In the case of litigations in which it was difficult to determine which of the contesting parties was telling the truth, both parties were subjected to the humiliating ritual called shakhaa, in which they were stripped naked and forced to crawl beneath objects considered by the Mongols to be inauspicious, such as women’s underwear stained by menstrual blood, filthy socks and other dirty clothing, discarded animal bones, and old, used ropes hanging on a string. The person whose body did not touch any of these objects was declared truthful; the other contestant was punished in accordance with the degree of his offense.
During this period of theocratic monarchy, other punishments for civil and religious infractions ranged from religious penances and fines in animals to harsh beatings and floggings, shackling in a cangue for up two years, burying a criminal in the ground while still alive, the exile of his entire family to southern China, the death penalty, forced labor, slavery, and so on. Recorded judicial cases from this period reveal that the judiciary administration, which consisted of lay and monastic nobles, was becoming increasingly biased in favor of the Mongolian nobility, whose punishments tended to be much lighter than those of commoners. They could be fined in animals, receive temporary salary cuts, and be demoted from official posts in lieu of execution, beatings, and exile. The Russian ethnographer Pozdneyev, who visited Mongolia in the late nineteenth century, mentions a case in which a Mongol noble (taiji) punished one of his serf’s sons for not making adequate progress in his studies as a Buddhist novice by tying him naked outside the tent during a winter night. When the boy died as a consequence, the nobleman was merely fined eighteen animals.11 The same class-based bias was also common among ordained monks within monasteries. When, in the year 1920, lamas of Amarbayasgalant monastery filed a collective complaint against their proctor for his cruel beatings, breaking lamas’ heads, drawing their blood, and penalizing them with unrealistic fines for any trivial infraction, their complaints were ignored. After many lamas left the monastery, the proctor was merely demoted from his post.12
Other recorded cases reveal similar stories of high-ranking lamas from the families of nobles causing the deaths of lower-ranking monks who had been implicated in a theft. Lower-ranking monks were severely beaten or delivered to the Ministry of Affairs for execution if they stole an object belonging to the Jebtsundamba’s private treasury. Those who publicly showed their irreverence for the Jebtsundamba were put to death. The Jebtsundamba was already losing the respect of Mongols of all classes because of his vices and extravagant lifestyle. As reported by Boryn Jambal, a lower-ranking monk at that time, the last such case occurred in 1921, just before the overthrow of the theocratic government. A lama by the name of Damdinsüren was executed for calling the Eighth Jebtsundamba “a wretched Tibetan beggar who has wandered here.”13 Since in all cases of the death penalty, the final decision was made by the Eighth Jebtsundamba, the Bestower of Happiness to All Sentient Beings, himself, it is safe to conclude that Damdinsüren’s death sentence was authorized by the Jebtsundamba as well.
Grigorri Efimovich, who visited Mongolia in the late nineteenth century, noticed that ordinary, lower-ranking monks were drafted into the military and border guard services while still wearing their monastic robes.14 The legal employment of monks in services requiring the use of weapons attests to the dual standard of the theocratic government. In 1913, the government enacted a state law that required monks to strictly follow monastic discipline; the government authorized penalties for monks that included beatings, shackling into a cangue, and animal fines for such “crimes” as letting their hair grow, wearing layman’s clothing, consuming alcohol, gambling, leaving their monastic quarters without a designated permit, receiving women into their living quarters, and so forth.
All of the aforementioned cruel policies and unfair judicial practices of the theocratic government became crucial factors in its demise. Newly emerging political forces in the country were able to use these cruel and unfair practices as propaganda against the current theocratic form of governance. During the Eighth Jebtsundamba’s lifetime, as soon as the provisional people’s government was formed, it implemented the separation of the Buddhist church from the state; in addition, it abolished corporal tortures and punishments, serfdom, slavery, and the institution of a standing army.
The extremely harsh punitive measures that the Mongolian and Manchu cakravartins implemented made them quite dissimilar to the Indian Mahyna ideal of righteous and merciful kings of Dharma, custodians of the peaceful Dharma-cakra. They were more similar to Indra of the Vedas, the irresistible warrior and monarch who dispensed his authority by fierce means. Indra attained universal sovereignty by might and power, uncompromisingly annihilating his enemies with his dreadful cakra. Like Ge Sar (Mong. Geser), who was considered an incarnation of the god Indra in one of the Mongolian versions of the Ge Sar epic, Mongols and Manchus were intent on annihilating those whom they regarded as enemies of good.
By implementing fierce penal systems in order to maintain inner stability in their kingdoms and empires, the Mongol and Manchu methods of ruling strongly resembled that of the Indian Brahmanic conception of kingship, which was often argued against and was contrasted with the Buddhist concept of kingship in Indian Buddhist Pli and Sanskrit sources. However, it was not the teachings of the dharmastras that Mongol or Manchu rulers tried to emulate, but the Golden Lightstra (Skt. Saddharma Prabhsottama stra), which attributes divine origins to earthly kings and insists on the loyalty of their subjects. This means of legitimating their sovereignty appealed to the Manchu and Mongol rulers. Therefore, it was not by accident that Altan Khan, when he initiated the conversion of southern Mongols to Buddhism, ordered the first block printing of this stra in Mongolia; he was the first Mongol khan to ritually sanctify it in the manner that Buddhist statues were sanctified.
Certain stras of the Nikyas15 merely endorsed the attempts made by secular authorities to prevent crime by economic measures and to rehabilitate criminals. In contrast, the Golden Light stra, like several other Mahyna sources, encourages a king not to overlook evil deeds but to punish the wrongdoers. However, among the Mahyna sources dealing with the topic of kingship, The Golden Light stra is perhaps the most adamant about the king’s duty to destroy evil deeds and inflict penalties on the evildoers in conformity with their crimes. If a king were to ignore any evil deed and neglect his royal duty, lawlessness and wickedness would increase, unfavorable asterisms and planets would rule, meteor showers would fall, evil demons would arise, and natural disasters, diseases, and foreign armies would ruin his kingdom. Likewise, the chief gods in the Trayastria heaven would become wrathful, because the king’s neglect of duty would cause their dwellings to burn. Therefore, the king would be separated from his loved ones and eventually become lawless himself. A king’s duty to punish evildoers and to reward those who do well exemplifies the consequences of good and bad actions; therefore, a king’s lawlessness would undermine the universal law of karma and consequently disturb the laws of nature in the cosmos.16 Thus, the Golden Light stra advocates a conceptual overlap between law and morality—the idea that there are necessary moral constraints on the content of the law, which makes the law just.
It is unlike certain Mahyna sources (such as Daacakra Mahyna stra, Ngrjuna’s Rjaparikathratnaml, and others), which argue for a fair and compassionate penal system based on the king’s paternal sentiments for his subjects, one that excludes capital punishment, mutilation, or injury to the offender’s sense faculties.17 Rather, the Golden Light stra does not specify the punishments that a Buddhist king may or may not apply; it leaves room for multiple interpretations concerning the degrees of punishments the ruler may implement in his task of upholding the law. It indirectly suggests that punishment enforces not only the law of a given society but also the laws of nature. For these reasons, the Inner Mongolian author Rashipuntsag (Rashipungsug) referred to the Golden Light stra in his work Crystal Rosary (Bolor Erikhe, 1774–1775), declaring that Dharma laws do not prevent
one from punishing criminals. He argued against Confucians who claimed that the state could be ruled only by means of secular laws because the law of Dharma was too weak to punish criminals, because it advocates compassion.18
In many ways, the Golden Light stra’s description of the consequences of a king’s failure to uphold the law resembles those provided in the dharmastras and the Mahbhrata. This resemblance suggests a possible common inspiration for these texts, one whose influence extended as far as Inner Asia and which facilitated the justification of various forms of penal violence by Mongol and Manchu khans.
In conclusion, one could say that the justification for various forms of penal violence on the part of Mongolian Buddhist lawmakers and their apologists rests in part on the presupposition that the offender (to some extent) had the freedom to make moral decisions to commit his offense and was therefore morally responsible for breaking the law. If the offender did not have freedom in making moral decisions, it would be impossible to prevent his future crimes through deterrence based on fear of punishment or through moral rehabilitation—in which case, a penal system would be useless. Thus, Mongolian Buddhist lawmakers and their apologists implicitly suggest that the Buddhist view of an individual’s actions, antecedent choices, and decisions (as the effects of particular causal chains) does not entail that the individual’s actions are determined by their causes and conditions, but are only made probable by them.
5
A Buddhological Critique of “Soldier-Zen” in Wartime Japan
Brian Daizen Victoria
This chapter marks a significant departure in approach from those of my colleagues. That is to say, in addition to introducing yet another example of Buddhist involvement in war and violence, in this case the concept of “soldier-Zen” in Japan during the Asia-Pacific War, I critique this involvement on the basis of what are generally recognized as the core teachings of Buddhism. Controversially to be sure, I come to the conclusion that, by virtue of its fervent if not fanatical support of Japanese militarism, the Zen school, both Rinzai and st, so grievously violated Buddhism’s fundamental tenets that the school was no longer an authentic expression of the Buddhadharma.
I am well aware that, in adopting such a stance, I expose myself to the charge that I have left the realm of “objective scholarship” to pursue a partisan agenda. In one sense, that charge is accurate: I do indeed seek to provoke debate among Buddhist scholars and practitioners as to what the Buddhist position is with regard to the use of violence. Should I seem to adopt an extreme position in what follows, it is not for the purpose of establishing some form of “pure” Buddhism. Rather, it is my hope that those who disagree will subsequently put forth their own understandings of the narrowly focused, yet critically important, issues I raise.
As this book makes abundantly clear, the historic connection between Buddhism and violence is not limited to any one time or country. As in the case of other world religions, it is, sadly, an evergreen phenomenon. How many, if any, of the world’s major religions can be said to have seriously reflected on, let alone overcome, their long-standing connection to religiously sanctioned violence?
As for Buddhism, I am reminded of an academic conference I attended where a presentation was made on the alleged faith-healing powers of a contemporary female Zen master. When the question was subsequently raised as to whether faith healing was an authentic expression of the Buddhadharma, the presenter stated that, inasmuch as the beneficiary of the healing was a Buddhist layperson who believed it to be so, who are we, as scholars, to question its authenticity?
If the claim is made that whatever those who identify themselves as Buddhists believe or do is in fact Buddhism, then Buddhological critiques such as this one have no place in the academy. That is to say, because those Buddhist believers in faith healing (or Japanese militarism) were convinced that their actions were in full accord with the Buddhadharma, what right do scholars have to question their claim?
In stark contrast to the preceding is the following statement made by Hakamaya Noriaki, a st Zen scholar at Komazawa University: “[True Buddhists] must draw a sharp distinction between Buddhist teachings and anti-Buddhist teachings, using both intellect and language to denounce the latter.”1 Hakamaya and his colleague Matsumoto Shir are leaders of the Critical Buddhism (Hihan Bukky) movement. Hakamaya goes on to critique institutional Buddhism’s collaboration with Japanese militarism:
One must never allow oneself to be reduced to a mere physical entity. Instead, the intellect must be used to its utmost to clearly distinguish what is right, and words used to their utmost to criticize what is wrong. I believe this is the way in which faith becomes an activity opposed to war.2
This chapter is based on the premise that there are indeed times when it is necessary for scholars as well as practitioners to “draw a sharp distinction between Buddhist teachings and anti-Buddhist teachings.” Once again, I invite those who disagree with this premise to put forth their own arguments to the contrary. My only request or hope is that, when counterarguments are made, they are grounded in core Buddhist beliefs rather than in the personal prejudices of the author.
Background to Soldier-Zen
In seeking to understand soldier-Zen, it is important to recognize that this term is but one historical expression of a much broader phenomenon, i.e., the fanatically pro-militarist ideology of numerous leading Zen masters and scholars, as well as their lay and clerical disciples, prior to and during the Asia-Pacific War. I have chosen the term soldier-Zen to represent this much larger body of discourse although, due to limited space, I can but introduce a small fraction of the ideology associated with this term. Those readers wishing a more detailed description are advised to read my two books Zen at War and Zen War Stories.3 On the other hand, those who have already read Zen at War may wish to skip over this section.
Soldier-Zen is most closely associated with Lt. Col. Sugimoto Gor (1900–1937). According to Rinzai Zen master Yamazaki Ekij (1882–1961), Sugimoto once said:
The Zen that I do is … soldier-Zen [gunjin-Zen]. The reason that Zen is important for soldiers is that all Japanese, especially soldiers, must live in the spirit of the unity of sovereign and subjects, eliminating their ego and getting rid of their self. It is exactly the awakening to the nothingness [mu] of Zen that is the fundamental spirit of the unity of sovereign and subjects. Through my practice of Zen I am able to get rid of my ego. In facilitating the accomplishment of this, Zen becomes, as it is, the true spirit of the Imperial military.4
On September 14, 1937, Sugimoto was mortally wounded on the battlefield in China’s Shanxi province. While Sugimoto was in every sense a good soldier and officer, what made him stand out from his peers were three elements: (1) his total and absolute reverence and loyalty to the emperor, (2) his many years of Zen practice, and (3) his writings, posthumously published under the title Taigi (Great Duty), describing the same sentiments.
What is of interest here is Sugimoto and his Zen master’s understanding of (Zen) Buddhism. As Sugimoto’s following comments on the emperor make clear, his understanding of Zen “selflessness” was at the heart of his entire ideology:
The emperor is identical with the Great [Sun] Goddess Amaterasu. He is the supreme and only God of the universe, the supreme sovereign of the universe. All of the many components [of a country] including such things as its laws and constitution, its religion, ethics, learning, art, etc. are expedient means by which to promote unity with the emperor. That is to say, the greatest mission of these components is to promote an awareness of the non-existence of the self and the absolute nature of the emperor. Because of the nonexistence of the self everything in the universe is a manifestation of the emperor … including even the insect chirping in the hedge, or the gentle spring breeze. …
This great awareness will clearly manifest itself at the time you discard secular values and recognize that the emperor is the highest supreme value for all eternity. If, on the other hand, your ultimate goal is eternal happi
ness for yourself and salvation of your soul, the emperor becomes a means to an end and is no longer the highest being. If there is a difference in the degree of your reverence for the emperor based on your learning, occupation, or living conditions, then you are a self-centered person. Seeking nothing at all, you should simply completely discard both body and mind, and unite with the emperor.5
According to Sugimoto, even Buddha kyamuni was a model for emperor worship:
When kyamuni sat in meditation beneath the Bodhi tree in order to see into his true nature, he had to fight with an army of innumerable demons. Those who rush forward to save the empire are truly great men as he was, pathfinders who sacrifice themselves for the emperor.6
Sugimoto went on to quote the Nirva stra on the importance of “protecting the true Dharma by grasping swords and other weapons.” He claimed, “The highest and only true Dharma in the world exists within the emperor.” Likewise, he quoted the same stra on the need to “keep the [Buddhist] precepts.” Putting this all together, he concluded, “Everyone in the world should grasp swords and other weapons to reverently protect the emperor. This is the world’s highest keeping of the precepts, the highest morality, and the highest religion.”7
And what of Buddhist compassion? According to Sugimoto:
The wars of the empire are sacred wars. They are holy wars. They are the [Buddhist] practice [gy] of great compassion [daijihishin]. Therefore the Imperial military must consist of holy officers and holy soldiers.8
Buddhist Warfare Page 12