in various shapes and sizes: the most common type is made with brick and mortar, often on top of four concrete pillars elevating it above the forest floor so as to keep animals and insects out. The most coveted are the cave dwellings, deeply significant for the monks due to their association with past sages, which is not a mere figment of imagination, but part of history memorialised by rock inscriptions. The caves in this monastery are augmented with brick walls on the open sides to make them more practical and comfortable—to the extent a simple space with a cement floor, a rock ceiling, and a mat to sleep on could be called so.

The forest that engulfs the huts, caves, and the meditation halls is not uniform. The best-preserved part of the old forest is also home to the oldest part of the monastery, where one finds the cave dwellings. Much of the mountain range is covered by young trees that have been planted through a reforestation project by the state’s Department of Forest Conservation. In operation since the early 2000s, this reforestation is aimed at reversing the damage done by government-led logging in the past, the remnants of which can be seen in the grasslands in some areas of the reserve. The entire forest is out of bounds for all human activity apart from those pertaining to the monastery. The only visitors to the forest are those who visit the monastery, for whom there are designated visiting hours; one does not see people on picnics, trips, or hikes in this forest.

Forest Monasteries and Forest Conservation

The fallen tree trunk has been lying here for ages, and each passing year a small piece of it gets consumed by the fires lit for dying the robes and blackening the bowls of monks in the monastery. This time, it will be for our robes and bowls. Five of us are preparing to ordain as novice monks, and we have collected firewood by foraging the forest for dead trees and branches.

This tree trunk, however, lies conveniently close to the fireplace, and we partake in the ritual of chopping a piece of it for our fire.

“What type of tree is this, bhante? It’s all hardwood,” I ask Venerable Ratana, the senior monk overseeing the proceedings.

“It’s Ebony.”

Ceylon Ebony (Diospyrus ebenum) is a protected species in Sri Lanka. It is also expensive: just one kilogram of it can be worth around thirty US Dollars—probably the most valuable type of local timber. And here we are, using this veritable fortune as firewood.

Sri Lanka, together with the Western Ghats of India, forms one of the thirty-six bio-diversity hotspots of the world, with a remarkable degree of endemism (Lindström, Mattsson, and Nissanka 2012). It is mainly in the forests—which cover 29.7 percent of the land—that this biodiversity and ecosystem diversity can be found (Rathnayake, Jones, and Soto-Berelov 2020). As party to the Paris Agreement, Sri Lanka’s “Nationally-Determined Contributions” to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change includes a goal of not only conserving but increasing this forest cover to 32 percent by 2030 (Sri Lanka Ministry of Environment 2021: 22). The changes made to Sri Lanka’s Forest Conservation Ordinance via the Forest (Amendment) Act allow for the introduction of a “management plan” that incorporates the goal of “obtaining community and non-state sector participation in the sustainable management of reserved forests.”¹⁶ One way this participation is facilitated is by granting permits to monastic institutions to establish their residences in protected forests, which, in the words of the Act, is supposed to develop a “benefit sharing mechanism.” The assumption is that the benefits sought by the monastics are also beneficial for the forest reserves.

Monasteries and monks’ dwellings located in forests have been part of the landscape of Sri Lankan Buddhism since its earliest days (Coningham 1995), so this is a continuation of a tradition that is more than two millennia old. Peter Harvey (2000: 178) notes that “conservation of species and habitat is not something that Buddhist cultures, in pre-modern times, have had to give much attention to, as Buddhist values have meant that the environment has not been over-exploited”. He cites Chatsumarn Kabilsingh (1988), who attributes the comparatively lower level of wildlife destruction in Sri Lanka to religious sensibilities. Whether this is still broadly applicable to Sri Lankan society is questionable, but in the case of forest monastics, it seems to hold true because forest monastics embody the most comprehensive form of renunciation in Theravada Buddhism.¹⁷ When joining the Sangha, they renounce all types of personal wealth. Not accepting money and money-substitutes (such as credit cards),¹⁸ not engaging in any form of trade,¹⁹ and not accepting property and land,²⁰ are some of the most obvious ways in which the Saṁsthāva monks stand out from other Buddhist practitioners. The training rules also stipulate that the monastics do not damage plants and trees,²¹ dig the earth,²² or defecate, urinate, or spit in water.²³ This strict adherence to the Vinaya, and the conscious attempt to cultivate qualities such as appicchatā (being of few desires) and santuṭṭhitā (being easily contented),²⁴ incidentally make forest monastics particularly suitable to be the guardians of fragile ecosystems. The value of foraged wood, for example, is measured by what utility it serves in the simple duties of the monastery. Ebony can only be worth the fire it could kindle, not what it can fetch in the market the monastics have already renounced.

The benefits of this renunciation for forest ecosystems are reflected in research findings. For instance, in one study, the two sites that were most effective in protecting the Western Purple-faced Langur (Semnopithecus vetulus nestor)—one of the twenty-five most endangered primates in the world, endemic to the wet zone in Western Sri Lanka—were forest monasteries (Rudran 2007). Apart from the primary habitat of this species in the Labugama-Kalatuwawa forest reserve, the best options for establishing satellite sites for conservation are deemed to be the areas surrounding these monasteries. Karunarathna and Amarasinghe (2012) observe how the only pristine forest patch that remains in Beraliya Mukalana, one of the largest rainforest reserves in Sri Lanka, is the area surrounding the monastery that is located inside the reserve. Other areas of the forest have been cleared for tea and rubber cultivation, or are impacted by illegal logging. The forest reserve is also being increasingly polluted by visitors coming on picnics and trips. In another study about a species of endemic gecko (Calodactylodes illingworthorum) (Karunarathna and Amarasinghe 2011), the same authors observed a similar phenomenon in the forest reserves in the Uva Province of Sri Lanka; forest monasteries were acting as refuges for endangered species, while the forests themselves were threatened by anthropogenic activities such as illegal logging and man-made forest fires for slash-and-burn cultivation. In the Southern region of Sri Lanka, the presence of a monastery inside the Kekanadura forest reserve has been a key factor in its preservation (Palihawadana and Singhakumara 2013). Meethirigala, the largest forest reserve in the Gampaha district, is probably better known for the forest monastery located there, and the presence of monks has mitigated illegal human encroachments on the forest (Kalubowila, Singhakumara and Rajathewa 2020). Thus, the establishment of a monastery has come to be known as a reliable method of forest protection in Sri Lanka (Bandaratillake 2001: 163).

However, there is also the rare instance when the monastery brings pollution to the forest. Jayaratne and Singhakumara (2021) note how the stream of visitors to Bodhinagala forest monastery is a main source of disturbance and anthropogenic pressure to the surrounding Dombagaskanda forest reserve, which is the tropical rainforest closest to Sri Lanka’s capital, Colombo. It is a symptom of the perennial challenge faced by the Saṁsthāva, namely, managing the material wealth generated through “the relentless piety of the masses” (Carrithers 2017: 136, quoting Gananath Obeyesekere). I am not aware of the circumstances of this specific monastery, but in general the Saṁsthāva is good at avoiding such scenarios by being strict with how it manages the relationships with lay Buddhists and diverting the excess gains to other monastic communities (Sirisena 2021). The organisation is known to abandon monasteries altogether when the conditions for practice deteriorate to what they deem an unsustainable level (Carrithers 1983: 261)

An Eco-Ethic of Love

On the grassy, wind-beaten face of the tallest mountain at the monastery, yōdayā, “the giant,” stands alone. It is the only tree to have survived the logging frenzy of the 1970s that had taken away much of the lush forest that once covered this entire mountain range. The workers who are now reforesting it have cleared a footpath up the hill through the tall grass, so my friend Venerable Abhaya and I decide to pay him a visit.

The giant has obviously been through some rough times. A lightning strike appears to have taken away a good part off the trunk. And yet, with his gaunt branches spread wide like out­stretched arms, enduring the relentless pounding of the strong winds, the giant still looks on.

And what a view he has.

Miles and miles out into the horizon, waves of mountains rise and fall until they merge with the sky. The bright red disk of the setting sun throws a golden veil over the landscape and paints the clouds with a vibrant scarlet palette. At the foot of the mountain, the thick canopy of the old forest stands out in dark green. Breaking the silence my friend asks, “Do these people know they’re living in heaven?” ²⁵

The serious practitioner of Buddhist teachings cultivates dispassion towards the natural world and aims to transcend it—so declare the eco-critics. And yet, one often finds that forest monastics, arguably the most serious practitioners, are not shy of expressing their love for the wilderness. This is no modern discernment either: it is a sentiment shared with the monastics of ancient past.

The Thera- and Therī-gāthās, “Verses of the Elder Monks and Nuns,” are two collections of early Buddhist texts in the Pali Canon that are close to the hearts of many monastics. Ascribed to the direct disciples of the Buddha, these poems relate personal stories about the struggles of lay and monastic life, the bliss of relinquishment, and the freedom of awakening. The verses of Venerable Mahākassapa Thera—declared by the Buddha to be foremost in austere practices²⁶ and generally considered by the Theravada tradition to be the personification of the forest monastic ideal—include ones that stand out in their evocative imagery of, and love for, the wilderness. For example:

Strewn with garlands of the musk-rose tree,

these regions are so delightful, so lovely,

echoing with the trumpeting of elephants:

these rocky crags delight me!

Glistening, they look like blue storm clouds,

with waters cool and streams so clear,

and covered all in ladybugs:

these rocky crags delight me!²⁷

The Pali Canon records a conversation between the Buddha and Venerable Mahākassapa in which the latter declares that he has been living in the wilderness for a long time seeing two benefits: a happy life for himself in the present, and compassion for future monastics, in the hope that they may follow his example. The Buddha expresses his approval by saying that Venerable Mahākassapa is indeed acting for the welfare and happiness of the people.²⁸

Today, as it was then, the life of a forest monastic is not easy or convenient by conventional standards. Neither is the forest the only available abode, even for those who have ordained in the Saṁsthāva. The organisation operates several monasteries that are in village or urban settings, mainly for the benefit of monastics who need medical assistance or need to deal with government services of one form or another. The monks and nuns who remain in the forest do so out of their own volition, which indicates a preference for that way of life.

This preference probably originates from two intertwined sources. The first is indeed what Venerable Mahākassapa hoped for, a faithful adherence to the forest ideal deeply rooted in early Buddhism that reform movements such as the Saṁsthāva strive to uphold. The teachings draw the followers to solitude in remote places, and the monastic code ensures that they do not harm their environments.²⁹ As Frederik Schröer (in this issue) points out, the forest (arañña) encountered in early Buddhist texts—the same is true of today’s forests—is a potentially dangerous place, and the practitioners have to confront the difficulties and fear induced by this environment.³⁰ They are to endure “cold, heat, hunger, and thirst … the touch of flies, mosquitoes, wind, sun, and reptiles” so that the mind can remain undefiled by unskilful states.³¹ Thus, life in the forest becomes an intrinsic part of their gradual training (anupubba-sikkhā).³²

The second source that compels one to choose a life in the forest is a personal one. To be drawn to a teaching that promotes the forest ideal, one should already have a modicum of love for the ascetic lifestyle and its setting. Here, the forest itself becomes a reward, not merely a means to reach a goal. Like the Venerable Mahākassapa they attempt to emulate, forest monastics seem to find a pleasant abiding in the wilderness. It is possible that this call of the wild is common to all humans but finds easier expression through the life choices one makes in becoming a forest monastic. However, the texts also record that the Buddha saw enough reason to admonish his followers not to seek the forest life for its own sake, or for the material benefits it inevitably draws from inspired laity:

A person may be wilderness dweller (āraññiko) because of stupidity and folly; or because of corrupt wishes, being of wishful temperament; or because of madness and mental disorder; or because it is praised by the Buddhas and their disciples; or for the sake of having few wishes, for the sake of contentment, self-effacement, seclusion, and simplicity. Among these five kinds of wilderness dwellers, the person who does so for the sake of having few wishes … is the foremost, best, chief, highest, and finest.³³

My impression is that the monastics of the Saṁsthāva are at the very least aware of this main purpose in their decision to live in the forest, regardless of what drew them to it in the first place. I have yet to meet a “stupid” forest monastic, or one who has entirely neglected their training.

The torch light, which has been threatening to go out for a while, finally does so on the way to the hut. On this night of the new moon, the forest is engulfed in a kind of darkness I have never seen before. I lift a hand in front of my face but cannot see it.

I crouch down and start groping for the narrow path through the forest. It takes me a long time to reach the hut. It sits elevated on four concrete pillars, and there’s a step in front of the door.

I skip the step and stretch to climb into the hut, lest I disturb my long-time companion, a highly venomous pit viper³⁴ who has laid claim to the step for several months, and who might lie curled up there even now in the pitch blackness of the night.

A preference for solitude and the restrictions imposed by the Vinaya are not the only ways through which the forest monastic develops a bond with the forest. The teachings they follow are aimed at inculcating a mindset of love (mettā)³⁵ and compassion (karuṇā). The monastic not only “gives up killing living creatures, renouncing the rod and the sword” but also trains to be “scrupulous and kind, living full of compassion for all living beings.”³⁶ The Metta-sutta,³⁷ one of the most popular Pali texts among Sri Lankan Buddhists and recited every day in monasteries, uses an evocative simile to describe the meditation on love:

Even as a mother would protect with her life

her child, her only child,

so too for all creatures

unfold a boundless heart.

With love for the whole world,

unfold a boundless heart.

Above, below, all round,

unconstricted, without enemy or foe.

When standing, walking, sitting,

or lying down while yet unweary,

keep this ever in mind;

for this, they say, is a holy abiding in this life.

The sutta begins with “this is what should be done by those who are skilled in goodness, so as to gain the state of peace (santaṁ padaṁ).” As Richard Gombrich has argued, the “deliverance of the heart through universal love” (mettā-cetovimutti) that this text alludes to is not merely a worldly attainment, but the realisation of nibbāna itself. “Love and compassion can be salvific for the person who cultivates those feelings to the highest pitch”(Gombrich 2009: 195). Mettā meditation is a practice all forest monastics try to develop in their daily lives, and while those lofty heights might not be reachable for everyone, they all take that first step towards the summit.