Simas: Foundations of Buddhist Religion 9780824891121

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Sīmās

Sīmās Foundations of Buddhist Religion

Edited by

Jason A. Carbine

and

Erik W. Davis

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2022 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First printing, 2022 LCCN: 2021050538 Cover art: Partial view of the current interior of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā in Bago. Courtesy of Paisarn Piemmettawat, River Books, Bangkok. University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.

Contents

Contentsv Acknowledgmentsvii Conventionsix Abbreviationsxi Introduction: Buddhist Sīmās across Time and Place Jason A. Carbine and Erik W. Davis1 1

Sīmā Basics from Buddha to Burma Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby18

Part I  Histories: Stones, Places, People 2

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Rituals Set in Stone: Tracing the Archaeological Evidence for the Sīmā Stone Tradition in Southeast Asia Stephen A. Murphy

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The Development of Ordination Platforms (jietan 戒壇) in China: The Translation and Interpretation of Sīmā in East Asia from the Third to Seventh Centuries Thomas Newhall

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Reflections on the Boundary Markers and the New Buddhist Lineage: The Mahā-sīmā at Wat Rajapradit Sathitmahasimaram by King Rama IV (r. 1851–1868) M. L. Pattaratorn Chirapravati and Arthid Sheravanichkul110

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Changing Sīmā, Changing World Anthony Lovenheim Irwin

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vi Contents

Part II  Contemporary Practices: Focus on Cambodia 6

Lines of Influence around Cambodia’s Buddhist Temples Alexandra Kent

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Regenerating Ancient Sīmās: A Study of Buddhist Places of Worship in Rural Cambodia Satoru Kobayashi

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Sīmās as Assemblages of Territorial Imagination in Cambodia Erik W. Davis

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Stones of Spirits and Kings: Negotiating Land Grabs in Contemporary Cambodia Courtney Work

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Part III  Textual Traditions: Creating, Embracing, Defending Boundaries 10 Analysis of Sīmās (Boundaries) John A. Marston, Chhuon Hoeur, and Elizabeth Guthrie

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11 King Rāmādhipati, Prime Minister U Nu, and the Kalyānī Sīmā: Constructing and Overcoming Others ˙ Jason A. Carbine

297

12 Flawed or Deliberately Altered Readings? Two Quotations from the Vajirabuddhitīkā in the Sīmālakkhanadīpanī ˙ Petra Kieffer-Pülz ˙

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Bibliography339 Contributors371 Index375

Acknowledgments

This book initially emerged from a border-crossing panel at the Association for Asian Studies (AAS) conference in 2012. A second panel focusing on select presentations of chapters and the then-projected scope of the book was convened as part of the Theravāda Civilizations Project, Phase II, at the AAS in 2017. We are grateful for the feedback received during both of those panel sessions. The editors would also like to thank each of the contributing authors to this volume for their work, engagement, and patience, as well as the external reviewers for their helpful suggestions and comments. The C. Milo Connick Chair at Whittier College and funds from the Wallace Scholarly Activities Program at Macalester College provided crucial financial support in the publication process.

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Conventions

This book works across primary and secondary sources in several languages, including Pāli, Burmese, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Khmer, English, French, and German. With this diversity in sources and fields of inquiry, consistent romanization of spellings for non-European languages is challenging. There are significant and often vast differences in the ways that local terminologies are rendered into romanized form by both scholars and nonscholars alike. To help address some matters of clarity, in some cases we prioritize spelling conventions that may help scholars specializing in diverse regions to recognize Pāli- and Sanskrit-influenced terms (e.g., in the Khmer context, we use rājā instead of reach; in Thai and other contexts, we use Dhammayuttika instead of Thammayut; in Burmese contexts, Sāsana instead of Thāthanā, and sīmā instead of sim‘; etc.). The net result is that some words are often romanized in a way that is detached from the way they sound in their cultural context. Where it seems prudent to do so, we give different versions of the same word, in some cases following both transliteration and pronunciation schemes. (Transliterations generally follow the USA Library of Congress’ ALA-LC romanization tables. These romanization tables can be found at https://www .loc.gov/catdir/cpso/roman.html.) In other cases, especially with Chinese and Japanese terms, we provide the original words or passages in their original script. For proper names of people or places, we generally use a preferred or most popular form of representation of such names. Finally, for consistency in the chapters of this book, we have used p. and pp. throughout when referring to page numbers in the note references. While helpful for consistency, this is not standard for certain Pāli primary source references as specified in CPD, which is without p. or pp.

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Abbreviations

CPD: A Critical Pāli Dictionary. Begun by V. Trenckner, edited by Dines Andersen, Hans Hendriksen, Helmer Smith, Ludwig Alsdorf, Kenneth Roy Norman, Oskar von Hinüber, and Ole Holten Pind. 3 vols. 8 fasc. Copenhagen: Ejnar Munksgaard, and Bristol: Pali Text Society, 1924–2011 (accessible online: https://cpd.uni-koeln.de/). DOP: Margaret Cone. A Dictionary of Pāli. Parts I: a–kh; II: g–n; III: p–bh. Oxford, Bristol: Pali Text Society, 2001, 2010, 2020. DPPN: Buddhist Dictionary of Pali Proper Names. http://www.palikanon .com/english/pali_names/dic_idx.html. FPL: Fragile Palm Leaves Collection manuscripts; those referred to in this work, FPL 2699.5, 2699.6, and 10254.1, are available at https:// archive.org/details/bdrc-fplmanuscripts?query=Kalyani&sin= (last accessed June 6, 2021). See also Peter Nyunt, A Descriptive Catalogue of Burmese Manuscripts in the Fragile Palm Leaves Collection, vols. 2 and 3, Materials for the Study of the Tripiṭaka, vols. 10 and 11 (Bangkok and Lumbini: Fragile Palm Leaves Foundation and Lumbini International Research Institute, 2014 and 2015). Kkh: Kaṅkhāvitaraṇī. Edited by K. R. Norman and W. Pruitt. Oxford: Pali Text Society, 2003. PED: T. W. Rhys Davis and William Stede, eds. The Pali Text Society’s Pali–English Dictionary. Chipstead: Pali Text Society, 1921–1925. Available online at https://dsal.uchicago.edu/dictionaries/pali/. R: R followed by archival number: materials in the National Library of Thailand, Bangkok. Sīmāl: Vimalasāra Thera. Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī. (tassānumatiyā balatāsaravīrasīhāmaccena c’ eva aññehi ca satthādhārayantrālaye muddāpitā; [printed with Vimalasāra’s approval by the minister Balatāsaravīrasīha and others]). s.l.: Satthādhāra printer, 2424 (1880). xi

xii Abbreviations

Sp:

Samantapāsādikā, Vinayaṭṭhakathā. 7 vols. Edited by J. Takakusu, M. Nagai (and K. Mizuno in vols. 5 and 7). London: Pali Text Society, 1924–1947. Vol. 8: Indexes. Hermann Kopp, London: Pali Text Society, n.d. T: Taishō shinshū daizōkyō 大正新脩大蔵経. http://cbetaonline.dila .edu.tw. Vin: Vinaya Piṭaka. 5 vols. Edited by H. Oldenberg. Oxford: Pali Text Society, 1993–2001. Originally published London: Williams & Northgate, 1879–1883. Vjb: Vajirabuddhiṭīkā. Ran‘ kun‘: Chaṭṭhasaṅgīti, 1960. [For other editions, see Kieffer-Pülz, Verlorene Gaṇṭhipadas, I XXXII–XXXIII]. Vmv: Coḷiya Kassa. Vimativinodanīṭīkā. 2 vols. Ran‘ kun‘: Chaṭṭhasaṅgīti, 1960. X: Xuzangjing 續藏經. http://cbetaonline.dila.edu.tw.

introduction

Buddhist Sīmās across Time and Place Jason A. Carbine and Erik W. Davis

Human-fashioned boundaries transform areas into particular kinds of places, characterizing both the inside and the outside of the boundaries in specific ways, often instituting dualisms, bifurcations, creative symbioses, contradictions, senses of responsibility, and notions of inclusion and exclusion. The Buddhist boundaries considered in this book are called sīmās, a term found in a variety of South and Southeast Asian languages and also translated into East Asian languages. In this book, the word sīmā generally means “boundary,” specifically a “ceremonial” or “monastic boundary,” and refers to an enclosing boundary ritually created so that the space within it can be used for the performance of core rituals of Theravāda Buddhist monastic practice. As used vernacularly and by scholars, the word sīmā can refer to the boundary, the area enclosed, or even the markers (when they are used) that mark the boundary. This helps explain why the word sīmā can connote “territory”1 and why some (especially in Thai-influenced traditions) call markers (nimittas) themselves “sīmās.” Additionally, in some cultural contexts, an entire building, set up within a sīmā, may itself be called a sīmā. On other occasions the top floor of a two-story building may be demarcated as a sīmā. Sometimes sīmās are established on land not within a monastic complex, and sometimes in a body of water. Sīmās “are established by monks sometimes with and sometimes without state or other lay or secular support, from either an area of land that has been properly authorized (baddha-sīmās),” or an area “defined by natural or political boundaries (abaddha-sīmās).”2 The extent of a baddhasīmā (lit. “bounded boundary”) is distinguished by the use of markers, which are often stones of various styles, shapes, and sizes, from stones buried in the ground to stylized and visible above-ground stones to (also above-ground)

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truly massive stones. An abaddha-sīmā (lit. “unbound boundary”), such as an udakukkhepa-sīmā (a sīmā made by throwing water or sand around the assembled community), does not have markers.3 Sīmās are thus both boundaries and the places that are made by the creation of those boundaries. Buddhist legal commentaries, physical representations and markings, and cultural ideas and practices surrounding sīmās all serve to realize a special space, and to institute it—and its values, symbols, and ritual possibilities—in reality. Monastic sīmās are not the only kind of boundaries that are important to the peoples and traditions of Asia and in various diaspora communities around the world. For example, in some Buddhist healing rituals magical barriers are deployed to protect a sick person from intrusive and destabilizing powers of malevolent beings and forces.4 Additionally, the word sīmā can have a range of applications that expands from boundaries for monastic rituals to geopolitical boundaries.5 While several chapters of this book engage with other and occasionally intersecting forms of boundary-making practices, we focus this collection primarily on monastic sīmās, their modes of marking, their contexts, and their uses by both monks and lay people over time, in order to help continue to address this much-needed area of scholarship on Buddhism. Sīmā traditions as expressed in the Theravāda cultures of Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka constitute the dominant focus of this book.6 This derives from the fact that sīmās are omnipresent in these cultures and yet remain understudied. Part of the challenge—and excitement—of bringing together a book like this is the diversity of sīmā traditions. Initially defined early on in monastic disciplinary or law codes (vinayas),7 sīmā practices developed into a robust body of textual, ritual, legal, and artistic activities across languages and peoples. Textually, sīmā traditions are preserved in a number of languages (e.g., Pāli, Sanskrit, Tibetan, Chinese, Sinhala, Burmese, Thai, Lao, and Khmer, etc.) and consist of canonical and vernacular commentaries, subcommentaries, inscriptions, manuals, handbooks, and other materials, many of which often bear the markings of intense debate about getting the ritual boundaries “right.”8 Ritually, sīmā traditions often unite monastic and lay practices in a way that expresses a great deal of devotional expression and cultural fanfare, while instantiating in the community a monastic lineage believed to hark back to the Buddha. Legally, sīmās provide a space for the practice of Buddhist law;9 they are the places in which certain monastic rituals must take place in order to be legally valid, according to monastic law. Artistically, sīmā spaces and their markers range from minimally decorated,



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relatively small and simple spaces to large buildings suffused with all sorts of imagery and motifs associated with the Buddha, nature, and more. Politically, sīmās provide an important center for some of the complex relations between monks, the state, and lay supporters. The chapters of this book portray these matters in various ways. Within the Southeast Asia region, we have decided to focus four ethnographically based chapters specifically on Cambodia, against the backdrop of its Buddhist revival. One additional chapter on Cambodian textual material is also included in this book. In no other case of modern Buddhist revival that we know of has there been such a focus on sīmā rituals. When a tradition is nearly wiped out and then given space to flourish again, a turn to ritual foundations, in terms of both texts and practices, has been both appealing and appropriate for many Cambodians. The ritual renovation and innovation seen among contemporary Cambodians serves as an excellent context in which to study the lived expressions of “sīmā-thinking.” In addition to the focus on Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia, one chapter of this book points beyond the limits of both South and Southeast Asia, demonstrating the transmission of sīmās as boundaries for ordination to East Asia as “ordination platforms.” This book develops the thesis that within the Theravāda contexts of South and Southeast Asia, sīmās are foundations of Buddhist religion, in ways both straightforward and complex. They were established early on as the places inside of which legal acts (kamma) of the Buddhist monastic community (sangha) take place, guided by their disciplinary codes. Without these acts, such as higher ordinations (upasampadās), there can be no sangha. Additionally, Buddhists have used sīmās to sustain, revitalize, or reform Buddhist practices, notions of identity, and conceptualizations of history. Sīmās are deployed in the creation of monastic lineages and they function in diverse social, religious, cultural, and political ways, for monastics and nonmonastics alike. This thesis is further elaborated in the final section of this introduction, and then demonstrated in the chapters of this book. There are previous studies of sīmās. Doctoral dissertations, journal contributions, book chapters, monographs, and texts and translations constitute an existing corpus of scholarly treatment. For our purposes here a few references are illuminative.10 Taw Sein Ko’s English translation of the Pāli portions of the Kalyāṇī Inscriptions (1892) from what is now lower Myanmar presents one of the most important documents for the study of precolonial monastic historiography in South and Southeast Asia.11 That document details a sīmā case that was handled by the Mon king Rāmādhipati (aka Dhammacetī). Kamburupiṭiyē Ariyasēna’s PhD thesis (1967, in Sinhala) appears to be the

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earliest attempt at a comprehensive scholarly study of sīmā. Ariyasēna deals with the sīmā from its very beginning in the Pāli Vinaya, via the regulations in the Vinaya commentary and subcommentaries. He also deals with various disputes on sīmās, first older ones (up to the Middle Ages), then disputes in the nineteenth century.12 Madeleine Giteau’s study (1969, in French) offers a three-part exploration of boundary stones that are placed around Cambodian monasteries. She addresses the consecration of sīmā, translations of relevant texts (e.g., from the Pāli Vinaya), and the artistic evolution of the sīmā.13 Kitsiri Malalgoda’s study (1976) of religious revival and change in Sri Lanka discusses sīmās at various points. One chapter specifically highlights the Balapiṭiya sīmā case, which resulted in fragmentation within the Salāgama section of the Amarapura fraternity. A monk challenged the validity of an enlarged udakukkhepa-sīmā, or “boundary fixed by the throwing of water,” at Balapiṭiya in 1851, and his challenge led to prolonged controversy and schism. Petra Kieffer-Pülz has several vital contributions on sīmā texts. Two can be highlighted here. Her monograph (1992, in German) examines sīmā regulations in the Pāli Theravāda Vinaya, the Samantapāsādikā (a commentary on the Vinaya), and selected portions from the subcommentaries. She also discusses the rules of the Mūlasarvāstivādins as handed down in their Vinaya (in Sanskrit and Tibetan).14 Kieffer-Pülz’ presentation of Vācissara’s Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha (thirteenth century CE), brings readers deep into the sophisticated world of sīmā texts and their reverberations over time.15 In what became an important debate within Theravāda Buddhism, the Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha focuses on a difference in interpretation regarding whether connections between a certain type of monastic boundary, a determined boundary (baddha-sīmā), and a village boundary (gāma-sīmā) cause confusion. The treatise rejects South Indian Coḷiya tradition in favor of Sīhaḷa (Sri Lankan) tradition. These and other studies of sīmās provide crucial insight into the topic, and the chapters in this book converse with them. But no single book of the kind offered to readers here has been aimed at the breadth, diversity, and integration and dialogue of interpretation and use across various cultural contexts and scholarly fields of inquiry. The arena of scholarly awareness of and expertise on sīmās has developed to a point where a volume like this is both possible and needed. Chapters cover South, Southeast, and East Asia and engage texts, historical transmission, archaeology, politics, art, ecology, economic development, epigraphy, activism and advocacy, consumer politics and power, legal categories, mythic narratives, understandings of the cosmos, and conceptualizations of compassion, power, authority, sovereignty, and violence. The thesis of this book about the foundational quality of sīmās derives from this



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multi- and interdisciplinary approach. Examining sīmās through multiple perspectives from multiple disciplines and multiple regions and places allows us to look at them in their contextual specificity, in a way that allows for discernment of variation as well as consistencies. Sīmās can be both simple and extremely intricate spaces, and this book helps show why and how that is the case.

The Scope of the Chapters The chapters in this book highlight various legal, political, and religious functions of sīmās; various kinds of symbolic representations; early material evidence in South and Southeast Asia; connections to East Asian ritual traditions concerning the ordination platform, especially in China; patterns in the historical use of sīmās; theories of sovereignty and power; perspectives on modern-day consumerism; and uses by or within contemporary networks, locally and internationally. Geographically, the chapters cover traditions and developments in South India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Bangladesh, Cambodia, and Siam/Thailand, as well as China and East Asia more broadly. Pāliscripture-based sīmā traditions that originated in South Asia are touchstones, as are other historical and practice-focused developments across this Buddhist world. In terms of country- and region-specific foci, Bangladeshi traditions are discussed in chapter 1; Burmese traditions are addressed in chapters 1 and 11; traditions from what is today Thailand, with a subsidiary focus on Laos, are the focus of chapters 2, 4, and 5; connections and developments in East Asian traditions are addressed in chapter 3; traditions from Cambodia are addressed in chapters 6 through 10; Sri Lankan evidence is dealt with in chapter 12. The opening first chapter serves as a primer of sorts for understanding sīmās. Specifically, in this chapter, Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby provide a broad account of basic Theravāda sīmā practice and ideation, drawing on developments in contemporary Myanmar and Bangladesh to illustrate their points. They discuss the main types of sīmā as understood there and explain three components that are crucial for the successful consecration of a sīmā on land, as well as the issues affecting the validity of sīmā on water. They also refer to the effects of sīmā being declared invalid; such effects have been substantial in Theravāda Buddhism, changing the course of its institutional history and influencing the shape of modernist Theravāda. The remaining chapters of the book are organized in three parts. Part 1 contains four chapters arranged in general chronological order and focuses on

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various historical treatments concerning sīmās in Thailand, Laos, and East Asia. The spread, transformation, and development of specific sīmā practices are aspects of Buddhist history that have received far too little direct attention, especially given the importance of sīmā to issues of ordination, lineage authority, and other issues central to monastic life and reproduction. The chapters in part 1 address these developments directly. In chapter 2, Stephen Murphy discusses the development of the sīmā stone tradition, spreading from the earliest archaeological evidence in what are today the areas of northeast Thailand and central Laos, to its wider distribution across mainland Southeast Asia. By discussing the spread of sīmās marked by stones from their earliest documented occurrence in northeast Thailand to their development throughout Southeast Asia and up to the present, Murphy depicts the development of a tradition that today forms an integral part of both Buddhist ritual practice and monastic architecture within this region. In chapter 3, Tom Newhall outlines the historical development of the use of ordination platforms (jietan 戒壇) in East Asia from the third to the seventh century CE. Although it was known that this practice of using ordination platforms was derived from the concept of sīmā found in classical monastic law texts, the use of special structures for this purpose is not clearly attested in these texts, and their origins are uncertain. Newhall presents evidence from within China indicating that this practice did not originate there, a finding that may shed further light on the process of transmission of Buddhism from India to China, especially as it relates to ritual places necessary for ordinations of Buddhist monastics. In chapter 4, M. L. Pattaratorn Chirapravati and Arthid Sheravanichkul focus on the deployment of boundary markers by King Rama IV (r. 1851– 1868) to designate the mahā-sīmā, “great sīmā,” at Wat Rajapradit Sathitmahasimaram. Against the backdrop of an art historical sketch of sīmā markers used during the late Ayutthaya and early Bangkok periods, they discuss how Rama IV’s sīmā markers departed from previous practices in substance and style, reflecting the genesis of a new lineage, the Dhammayuttika. They also highlight subsequent royal and religious efforts to use and adapt the new style of sīmā markers of Rama IV (aka Mongkut). In chapter 5, Anthony Irwin complements but pursues a focus different than the chapter by Chirapravati and Sheravanichkul. Irwin looks specifically at Mongkut’s attitudes and rulings on sīmā space during his monastic and royal careers to reveal shifts in the conceptualization and use of Siamese Buddhist landscape of the time. The importance of sīmā space inspired several



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Theravādin reformations prior to the nineteenth century, and Mongkut’s concern for properly consecrated sīmā space was a direct extension of this earlier Theravādin concern. In Mongkut’s case, his doubts about Siamese monastic validity resulted in his daḷhikamma, “act of strengthening,” reordination into the Mon monastic lineage, and the creation of a new sīmā. Throughout the nineteenth century, the small uposatha-raft (here, a raft for the performance of monastic legal ceremonies) floating in the waters of the Chao Phraya River was a hub for the transregional Theravādin monastic networks that inspired its creation. The daḷhikamma ceremonies performed on this raft, however, problematize the widely held notion that Mongkut rejected all forms of monastic practice not found within the Vinaya. Part 2 offers four ethnographically based analyses, with a special focus on Cambodia and the creative and diverse ways the foundations of Buddhism are being restored and reimagined in the contemporary period. The special focus in this part is the product of historical processes of Buddhist revival and the rebuilding of Buddhist temples in Cambodia, starting in the late 1990s, which the authors of this part observed and studied. The devastation of Cambodia’s civil war (1970–1975) and the period of Khmer Rouge rule (1975–1979), followed by a decade of socialist rule under the regime of the People’s Republic of Kampuchea (PRK, 1979–1989), destroyed a substantial number of Cambodian temples and included the defrocking of nearly every ordained Buddhist monk in the country. The two decades following the United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC)–run elections (1993) was a vibrant period of rebuilding and rededicating of temples, as well as of re-establishment and transformation of monastic ordination practices in the country. Ethnographers interested in religion and Buddhism active in Cambodia during this period were afforded the opportunity to witness many sīmā rituals at a historical moment of revival and experimentation. This resulted in the chapters on Cambodia in this book, with an investigation into the dynamics of revival, and the recovery—or reinvention—of old traditions. In chapter 6, Alexandra Kent builds from field research in Cambodia during a period from 2002 to 2011. Following decades of organized violence and sociocultural upheaval, including the Khmer Rouge’s devastating experiment in social engineering in the late 1970s and Vietnamese-supported state socialist rule during the 1980s, Cambodia entered a phase of rapid reconstruction in the early 1990s. After the near-complete destruction of Buddhism under the Khmer Rouge, the religion was restarted in the 1980s. After the signing of peace agreements in 1991 and the formation of a new government without restrictions on religion, regrowth intensified. This took place as the country

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was experiencing external pressures for democratization and liberalization of the economy, and the resulting social, political, and economic changes had a great impact upon Buddhism’s recovery. Kent’s chapter focuses on the symbolic and ritual importance afforded to the sīmā monastic boundary in the context of Buddhism’s recovery. Kent emphasizes the values that local people invest in sīmā and how this is being affected by imperatives of consumer politics and power. In chapter 7, Satoru Kobayashi explores locations, also in Cambodia, where ancient sīmās have been restored. Based on field surveys conducted in one rural province from 2000 to 2015, his chapter illuminates the diversity of conceptualizations of sīmā in a Buddhist culture. After discussing recent religious policies for and conditions of multiple types of places for worship in Cambodia, Satoru shows how local people create a place based on the discovery of archaeological artifacts that touch off their historical imaginations of Buddhist activities in the past. Moreover, his analysis uncovers the important function of local conceptualizations of pāramī (variously, “completeness,” “ideal,” or “perfection”) in the regeneration process of Buddhist places of worship as well. He concludes that people’s creative historical imagination, which is rooted in a religious worldview not limited to Buddhist orthodoxy, bridges the past and the present through a sīmā ritual as the fundamental force for restoring the local continuity of Buddhism. In chapter 8, Erik Davis examines contemporary sīmā rituals as the product of historical transformations in territorial marking practices, including Angkorian and pre-Angkorian royal practices of marking territorial control with liṅga, a kind of phallic stone object with its origins in India. Davis interprets these transformations as creative assemblages of different models of territorial marking, highlighting multiple possibilities for how such boundaries order the world. In contemporary Cambodia, Davis notes, sīmā-establishing rituals can dramatize and moralize the territorial ordering of the world, separating the death-dealing work of royalty from the death-confronting work of Buddhist monks in a way that legitimizes both by making them complementary to each other. He also identifies how this same division could potentially represent attempts to restrain and domesticate some of the power of the king through moralization by the Buddhist sangha. In chapter 9, Courtney Work discusses a ring of post-Angkorian-era sīmā stones on Gok Mountain in Pursat Province, and the perceived activities of Yāy Deb, a renowned tutelary spirit and powerful protector of Cambodian kings and territory. Work uses public acts of successful resistance against land-grabbing plantation concessionaires to frame a critical discussion of how



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the tutelary spirit and the sīmā stones from an ancient ritual of sovereignty and territory came to be involved in that struggle. The author grounds the study in history and explores the “processes behind”16 immaterial presence and the activation of material objects that folded stones and power into Cambodia’s contemporary land disputes. To do this, she recounts the historical and contemporary presence of spirits, stones, and humans that inhabit the mountains and the built environments at the Temple of the Seven Angels on Phnom Gok. As outlined above, part 1 examines specific developmental histories and part 2 takes a primarily cultural or ethnographic approach, including a material culture and ecological approach to the physical manifestations of sīmā. In part 3, we turn to three textual treatments of sīmā, presenting and locating sīmā texts within their historical and cultural contexts to showcase how they are composed, situated, and used, as well as, in one case, to identify the limits of understanding of what the authors of the texts were doing and why. As noted above, the Theravāda Pāli Vinaya, commentarial and later literature, as well as a range of vernacular literatures, are crucial for considerations of sīmās in South and Southeast Asia and related regions.17 Indeed, there is an extensive body of vinaya and sīmā literature in original primary source languages, stretching across time and place. All Buddhist monastic communities quite early in their histories seem to have established rules and regulations for their rituals that defined their lineage connection to the Buddha.18 As Buddhist communities grew, they addressed problems not identified in earlier monastic law codes. The basic, minimal rules presented there were further specified, debated, and expanded upon in commentarial (aṭṭhakathā) and subcommentarial (ṭīkā) literature, as well as in a range of other materials, including inscriptions, handbooks, treatises, and modern-day primers. Sīmās rules, ­regulations, and debates constitute one area of textual expansion. The three chapters in this part showcase examples of sīmā texts and the worlds they are intended to help create. In chapter 10, a team of scholars presents a short modern Khmer booklet, Analysis of Sīmās, which was first published in 1932 and which is often referenced by Cambodian Buddhists as a key to proper sīmā practice. Drawing on the Pāli Vinaya and commentaries, the booklet briefly describes basic sīmā practice as found in the Pāli scriptures; it outlines the ways of categorizing sīmā and the scriptural indication of proper practice relating to different categories. An introduction to the booklet by John A. Marston and Elizabeth Guthrie discusses the life of its author, Huot Tath, a major figure in early twentieth-century Cambodian Buddhist reformed movements. A translation by John A. Marston and Chhuon Hoeur renders the booklet into English.

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In chapter 11, Jason A. Carbine focuses on evidence from Myanmar and compares two sets of Buddhist textual statements centered on a single sīmā. The first statement is a set of concluding poetic verses in King Rāmādhipati’s highly influential fifteenth-century Kalyāṇī Sīmā stone inscriptions, and the second statement is a mid-twentieth-century address by Prime Minister U Nu during the staking ceremony for the rebuilding of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā. In comparing these two articulations, Carbine suggests how the approaches to and interventions of each person in the Kalyāṇī Sīmā partake in both similar and differing cultural logics. He argues that although separated by centuries, differences in style, authorship and leadership, and political organization, both sets of statements traffic in similar patterns of thought and action concerning the Kalyāṇī Sīmā and its associated sāsana, or the teachings, practices, and insights set by the Buddha. Even so, despite these similarities, each set of statements offers its own but related identifications and reproductions of who “We” and the “Other” are. This distinction helps identify what may be qualitatively different in the mid-twentieth-century moment under U Nu, in contrast to developments in the fifteenth century. In addition to helping to think about both continuity and change over time relative to uses of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā, the chapter is also meant to help contribute to thinking about how certain kinds of people, such as identified “Others,” are viewed from the vantage point of such sīmās. In chapter 12, Petra Kieffer-Pülz offers a close reading of textual passages in Vimalasāra’s Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī, an independent treatise on sīmā written in 2422 (1878/9) and published in 2424 (1880/1) in Sri Lanka. The text is part of a large number of sīmā treatises that originated in the nineteenth century CE in Sri Lanka and mainland Southeast Asia. In them, we see, for instance, many quotations from and expansions upon the earlier Vinaya literature, and thus these materials constitute significant resources for the study of Buddhism as it was developing in the “modern” world. The close reading sheds light on how Buddhist monks and others made use—either deliberately or otherwise— of known sīmā literatures.

Foundations of Buddhist Religion Each of the chapters in this book makes particular arguments and interventions that are situated within the authors’ own specialty and area of study and should be taken as valuable contributions to those fields. Additionally, we consider the evidence presented in this book to be exemplary in terms of identifying several key areas of understanding that derive from considerations



Introduction

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across multiple chapters. We consider sīmās to be foundations of Buddhist religion in at least seven ways.19 First, sīmās, and building them, caring for them, monitoring them, etc., make a place for the possibility of the attainment of nirvana/nibbāna. Sīmā making is understood to continue the spatial and temporal energies and projects started by the Buddha (and buddhas before him), both during his lifetime as well as in eons past, when as a bodhisatta, “a being on the path to enlightenment,” he strove to cultivate the virtues (pāramī) leading to liberation. Ideally, sīmās are places that will help beings free themselves from the various states of existence and attain Buddhahood. This is part of why sīmās and their related practices remain so salient, with the kinds of historical, cultural, artistic, and other permutations explored throughout the chapters of this book. Second, sīmās are foundational because they are exercises not only in ritual classification but also in legal classification. Sīmās and the texts and practices related to them entail a specialized and often complex set of legal terminology that is intrinsic to certain conceptions of continuity of place, lineage, and the religion generally, and thus also to legal debate about such topics. Sīmās, regulated by legalistic texts and conventions, create places in which legal requirements and judgments can be made; in other words, a court-like space for the practice of Buddhist law.20 Indeed, with sīmā traditions we are in an extremely important arena of Buddhist law dominated by a concern with, as Nagasena and Crosby elegantly and simply put it, “the removal of doubt,” such that this concern has generated an entire body of Buddhist legal thinking. Sīmās as an arena of Buddhist monastic law and legal debate are directly explored in the chapter by Nagasena and Crosby, and then in the chapter by Kieffer-Pülz. Additionally, various sorts of matters of Buddhist law related to sīmās are also discussed in the chapters by Newhall, Chirapravati and Sheravanichkul, Irwin, Davis, Work, and Carbine, where productive tensions between the sīmā of monastic texts and living practices are productively engaged. Moreover, depending on context, it can be useful and important to distinguish ecclesiastical regulations/law/vinaya from the bureaucratic institutions of law governing nonmonastics. The chapter by Alexandra Kent in this book refers to the way a sīmā theoretically protects an area it encloses from encroachment by the ­secular legal authorities. Third, sīmā texts and practices are foundational because they can help us understand the function of certain types of Buddhist ritual places. That is, monastic sīmās and their attendant saṅghakammas, “acts or rituals of the monastic community,” are part of a legal-cultural process of instantiating a kind of partial closure that keeps portions of the religion (e.g., monks)

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simultaneously both separated from and yet integrated with lay practice. If we take sīmā ritual traditions as a starting point for understanding Buddhist cultures and civilizations, we might say that they define a field of practice dominated by partial closure and exclusion. Who or what and to what degree—from men, women, and children, to stones, to artistic representations, to other material objects of various kinds, and even to mythic nonhuman agents—gets included in, excluded from, or partially included in or partially excluded from, the Buddhist religion is defined through sīmās. This point emerges in several chapters of this book. Fourth, sīmā texts and practices provide foundational insight into how Buddhists conceptualize, visualize, and demarcate ritual space using markers, especially but not only stones. With regard to monastic sīmās on land, the most common form of sīmā marker used is the pāsāṇanimitta, or “stone marker.” As the stone tradition developed in Southeast Asia, at least two different uses of stone markers emerged, buried round stones and above-ground stones, often elaborately decorated and placed above the sites where the buried stones are located. While these have sometimes been included in the category of marker, it is clear from the evidence presented here that the tradition of above-ground stones contrasts with or complements the buried stones and can and should be distinguished from them. This tradition of the buried stone markers with the ones above is typical for Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia. It is not typical for Sri Lankan traditions, where there are simple visible stones, and no hidden markers, at least in the traditions not linked with Thailand. Burmese traditions often use water as the markers during the consecration of a sīmā, and then place visible stone markers to demarcate the places of the water markers.21 In some cases, as in the case described by Work in chapter 9, the presence or absence of buried stones is unknown. The chapters by Murphy, Chirapravati and Shervanichkul, and Work deal with the above-ground sīmā tradition, while the chapters by Kobayashi, Kent, and Davis deal with the buried stones. Irwin’s chapter, focused on the sīmā reforms of Siamese king Mongkut (Rāma IV), covers both sets of stones. Carbine’s chapter does not deal with stones per se, but the Kalyāṇī Sīmā referred to in his discussion was originally founded apparently with only above-ground stone markers, which were decorated and not buried. Importantly, in Cambodia, and related as well to non-Khmer regional practices, there is another stone tradition that has been incorporated into the sīmā installation ritual, the indakhīla (Khmer, indakil) stone, which as far as we know is not found in Burmese and Sri Lankan traditions.22 This may indicate that the indakhīla as a stone buried in the middle of a sīmā is a tradition



Introduction

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that developed within the Siamese/Khmer cultural world that was not later absorbed into Myanmar and Sri Lankan traditions. Despite the progress in identifying the historical spread of specific sīmā traditions and their transformations represented in this book, much remains to be studied and confirmed. Indakhīla literally means “Indra’s stake,” where Indra is the king of the gods. In Pāli textual tradition, the word often refers to different types of thresholds, but in Southeast Asia it is usually placed in a central location rather than at a boundary. The indakhīla tradition is taken up in detail in the chapters dealing with Cambodian cultural contexts. Fifth, sīmās and the texts and practices related to them are foundational because they highlight the often complex intersections of lay law, monastic law, the roles believed to be assumed by nonhuman spiritual powers, and conceptualizations of cosmology and cosmic time. While a sīmā space may at times simply seem a space where monks agree upon a ritual boundary in order to perform their legal rituals, a range of local beliefs and practices associated with sīmās are understood to extend across different jurisdictions of power and presence, from the human to the nonhuman, and to the cosmos at large. These points appear most prominently in the chapters by Kent, Davis, Work, and Carbine, where the authors examine different types of power and authority and cosmological understanding interacting in the process of sīmā use. Sixth, sīmās and their practices also help us understand something about the structures of violence or even threats of violence that percolate or are expressed within social and cultural contexts from time to time. Sīmās, perhaps paradoxically because of the relation of the sangha to Buddhist notions of ideal compassion, are in some cases clearly linked with matters of violence and domination. Sīmās, even though places of ordination and the peaceful quest for nibbāna, are not free from conditions of threat and violence intrinsic to political life as such, and this is most apparent in the evidence and analyses of several of the chapters dealing with Cambodia and Myanmar. Finally, and something of a combination of all our preceding points, as spatial foundations of Buddhist religion, sīmās are crucial elements of Buddhist social organization and practice over time. They have been intrinsic to Buddhism’s geographical and intercultural spread and local development, as explored throughout the chapters of this book. Learning more about how sīmā practices developed and changed across time and space can help us shine more light into Buddhism’s history, such as with understanding differences in Buddhist and other stone traditions. Learning more about how localized traditions and creative imaginations have appropriated, transformed, and continued the development of these traditions allows us insight into the ongoing work of

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reimagining Buddhist community and culture. Learning how Buddhist actors have engaged the monastic and lay legal systems regarding sīmās for their agendas gives us a window into contested areas of Buddhist practices. From the highest summits of compassion and the pursuit of liberation to the technical details of Buddhist law and debate, to matters of violence, inclusion and exclusion, sīmās reveal a range of insights into the daily worlds of Buddhists who rely on and use them.

Notes 1.  This is the way Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu translates the term. See Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu, The Buddhist Monastic Code, Vol II: The Khandhaka Rules Translated & Explained, 3rd rev. ed. (Valley Center, Calif.: Metta Forest Monastery, 2001; available online at https://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/thanissaro/bmc2 .pdf, last accessed October 5, 2020). 2.  Jason A. Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati Handled His Boundary Case: Sīmā, Sāsana, and Buddhist Law,” Buddhism, Law & Society I (2015–2016): pp. 108–109. 3.  Abaddha-sīmās “are not determined in an ecclesiastical act. [The three abaddha-sīmās] are: firstly, ‘the boundary of a settlement’ (gāmasīmā), secondly, the ‘sīmā with a radius of seven abbhantara’ (ca. 80m) (sattabbhantarasīmā) and thirdly, the ‘sīmā consisting of throwing sand or water around the assembled community’ (udakukkhepasīmā). A sattabbhantarasīmā is only valid on land outside of settlements and an udakukkhepasīmā only in rivers, natural lakes, or in the ocean” (Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Vācissara’s Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha and the Disagreement between Coḷiyas and Sīhaḷas,” Buddhist Studies (Bukkyō Kenkyū) 28 (1999): p. 13; also cited in Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati,” pp. 109–110). Abaddha-sīmā is the “generic term for all types of monastic boundaries which are not determined by the community in a procedure (kamma*).” (K. R. Norman, Petra Kieffer-Pülz, and William Pruitt, Overcoming Doubts (Kaṅkhāvitaraṇī): The Bhikkhu-Paṭimokkha Commentary (Bristol: The Pali Text Society, 2018), p. 590.) 4.  Nicola Tannenbaum, Who Can Compete against the World? Power-Protection and Buddhism in Shan Worldview (Ann Arbor, Mich.: Association for Asian Studies, 1995); Ashley Thompson, The Calling of the Souls: A Study of the Khmer Ritual Hau Bralin (Clayton, Australia: Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, 1996); Nicola Tannenbaum, “Protest, Tree Ordination, and the Changing Context of Political Ritual,” Ethnology 39, no. 2 (2000): pp. 109– 127; Jason A. Carbine, “Yaktovil: The Role of the Buddha and Dhamma,” in Life of Buddhism, ed. Frank E. Reynolds and Jason A. Carbine (Berkeley: University



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of California Press, 2000), pp. 162–176; Ashley Thompson, Calling the Souls: A Cambodian Ritual Text (Phnom Penh: Reyum Publishing, 2005); Erik W. Davis, Deathpower: Buddhism’s Ritual Imagination in Cambodia (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), pp. 42–49. 5.  E.g., Sp V p. 1136,8–12 and Kkh p. 102,12–15. 6.  We are attentive to the fact that over the past decade scholars have debated the utility of the term Theravāda. See, for example, Peter Skilling, Jason A. Carbine, Claudio Cicuzza, and Santi Pakdeekham, eds., How Theravāda Is Theravāda? Exploring Buddhist Identities (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 2012); see especially Skilling’s introduction. Recognizing the importance of the various critiques, Theravāda is nevertheless a term we cannot do without. With regard to this book, sīmās are central to Theravāda monastic traditions and the fashioning of their lineages, and both monastics and lay people are involved in the ritual practices related to the making and using of such sīmās. For other approaches to Theravāda traditions, see, for example, John C. Holt, Theravada Traditions: Buddhist Ritual Cultures in Contemporary Southeast Asia and Sri Lanka (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2017). The Theravāda Civilizations Project, Phase I and Phase II, sponsored by the Henry Luce Foundation Asia Responsive Grants Initiative and led by the late Steven Collins and Juliane Schober and others, has also produced important work in this area, including a conference session feedback on the thenprojected scope of this book in 2017 as part of the phase II activities. 7.  In the Pāli Vinaya, the rules for sīmās are given at Vin I pp. 106–111, and translated in I. B. Horner, The Book of Discipline (Vinaya-Piṭaka), vol. IV (Mahāvagga) (Bristol: The Pali Text Society, 2014, first published 1951), pp. 137–146. 8.  For a distillation of Pāli texts, including attention to sīmā manuals, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Vinaya Commentarial Literature in Pāli,” in Brill Encyclopedia of Buddhism, vol. 1, Literatures and Languages, ed. Jonathan Silk, O. v. Hinüber, and V. Eltschinger (Leiden: Brill, 2015). For discussion of illustrated sīmā manuscripts, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Sīmā Treatises with a Focus on Illustrated Manuscripts,” in Proceedings of the Third International Pali Studies Week Paris, 2018 (provisional title), Materials for the Study of the Tripiṭaka Volume (Bangkok and Lumbini: Fragile Palm Leaves Foundation, Lumbini International Research Institute, forthcoming). See also Bhikkhu Nyanatusita, “Reference Table of Pali Literature” (https://www.academia.edu/6092534/Reference_Table_ of_Pali_Literature, accessed July 16, 2020). Glossaries of sīmā-related and other Pāli terms are given in Petra Kieffer-Pülz, ed., A Manual of the Adornment of the Monastic Boundary: Vācissara’s Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha. Edition and Annotated Translation. Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, Mainz.

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Veröffentlichungen der Fächergruppenkommission für Außereuropäische Sprachen und Kulturen, 8 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2021); Norman, Kieffer-Pülz, and Pruitt, Overcoming Doubts, pp. 590–603; Nagasena Bhikkhu, “The Monastic Boundary (Sīmā) in Burmese Buddhism: Authority, Purity and Validity in Historical and Modern Contexts” (PhD diss., School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 2012; available at http://eprints.soas .ac.uk/17369), pp. 362–384; and Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati,” pp. 156–160. Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “The Meaning of Māḷa(ka)/māla(ka) in Pāli,” in Langue, style et structure dans le monde Indien, centenaire de Louis Renou. Actes du colloque international (Paris, 25–27 janvier 1996), ed. Nalini Balbir, Georges-Jean Pinault, and Jean Fezas (Paris: H. Champion, 1996), gives a list of words and references concerning māḷaka, and these words are connected to sīmā and are explained in the essay. Petra Kieffer-Pülz gives a glossary of Vinaya terms (but does not include sīmā matters) in the third volume of her Gaṇṭhipada work, Verlorene Gaṇṭhipadas zum buddhistischen Ordensrecht. Untersuchungen zu den in der Vajirabuddhiṭīkā zitierten Kommentaren Dhammasiris und Vajirabuddhis, 3 vols. Veröffentlichungen der Indologischen Kommission, 1 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2013). 9.  Rebecca Redwood French, “Is Buddhist Law Sophisticated?: Editor’s Introduction,” Buddhism, Law & Society 2 (2016–2017): pp. viii–ix. 10.  Material in this paragraph is reused from “Sīmā (Monastic Boundary),” [no pages], Buddhist Ordination, by Jason A. Carbine and Patrick C. Kellycooper (2016), reproduced by permission of Oxford University Press (https://www .oxfordbibliographies.com/). Petra Kieffer-Pülz and Shayne Clarke offered generous feedback on the “Buddhist Ordination” bibliography as a whole. 11.  Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions Erected by King Dhammacetī at Pegu in 1476 A.D: Text and Translation (Rangoon: Superintendent, Government Printing, 1892). A new annotated text and translation, including a bibliography of sīmā literature and manuscripts related to the inscriptions, is being prepared by Jason A. Carbine. Details about the Kalyāṇī Inscriptions are provided in Carbine’s and other chapters in this book. 12.  Kamburupiṭiyē Ariyasēna, “Sīmāva hā ehi aitihāsika saṃvardhanaya piḷibanda tulanātmaka vimarśanayak [Sīmā: A comparative study of its historical development]” (PhD diss., University of Ceylon, 1967). Another, more recent dissertation is Nagasena Bhikkhu, “The Monastic Boundary (Sīmā).” 13.  Madeleine Giteau, Le bornage rituel des temples bouddhiques au Cambodge (Paris: École Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1969). 14.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā. Vorschriften zur Regelung der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze in älteren buddhistischen Texten, Monographien zur indischen Archäologie, Kunst und Philologie, 8 (Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 1992).



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15.  Kieffer-Pülz, A Manual of the Adornment of the Monastic Boundary. This work was originally part of this book; it developed into an entire separate publication. 16.  M. A. Vásquez, More than Belief: A Materialist Theory of Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 17.  See, for instance, Kieffer-Pülz, “Vinaya Commentarial Literature in Pāli.” 18.  See Shayne Clarke, “Vinayas,” in Brill’s Encyclopedia of Buddhism, vol. I, Literatures and Languages, ed. Jonathan Silk, O. v. Hinüber, V. Eltschinger (Leiden and Boston, 2015), pp. 60–87; and Berthe Jansen, “Monastic Organizational Guidelines,” pp. 442–449 in the same volume. 19.  Our comments following here are adapted from pages 150–153 in Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati.” 20.  French, “Is Buddhist Law Sophisticated?,” pp. viii–ix. 21.  We are thankful to Petra Kieffer-Pülz and Nagasena Bhikkhu for drawing the distinction relative to Sri Lankan traditions, and to Pyi Phyo Kyaw and Kate Crosby relative to Burmese traditions. For the use of water and stone markers in Burmese traditions, see also the discussion in Nagasena Bhikkhu, “The Monastic Boundary (Sīmā),” p. 269 ff. Nagasena also notes that “the number of stones used in sīmā consecrations in Burma (Myanmar) seems to have changed over time.” For example, he draws attention to some sīmās that were consecrated with two stones in each of the cardinal directions for a total of eight, and sīmās with either two or three stones in each of the cardinal and intermediate directions, for a total of sixteen or twenty-four stones (pp. 280–282). Carbine has observed a sīmā in Mawlamyaing in lower Myanmar where six stones are used at each direction. 22.  In Khmer, the word “indakhīla” is usually spelled “indakil,” and is not as well-attested in popular speech as “sīmākil.” Chuon Nath’s Khmer language dictionary identifies both terms (i.e., indakil and sīmākil) as deriving from “indakhīla,” and for the purposes of standardization and recognition across chapters, we have standardized the spelling as “indakhīla” throughout.

ch a pter 1

Sīmā Basics from Buddha to Burma Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby

The concept of sīmā, literally “boundary,” is a fairly simple one: monks and nuns need somewhere to meet, and the sīmā marks out the place within which they should meet. More precisely, there needs to be an agreed, defined space within an agreed area within which monks or nuns who are in that area, who may or may not be of fixed abode, should come together when they have ecclesiastical business to transact. Such business takes place fortnightly and on other key occasions. This ensures harmony, mutual recognition and inclusion, and a degree of uniformity in the Sangha in the absence of a single centralized authority.

Sīmā, Complex in Practice Despite the simplicity of the concept, in practice it is quite complex to establish a sīmā so that its validity—and correspondingly the validity of the business transacted within it—is uncontested. As a result the topic of sīmā can be a matter for detailed calculation, scrutiny, and heated debate, even—perhaps especially—for those who are recognized experts in it. The topic of sīmā may be obscure for those who are not members of the Sangha and abstruse for those who are. While a sīmā is crucial for the survival of Buddhist monasticism, technically it requires little or no input from lay people. Indeed, lay people are actively excluded from its core functions, though they may be involved in a whole range of peri-sīmā activities and roles that vary between Theravāda subcultures. The abstruse nature of the subject even for monastics results from the accumulations of centuries of attempts to define every aspect of sīmā in 18



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sufficient detail to ensure that the validity of any given sīmā is beyond all conceivable doubt. As is the case with many a legal concept, the detailed defining for the removal of doubt creates a complex cartography, which in turn provides fertile ground for dispute, and so develops an entire field of law. Given that Buddhist ecclesiastical law, the vinaya, may justifiably lay claim to being the oldest functioning legal system in the world,1 it has had more centuries than most to elaborate on its basic concepts. Here we shall try to delineate the basic requirements of sīmā and point out the avenues along which complexities have materialized within Theravāda Buddhism, focusing on Burma.2 This overview may help orient readers for some of the later chapters in this book that study more complex aspects of Theravāda sīmā.

Why Is Sīmā Important? The sīmā receives relatively scant mention in much of the Pāli canon, with the result that its significance has yet to be recognized in more general text-based studies of Theravāda. It is the very last book of the section of the canon dedicated to the regulations governing the lives of monks and nuns, the Vinaya Piṭaka, that explains its significance for all the ecclesiastical procedures that ensure the validity, functioning, and continuity of the Theravāda Sangha. That last book is called the Parivāra. The Parivāra is all about organization, a kind of manual providing order and finality to the regulations governing the management of the Sangha found through the extensive volumes of the Vinaya Piṭaka. The Parivāra lists the ecclesiastical acts or rituals, saṅghakamma, of the Sangha, the community of monks and nuns, and tells us how to know whether they have been conducted in a valid manner. Ecclesiastical acts include rites crucial for the Sangha’s continuity, such as ordination, and the Parivāra provides a list of the factors that make such rites and other rituals valid. The term given to each requirement is sampatti, meaning “achievement,” “perfection,” or “validity.” We need sampatti, validity, of various components for the act in question to be valid. In other words, each component of the ritual must be valid for the ritual as a whole to be valid. By the time the Parivāra was compiled, the sīmā had come to be regarded as a crucial component of the core rituals that serve for the recruitment of monks into the Sangha and its harmonious continuity. The core rituals for which a valid sīmā, sīmā-sampatti, is essential include the higher ordination, upasampadā, by which monks (and nuns) are admitted to full membership of the Sangha; the uposatha ceremony for rehearsing the pāṭimokkha rules,

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which govern the daily life of monks and nuns and at which the purity of the Sangha is declared; the kaṭhina ceremony, when new robes are offered to the monks at the end of the rains retreat; the pavāraṇā, the rite for confession and seeking forgiveness that acts as an annual purification ceremony ensuring harmony and unity in the Sangha; the parivāsa, originally a penalty for breaking certain rules but which later developed into a form of purification ritual. If the sīmā is invalid, so is the ritual. The requirement that these procedures be performed within a valid sīmā means that a monastic lineage could be disestablished if someone could prove the invalidity of the sīmā within which its monks were ordained, since the ordinations of the monks in that lineage would thereby be invalidated. Accusations of invalid sīmās have shaped the history of Theravāda Buddhism. Two cases are particularly famous. One is the declaration by the fifteenth-century king Dhammazedi (Rāmādhipati) that all sīmā in his kingdom of Hanthawaddy (Burma) were invalid. This led to the establishment of the Kalyāṇī sīmā by monks reordained in Sri Lanka, under whom most other monks in turn had to seek reordination.3 The other is the mid-nineteenth-century expansion of the Balapiṭiya sīmā in Sri Lanka, which led to decades of debate involving many of the most senior monks of Sri Lanka as well as monks from Burma and elsewhere.4 Never resolved except by a split in the Sangha that lasts to this day, the extensive disputation arguably honed the monks in the debating skills that secured a Buddhist victory over the Christians in the Pānadura debate.5 The debate was published in English and inspired the founders of the Theosophical Society, Madame Blavatsky and Colonel Olcott, to travel to Sri Lanka, where they began their relationship with the young theosophist who would go on to become the future Buddhist revivalist Anāgārika Dharmapāla. The rest, as they say, is history, a history that shaped global Buddhism.6 So while sīmā may be unfamiliar to most Western and many modernist Buddhists, it has nonetheless had a hand in shaping their take on Buddhism. Meanwhile, although sīmā is rarely mentioned in outsider discussions of Theravāda Buddhism, including social anthropological studies, almost all Theravāda monks would consider sīmā of crucial importance in the maintenance of Buddhism and would have a reasonable knowledge of its function. In fact, because of the repercussions of an invalid sīmā, concern, even anxiety, about the correct establishment and maintenance of their sīmā is widespread among Theravāda monks, particularly those with lineages of Burmese heritage. We shall therefore provide some indications of how monks in Burma today interpret canonical and commentarial regulations to ensure their sīmā’s validity.



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What Makes a Sīmā Valid (sīmā-sampatti)? There is a broad distinction between a consecrated sīmā and an unconsecrated or ad hoc sīmā, literally “not-bound,” abaddha, that is, not consecrated or determined through a legal procedure. The abaddha-sīmā may be temporary or simply of a specific kind that is classified as not determined. We shall return to such abaddha-sīmā below. First let us examine the consecrated or determined sīmā, a baddha-sīmā. While a sīmā provides a location for ordinations and other ecclesiastical procedures, saṅghakamma, the fixing or consecrating of a sīmā, itself requires its own saṅghakamma. The consecration of a sīmā therefore has its own list of sampatti, components that need to be valid. While the list may seem extensive, they are organized into three broad categories by a text called the Kaṅkhāvitāraṇī, one of the two fifth-century commentaries indispensable for understanding sīmā practice,7 and we shall be following that threefold classification here.8 For a valid sīmā consecration the three components that must in turn be valid are assembly, parisā; markers, nimitta; and litany, kammavācā. The assembly means the monks (or nuns, where the bhikkhunī lineage is active) who participate in the consecration of the sīmā. The nimitta are markers that delimit the space that constitutes the sīmā. The kammavācā, litany, is the recitation of the relevant passages of Pāli text. In other words, we need the right monastics to perform the sīmā consecration, we need them to define the space taken up by the sīmā correctly, and we need them to recite the correct words at the consecration of the sīmā. While the sīmā has many symbolic and practical functions, it is these three aspects that are crucial in terms of the vinaya, ecclesiastical law. We shall now give a basic overview of each of these, including how they have changed in practice between the canonical, commentarial, and modern periods. We take our modern examples from Burma and Bangladesh, which together constitute the main spheres of Burmese and Arakanese influence. We shall use a table to provide an overview of what is meant by the validity of each component. The notion of a sīmā, a space within which all monks living in a particular area (a “living” or āvāsa) should gather, arose in the early period of Buddhism, when the canon was being formed. The concept originated as a means of maintaining unity within the Sangha, ensuring that by regular meetings within a delimited area, all monks could be sure they followed the same rules and collectively acknowledged new members. For a tradition that was spreading over an increasingly large area but had no centralized institutional authority after the Buddha’s demise, the sīmā allowed Buddhism to spread through the mechanism of what Peter Skilling has termed “a network of modules,

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self-governing and self-reproducing units.”9 The sīmā defined the place within which monks living in the associated area needed to gather for the regular and occasional procedures that constituted the self-governing and self-reproducing. While the minimum number needed to admit new members was five or ten, the minimum number of monks necessary to gather and consecrate a sīmā was four. No maximum limit to the number of monks was given. The Mahāpāsāṇa Cave in Yangon, built between 1954 and 1955 for the Sixth Council, is contained within a sīmā and can accommodate 2,500 monks, the number symbolic of the 2,500-year anniversary of the Buddha’s parinibbāna, which took place the following year.10 The commentaries on the Vinaya Piṭaka attributed to Buddhaghosa, namely the Samantapāsādikā and the Kaṅkhāvitāraṇī, flesh out the scant detail on sīmā provided in the Pāli canon.11 They confirm that the minimum number of monks needed to establish a sīmā is four. An existing temporal boundary, usually a village boundary (gāma-sīmā), is used as the basis for the new monastic boundary, which will be created somewhere within that boundary.12 All the fully ordained monks living within the jurisdiction of the village whose boundary is being used must attend the consecration. So our correct assembly includes all monks in the relevant jurisdiction. This is to ensure unity by preventing the existence of separate factions of monks, vagga. The term vagga, “faction” or “division,” means disunity in the context of sīmā. A sīmā is valid only if the Sangha group consecrating it is complete or quorate and unified (samagga). To further ensure this unity, all participating monks must come together into a kind of huddle. By huddle we mean that all the monks must be within an arm’s length of each other, somewhere within the sīmā. The term for the maximum distance between them, the arm’s length, is the “extent of the hand,” hatthapāsa, that is, how far an outstretched hand can reach. Finally, if any monk is ill and cannot attend, and it is not possible to conduct the consecration at his bedside, he must send a proxy, someone who indicates his consent on his behalf. Are there other exceptions to who must attend? Yes, there are places within a village territory that do not count, such as stretches of water and previously consecrated sīmā within the territory. So monks on a raft in the lake or monks staying inside their own previously consecrated sīmā throughout the consecration period do not constitute a vagga.

Complications Relating to Validity of the Assembly Well, that seems simple enough: at least four monks, all monks in the area, all come into the hatthapāsa huddle or send a proxy if they are sick, and we have validity of the assembly. What can go wrong?



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One of the biggest problems is defining the territory of a village in order to know where the village boundary, gāma-sīmā, lies. There have been two court cases concerning sīmā that reached the highest level of the ecclesiastical court system in Burma in 1988 and 1989, and both sīmā were declared invalid because of the question of how to define a village, particularly in a modern urban context.13 The commentaries over the centuries have also tried to define village territory to avoid any confusion, and this had led to different commentarial definitions. Problems arise in working out how these definitions apply when transferred to bigger residential areas, such as a group of villages, a town, suburb, or city. Some definitions involve taxation, leading to further complexity, as taxation systems vary. So part of the complexity is knowing which, if any, commentarial interpretation of village territory to apply. Another particularly problematic risk in a modern urban context is knowing whether you have managed to gather all qualified monks into the hatthapāsa huddle. Suppose you have multiple temples in the territory? You have to ensure that all the monks from those temples either attend or stay in their own previously established sīmā, if they have one. This means you need the cooperation of any temple in the same “village” territory. If you are the first monastery to consecrate a sīmā in a village, as was the case with the Thai royal temple, Buddhapadeep, which consecrated the first Thai sīmā in the “village” of London, England, in 1979, this rule means that you can control the establishment of any other Thai sīmā in London. Remember, without their own sīmā, monks have to go to use the sīmā of another temple to perform their higher ordinations, that is, to admit new adult members and grow. We shall come to some ways around that below, but in the case of the village of London, let us suppose a monk later wants to establish another Thai temple. If he is uncertain of the cooperation of the abbot of the Wimbledon temple, because of their relative position in the politics of modern Thailand, for example, he might be relieved to circumvent such considerations when a suitable property is found in a nearby town instead. This is what happened in the case of Wat Phra Dhammakaya London, which became the first Thai group to establish a temple and sīmā in a village near Woking in 2009. Now suppose you have cooperation and have ensured that all the qualified monks are either in your hatthapāsa huddle (or in their own sīmā or in a boat on the lake), but a monk comes walking along the road and enters the village territory. Immediately, he creates vagga because he is a qualified monk now present in the relevant jurisdiction, but he is not in the hatthapāsa huddle. In the case of a village, such a situation is prevented by stationing lay helpers at the entrances to the village to bar any monks from entering for the duration of the consecration. A drum or other instrument is sounded or a gun fired to

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mark the start of the ceremony so that all the guards know when they can and cannot allow travelers into the village. Usually the ceremony will also be scheduled to take place at night to minimize the likely number of potential travelers. But imagine that you are trying to consecrate your sīmā in a city such as Yangon or Singapore. Buses, planes, automobiles, canals, footpaths, all manner of ingress, threaten the unity of your Sangha group. Moreover, think of the numbers, the practicality of space, the catering. No wonder there have been court cases over whether the correct assembly was used, based on how to define a village in an urban setting. Far better to do what the commentaries allow, namely to use a “special” or “individual” village sīmā, a visuṃgāmasīmā, an area allocated by the king for this very purpose. A visuṃgāma-sīmā is a small demarcated area that acts as the village sīmā within which one will consecrate one’s sīmā and be able to include all qualified monks without worrying about what is going on in greater Yangon or Singapore or wherever. What can go wrong now? Well, one question that has to be resolved is who or what counts as a king now that there is no king in either place, and also what counts as allocated. Again, there have been different interpretations and disputes in relation to this matter. Now let us suppose we have our special minivillage space, our visuṃgāmasīmā, allocated by an authority that is accepted as being “the king” in our modern context. What else can go wrong? Well, what if it turns out that one of our four monks had had a sexual affair? It may have been years ago, he may have regretted it and been the most committed monk imaginable since that fateful night, but the moment he had an affair he became a defeated monk, a nonmonk, whether anyone but him knew it or not. This would mean that in reality we only have three monks in our assembly and, unbeknownst to us, we would have failure of assembly, parisā-vipatti. How to address this problem? The practice today is to invite as many highly respected, well-educated, and high-ranking monks as possible. This will ensure the statistical likelihood that among all of them there are at least four pure monks. Somewhere between twenty and one hundred seems to satisfy this need in modern Burma.14 The invitation of these high-ranking monks also adds to the occasion. It makes the event one of international significance when a sīmā is established abroad and high-ranking monks need to be flown in from Burma. All this is to ensure there is no doubt of the validity of the assembly of monks, parisā-sampatti, performing the consecration of the sīmā. In Burma, with its history of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā and with its centralized ecclesiastical courts and their punitive powers, much effort is spent on ensuring that all these possible misgivings about the validity of the assembly are



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Table 1.1  Key points relating to parisā-sampatti Parisā-sampatti Validity of Assembled monks

Quorum

Canon

Commentary

Modern Burmese Practice

Catuvagga Group of 4 monks

4 And all within village boundary

As many highly respected, well-educated, and high-ranking monks as possible

Hatthapāsa “two cubits”

Monastery has • Proxy for nonsick sīmā—stay in it. monks in busy/ Monastery no congested areas. sīmā—attend/send • Saves on money, proxy if ill. allows monks to Want to do neither? continue usual Leave the village business. (Burmese sīmā • In city, use manuals) visuṃgāma-sīmā.

Include guest monks

Risk of visitor monks creating vagga

Lay authorities guard village boundary. Drum or gunfire. At night.

averted and that canonical and commentarial prescriptions are followed. A curious exception to this adherence to the strictures of past authorities is how the use of consent by proxy is implemented. Initially designed to ensure that invalids were not excluded and could not create vagga, the proxy system is now used by busy monks who do not have time to attend the consecration, perhaps because they have a job as a university teacher or are engaged on some other task. Table 1.1 summarizes the key points relating to parisā-sampatti, validity of the assembled monks for performing the consecration of a sīmā, from the canon to the commentaries to modern practice in Burma.

What Makes the Boundary Markers Valid (nimitta-sampatti)? The literal meaning of the word sīmā is boundary. In this context it usually refers to the area contained within the boundary. If we think in terms of basic mathematics, an area is delineated on a plane (a surface, such as the ground) by a minimum of three nonlinear points. In other words, we need just three

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points, draw lines between them, and we have ourselves an area. Sure enough, in the canon, just three points are sufficient to demarcate a sīmā for monastic rituals. The commentary confirms that the minimum needed is three, but that a sīmā could be many-sided, theoretically with as many as one hundred markers.15 While this provides the theoretical possibility of a range of shapes from a triangle to a hectagon, in practice all monastic boundaries in Burma are established in the form of a rectangular or square shape. The nimitta must be located in relation to each other so that there is an uninterrupted line of sight between them. The markers lie on the outside edge of the space that constitutes the sīmā. According to the canon, there were eight types of nimitta used to demarcate monastic sīmā during the Buddha’s lifetime.16 Most of these are naturally occurring phenomena that somehow stand out in the landscape: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

A hummock, literally a mountain (pabbata) A rock or stone (pāsāṇa) A forest or cluster of trees (vaṇa) A tree (rukkha) A road/path (magga) An anthill (vammika) A river (nadī) A body of water (udaka)

The commentaries go into some length about the characteristics that qualify a “mountain” for the function of nimitta (at least the size of your average elephant), and engage in similar discussions for all the other nimitta. Today in Burma and areas with a Burmese heritage, two markers are used: water and stone. Even when water is used, a stone is positioned over the place of the water after the ceremony has concluded. This is so that a durable object marks the location of the nimitta, whereas the original water nimitta may dry up or leak away after the ceremony is completed. (Certain preparations are undertaken to ensure that it will not dry up during the ceremony without needing to be topped up.) In the case of the stone, it has to be smaller than an elephant, since that would qualify it as a mountain, so the maximum size is that of a buffalo. As to minimum size to qualify as a stone, it is the equivalent of a lump of sugar weighing thirty-two palas. Aside from what was meant by a lump of sugar in those early days of sugar extraction, there is also the problem that no one knows the exact modern equivalent of the weight of thirty-two palas, but most Burmese monks would accept the minimum weight to be around 2.08 kg.17



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Although the commentaries describe different forms of natural stone, these days they tend to be carved especially for the purpose from real stone or set from concrete. In an interview (2009), Bamaw Sayadaw, the current head of the most senior ecclesiastical body, the State Saṅghamahānāyaka, expressed disapproval of the use of concrete as sīmā stones. We are unclear, however, whether these concrete markers are the original stone nimitta or merely the permanent placeholders set up where water nimitta were used in the actual consecration. The shapes of sīmā stones are culturally specific. This, their durability, and their crucial function for Theravāda monasticism means that the archaeology of sīmā stones may be used to detect the institutional history of Buddhism in Southeast Asia.18 A crucial criterion for the validity of a sīmā is that one sīmā must not overlap with another. This makes sense if one considers that a sīmā is meant to bring together all the Sangha living in the relevant area as a single group. If two sīmā overlap, confusion between different Sangha groups as a result of the overlapping jurisdictions may ensue. The topic of overlapping sīmā is one of the most complex aspects of vinaya law and raises some interesting issues. It also gives rise to some surprising questions, unanticipated in canonical and commentarial texts, such as whether electric cables constitute the equivalent of overhanging tree branches and can therefore create overlap between two sīmā. The concern to avoid overlapping sīmā leads to two distinctive practices in Burmese sīmā consecration. One is the practice of revoking or “taking up,” ukkhepa, the previous sīmā before setting up the nimitta of the new sīmā. In the commentary, the Samantapāsādikā, the revocation is advised when the existence of a previous sīmā in a location has been established. The thirteenthcentury Vimativinodanīṭīkā, however, went a step further by offering a new procedure to revoke a sīmā even if none is actually known to exist in that location.19 As a result, in modern practice, the revocation procedure applies even if there is no sīmā visible, even if the new sīmā is being established in a part of the world where Buddhist monasticism is relatively new. For how can we know where previous Buddhas established Sangha and so where sīmā might lie? Revoking a space that is invisible involves some complex mathematics whereby, starting with a very small space, increasingly larger spaces are cleared of any pre-existing sīmā through the recitation of a special litany by monks seated in each of the consecutive spaces. We will return to the subject of litanies in more detail below. For now, let us just observe that the litanies used in revoking specifically revoke two agreements assumed to have taken place in the creation of the perhaps pre-existing sīmā. One of those agreements grants permission for monks not to have their outer robe with

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them. The other confirms the common affiliation of the monks using that sīmā, in other words, that all the monks belong there and can conduct the ceremony together. When the new sīmā is consecrated, the reverse litanies are used, removing the permission and confirmation, in order to clear the area of old sīmā before starting afresh. The other distinctive practice that arises from the concern to avoid overlapping sīmā is the use of not just one line of nimitta around the space, but two or even three. For example, if we have eight cardinal directions marked by eight nimitta creating a rectangle, we will then find a second and possibly a third rectangle enclosing the first one with another eight nimitta constituting each of these rectangles. The eight outermost stones, sited in each cardinal direction, are not sīmā markers as such but markers of the sīmantarika, the interspace, there solely to separate one sīmā from another. This is the usual practice in Burma, so that a total of sixteen markers are used. Where twentyfour markers are used, three sets of eight, the middle nimitta that form the intermediate rectangle are there to allow for expansion of the original sīmā. They mark the area of ground cleared by the sīmā revocation process, leaving this larger space available to enlarge the sīmā if needed. Although no line needs to be drawn between the nimitta, in practice temporary fences, white lime powder, string, a water channel, or even permanent structures between the nimitta are often used to mark the outline of the sīmā. The formal connection between nimitta is formed not physically, but verbally, by the recitation of a set formula or litany prescribed in the commentary, the Samantapāsādikā. The formula consists of a series of questions between a vinaya expert and his assistant. The assistant may be a layman or monk. He stands by each nimitta and answers the expert, a monk, in Pāli, about the nimitta in each location: Expert: puratthimāya disāya kiṃ nimittaṃ? “What is the nimitta in the eastern direction?” Assistant: udakaṃ bhante. “The water, Venerable Sir.” Expert: etaṃ udakaṃ nimittaṃ. “This water is the nimitta.”20 Assistant:  āma bhante. “Yes, Venerable Sir.” (Fourth statement, in current practice.) The Samantapāsādikā is specific about the wording of this interaction and gives several examples of wording that would invalidate the nimitta even though conveying the same meaning. In practice, to ensure clarity, Burmese monks and their assistants use both the prescribed Pāli wording and a

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Table 1.2  Key points relating to nimitta-sampatti Nimitta-sampatti Validity of boundary markers

Form

Number

Canon

Commentary

1. hummock 2. rock 3. forest 4. tree 5. highway 6. anthill 7. river 8. body of water

1. hummock 2. rock 3. forest 4. tree 5. highway 6. anthill 7. river 8. body of water Q&A to identify and connect nimitta.

Modern Burmese Practice

1. rock 2. body of water Q&A to identify and connect nimitta. 3–9 iterations. Concrete—or postconsecration concrete markers.

Three minimum—100. Rectangular Triangle and any other Now 8 inner nimitta multisided shape. 8 outer markers mark space between sīmā. They are not nimitta. 8 intermediary— consecrated limit if need to extend.

Burmese translation. To ensure the correct pronunciation, most experts will seek to do this process of nimitta identification not once but as many as nine times. By walking from nimitta to nimitta in this way they establish the line of the boundary. Table 1.2 summarizes the factors that make up the validity for nimitta and how these are implemented in Burmese practice today. Once the nimitta are identified and connected, it is time for the valid recitation of the main litany for the consecration, a litany additional to that used in revoking a previous sīmā and in the identification and connecting of the nimitta.

What Makes a Litany Valid (kammavācā-sampatti)? We now turn to the final of the three sampatti necessary to consecrate a sīmā, the litany. A kammavācā literally means “statement of the work/transaction,”

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kamma here referring to the saṅghakamma, the transaction or legal procedure conducted by the monastic community. A kammavācā is the formal statement in the Pāli language that forms the core of any saṅghakamma, and since this is in a religious context and the words are thought to have particular power, we may translate this as “litany.” For consecrating a sīmā there are the litanies for revoking the old sīmā and for identifying and binding the nimitta, both mentioned above. Then come two litanies for establishing the sīmā recited with all the participating monks close together within a hatthapāsa of each other. The first litany makes a statement about how the sīmā functions. The second makes a statement about which robes a monk needs to have with him in the sīmā. The first litany authorizes the sīmā area within the markers, nimitta, as an area of common affiliation, that is, a single Sangha group wherein the monks of that group share a single uposatha. The uposatha is the fortnightly ceremony for rehearsing the rules monks live by, meant to be followed by confession and ending with a declaration of the purity of the Sangha. The litany consists of (1) a motion or “making known” (ñatti) of the procedure being enacted, in this case the consecration of the sīmā, (2) a consultation in which the agreement of the gathered Sangha for the procedure is requested, and (3) the proclamation that the Sangha has approved the motion, as follows. 1. Venerable sirs, may the Community (Sangha) listen to me. If the Community is ready, then—as far as those markers that have been determined all around—it should authorize a territory of common affiliation, of a single Uposatha. This is the motion (ñatti). 2. Venerable sirs, may the Community listen to me. As far as those markers that have been determined all around, the Community authorizes a territory of common affiliation, of a single Uposatha. He to whom the authorization of the territory as far as those markers as one of common affiliation, of a single Uposatha, is agreeable, should remain silent. He to whom it is not agreeable should speak. 3. The territory as far as those markers has been authorized by the Community as one of common affiliation, of a single Uposatha. This is agreeable to the Community, therefore it is silent. Thus do I hold it. 1. Suṇātu me bhante saṅgho. Yāvatā samantā nimittā kittitā, yadi saṅghassa pattakallaṃ, saṅgho etehi nimittehi sīmaṃ sammanneyya samāna-saṃvāsaṃ ek’uposathaṃ. Esā ñatti.



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2. Suṇātu me bhante saṅgho. Yāvatā samantā nimittā kittitā, saṅgho etehi nimittehi sīmaṃ sammannati samāna-saṃvāsaṃ ek’uposathaṃ. Yass’āyasmato khamati, etehi nimittehi sīmāya sammati samānasaṃvāsāya ek’uposathāya, so tuṇh’assa. Yassa na kkhamati, so bhāseyya. 3. Sammatā sīmā saṅghena etehi nimittehi, samāna-saṃvāsā ek’uposathā. Khamati saṅghassa, tasmā tuṇhī. Evam etaṃ dhārayāmi.21 Litanies are categorized within Pāli ecclesiastical law according to the required structure. Because the motion must come first followed by the consultation and final statement, this litany is called a “motion-second-act,” that is, the motion plus a second statement, ñattidutiyakamma.22 Getting this structure right is essential for the validity of the kammavācā. The second litany, which covers what monks need to be wearing when in the sīmā, follows. It reflects the expectation that monks should, when going abroad, wear their third, outer robe, that is, be dressed formally. There are some monks who undertake a special “ascetic practice” of not being without this third robe at any time. The litany states it is okay for monks to leave their formal outer robe anywhere in the sīmā area, and they will be regarded as still having their third robe with them. It then says that this does not apply in the precincts of a village. This litany is used regardless of the location of the newly established sīmā, most of which are established within a village precinct. At the same time, most sīmā are also within a monastery, and one does not need to carry one’s outer robe with one within the monastery compound. This particular issue is another source of complex and intriguing arguments: why recite a litany that no longer applies? Answers range from confounding enemies who might want to revoke one’s sīmā to retaining a practice because of tradition. In Burma, most agree that they follow this practice because of tradition. It may seem, then, that this litany about robes is a harmless appendix retained for historical reasons. In 1924, however, it sparked a series of polemical tracts when a monk challenged the validity of a sīmā established in the city of Colombo using a visuṃgāma-sīmā on the basis that the triple robe litany contains the terms for village and town, but not city. Again, how definitions in relation to a village can be applied in relation to larger, built-up areas is a common source of dispute in relation to sīmā. Although the litanies for establishing the sīmā and announcing the triple robe permission are required only once, concern that it should be valid beyond reasonable doubt means that a single recitation is not regarded as sufficient in modern practice. Usually it will be recited multiple times, for example six times, by high-ranking monks to ensure that there is no doubt that it has been

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correctly recited at least once by pure monks (who have committed none of the four pārājika offenses that nullify their status as monks). Moreover, although the meaning of the words of the litany are significant, as with other important ecclesiastical procedures such as higher ordination, great emphasis is placed on correct pronunciation. In Burma, this means that less experienced monks will be trained before the ceremony to improve their pronunciation according to the South Asian methods of enunciation outlined in the commentary to the Parivāra. This South Asian enunciation of Pāli in accordance with traditional Indic grammar is different from standard Burmese pronunciation of Pāli. If anyone spots an error in pronunciation during the recitation of the litany, in terms of whether the phonemes are articulated in the correct part of the mouth according to Indic grammar, whether consonants are voiced or unvoiced, or whether or not the vowels are correct and of correct length, they will report this and the recitation will recommence.23 Here Burmese concern for correct pronunciation to ensure the validity of the kammavācā is in marked contrast to a more relaxed approach in Thailand. The litany does not stand alone as the only statement or recitation used when consecrating a sīmā. There is usually a soundscape that includes the following: opening homages, paritta recitation, preaching, the receipt of any consent by proxy, a reiteration of the revocation, formal invitations, the formal appointment of different monks for different components, the nimitta identification, the recalling of the monks involved in the nimitta identification back into the hatthapāsa huddle, the main kammavācā performed multiple times—three, six, or nine times—likewise the litany in relation to the robes, more paritta recitation such as the Jayamaṅgala gāthā, a statement of the completion of the ceremony, and a final blessing. Despite the richness of this overall procedure, however, the litanies for revocation, nimitta identification, the establishment of the sīmā, and the declaration about the three robes alone constitute the crucial litanies for this component of sīmā consecration. Therefore, the measures taken to ensure kammavācā-sampatti focus on ensuring that the litanies are performed with the correct wording by a sufficient number of highly qualified monks using the correct pronunciation, and doing this all a sufficient number of iterations so that no one doubts that it was achieved perfectly at least once. The kammavācā is regarded as the core of the process, and the kammavācā creates the ritual purity of any ecclesiastical procedure. Therefore, various lay practices—which we will not be examining here—seeking to harness the power of the procedure, draw on the effect of kammavācā. Table 1.3 summarizes the key points relating to kammavācā-sampatti.

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Table 1.3  Key points relating to kammavācā-sampatti Kammavācā-sampatti Validity of Litany

Canon

Pronunciation

Recitation

Power of recitation

Mahāvagga text

Commentary

Practice

Correct articulation

Variation between regions, over the centuries various reforms to revert to traditional Indic articulation. Burmese emphasize aspirants and voicing in kammavācā. No “s.” Attempt to Indianize now after study in India. Otherwise South Asian, as Bangladesh. Repetition where errors noticed. Training before ritual.

Emphasizes Mahāvagga text, rejects alternatives, even with same meaning.

Repetition 3 up to 9 times to ensure correct once!

Any kammavācā creates purity.

Unconsecrated Sīmā (abaddha-sīmā), Including Sīmā Over Water (udakukkhepa-sīmā) The above discussion relates to the three types of validity, sampatti, required to ensure the valid establishment of a formally consecrated sīmā, a baddhasīmā. We mentioned above that there are also unconsecrated sīmā, called abaddha-sīmā, the distinction between the two being set out in the vinaya commentary, the Kaṅkhāvitāraṇī. Unconsecrated sīmā can be used by monks living where no monastic sīmā has been consecrated. We have come across one such abaddha-sīmā above, the village boundary or territory, the gāma-sīmā. This is the secular boundary of the village territory that is coopted for monastic purposes. When establishing a consecrated sīmā, monks first begin with a village boundary. These days they are more likely to use a “special village boundary,” the visuṃgāma-sīmā. There are two other

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types of unconsecrated sīmā, both of which exist outside of village territory. One is intended for use by monks who live in an otherwise uninhabited area away from any villages, for example in a forest. This is called the sattabbhantarasīmā, the “seven interval boundary,” an interval being the name given to a measurement consisting of twenty-eight arms’ lengths, which is just shy of a kilometer. A minimum of this distance must lie between the outermost monks in the hatthapāsa huddle to the perimeter of the sīmā. Thai monks calculate this to be ninety-eight meters, Sri Lankan monks eighty meters,24 and the Burmese halfway between the two. The other type is the sīmā on water, literally the “throwing up or splashing of water boundary,” the udakukkhepa-sīmā. This latter type remains common in the modern period, and for some is even the preferred type of sīmā, so we will explain a little about it here.

Sīmā on Water, or the “Water-Splashing Sīmā” (udakukkhepa-sīmā) An udakukkhepa-sīmā is a sīmā on or in a body of water. The water may be a river, a natural lake, or the sea. Contrary to its name, which means “watersplashing sīmā,” no water is splashed to create an udakukkhepa-sīmā, though it may well have been in the early days, and we do not know when such practice ended. At an ordination ceremony held in a river by the head monk of the Burmese Sangha, Ñeyyadhamma, during Mindon’s reign (1853–1878), Ñeyyadhamma immediately stopped a monk who attempted to splash water in front of him. He then stated that the area of splashed water is automatically counted as a boundary and it is therefore not necessary to splash the water.25 Whether the other monk was familiar with the actual practice, or acted on the basis of textual knowledge, is not clear. The “water-splashing” refers to the original way of marking the area within which we have a sīmā, as well as to mark the distance that must exist between this sīmā and any other sīmā. In other words, the sīmā space was originally created by splashing water out in every direction, whereas now this refers to an imagined space that is in or on a body of water. The definition of this sīmā is described in the Mahāvagga thus: “nadiyā vā bhikkhave samudde vā jātassare vā yaṃ majjhimassa purisassa samantā udakukkhepā ayaṃ tattha samānasaṃvāso ekuposathā ti,” or “in a river, O Bhikkhus, in a sea or in a natural lake, the common share/communion (samānasaṃvāsā) creates a single uposatha as far as an average man can splash water all around.”26 The Samantapāsādikā commentary allows sand to be thrown in place of water.27 This is sufficient to create the boundary on water. No further consecration is required. Although the description in the Pāli canon of splashing water in each direction implies the monks are in the water, the commentary provides instructions



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for monks to perform saṅghakamma in an udakukkhepa-sīmā by boarding a vessel of some kind, such as a boat, or by standing on a temporary or permanent pavilion, or on a bridge. Whether in a vessel or on a platform, care must be taken to avoid contact between two sīmā, usually the “village territory” presumed to be on the land. So a pavilion must not be connected to the land during any saṅghakamma. A temporary walkway used to reach the pavilion, for example, must be removed before any ecclesiastical procedure commences. If any kind of boat or raft is used as the udakukkhepa-sīmā, it must be made stationary to prevent the boat moving away from the “splashed water” zone while the litany for any saṅghakamma being conducted within the udakukkhepa-sīmā is being recited.28 To achieve this, the vessel should be made fast by tying it to a post or tree, or by putting down an anchor. To prevent contact between sīmā, however, the post, tree, or anchor must not be connected to the riverbank or shore. The water sīmā seems relatively straightforward. Complexity arrives, however, in the form of monsoon rain. While the Pāli canon did not discuss this issue, the Samantapāsādikā does, explaining whether an area covered by water because of the monsoon becomes suitable for a water sīmā or not. If an area is regularly covered by the monsoon water, it does count as a river. If it takes excessive rainfall to cover it, then it is considered part of the village sīmā. The depth to which it needs to be covered is that which would wet the hem of a nun’s lower robe were she to walk through the water.29 The effect of this is that one can have an udakukkhepa-sīmā on dry land. When such a sīmā was erected in Bangladesh in 2007 in a dried-out river, however, water was made to flow underneath the platform, even though this was technically unnecessary.30 The possibility of using a dry riverbed as a water sīmā is nullified if that land is cultivated during its dry period. If that happens, the area becomes part of the village territory, the gāma-sīmā. The issue of what constitutes “excessive rain” was raised by King Dhammazedi in his famous Kalyāṇī Sīmā inscription.31 He used it to dismiss the validity of udakukkhepa-sīmā in Burma on the basis that Burma is a land of excessive rainfall. With an udakukkhepa-sīmā, then, the main complexity arises from the possibility of one sīmā connecting with another by inadvertent contact with an area considered to be part of a gāma-sīmā.

Conclusion: For the Avoidance of Doubt Above we have attempted to give a broad account of Theravāda sīmā practice. We have explained why the sīmā is regarded as crucial for the continuity and validity of the Sangha, listing fundamental ecclesiastical legal procedures that

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are only valid if conducted in a sīmā. We identified the main types of sīmā and explained the three components of validity crucial for the successful consecration of a sīmā on land, as well as the issues affecting the validity of a sīmā in or on water. Despite the relative simplicity of the concept of sīmā, the efforts over the centuries to define it and the processes that establish it more precisely to ensure its validity have revealed potential areas of ambiguity and have led to greater complexity. We have identified the main areas where such complexities may arise, such as in the definition of a village, the starting point for the consecration of a sīmā, the effect of monsoon water in the definition of rivers and natural lakes, and avoiding contact between sīmā. The issue of complexity arising from definitions of each component were touched on, such as the type of nimitta, its measurements, and size. The effects of sīmā being declared invalid have been substantial in Theravāda, changing the course of its institutional history and in turn having unanticipated repercussions, such as influencing the shape of modernist Theravāda. We touched on these to explain why Burmese monks take extra measures, a belt and braces approach, to many aspects of the sīmā process. These include the complex process of preparing for a sīmā consecration by removing any previous sīmā, whether visible or known to have existed or not. These also include the bringing together of many multiples of the required quorum of four monks to perform sīmā consecrations in order to ensure that the minimum required are bona fide monks, as well as multiple repetitions of the requisite litanies using distinctive, Indic pronunciation, again to ensure a statistical certainty of one complete, perfect recitation. These measures also enhance the sense of occasion. The main guidance followed is not that of the Pāli canon alone—it is regarded as insufficiently detailed—but the commentaries, especially those attributed to Buddhaghosa, the Samantapāsādikā and Kaṅkhāvitāraṇī, with further details provided by later commentaries. Despite this adherence to scripture and commentary, some differences in modern practice are not regarded as significant. These include the use of consent by proxy by those simply too busy to attend, rather than only the incapacitated, and the understanding of “water splashing” as a concept rather than a literal process. Meanwhile, some implicit concepts about the purity and power generated by the speech act, the kammavācā or litany, and the inherent qualities of power and purity in water, have endured, shaping broader lay practices not investigated here, as well as the use of water during the dry season for udakukkhepa-sīmā, even though this is not technically required for the sīmā to be valid.



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Notes 1.  Andrew Huxley, “The Vinaya: Legal System or Performance-Enhancing Drug?,” in The Buddhist Forum, vol. IV, ed. Tadeusz Skorupski (London: SOAS 1996), p. 141. 2.  Our account stems from observation of current practice, investigating canonical and commentarial texts through the lens of current practice. We would like to express our gratitude to U Paṇḍitābhivaṃsa, former rector of the State Pariyatti Sāsana University, Yangon, and Bamaw Sayadaw, current head of the State Saṅghamahānāyaka Committee, for generously sharing their expertise on matters of sīmā during interviews in 2009. The shortcomings in the resulting accounts we provide remain our own, of course. For a more extensive account of sīmā in Pāli and Burmese literature and Burmese and Bangladeshi practice, with detailed textual references, see Nagasena Bhikkhu, “The Monastic Boundary (Sīmā) in Burmese Buddhism: Authority, Purity and Validity in Historical and Modern Contexts” (PhD diss., School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 2012). For a detailed account of sīmā in Pāli canonical and commentarial sources, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz’ monograph, Die Sīmā. Vorschriften zur Regelung der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze in älteren buddhistischen Texten, Monographien zur indischen Archäologie, Kunst und Philologie, 8 (Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 1992), the first and most important scholarly work in a European language dedicated to this subject. For an example of the complexity of disputes in this area, see other works by Kieffer-Pülz and, most relevant for understanding the Burmese context, Jason A. Carbine’s analysis of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā inscription, “How King Rāmādhipati Handled His Boundary Case: Sīmā, Sāsana, and Buddhist Law,” Buddhism, Law & Society 1 (2015–2016): pp. 105–164. We would like to thank Petra Kieffer-Pülz and Jason Carbine for their detailed corrections to this chapter. 3.  See Carbine, chapter 11 in this volume, and his forthcoming work, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions: Pali Texts and English Translations, with Research Notes, Textual Comparisons, and other Materials (Pali Text Society, in preparation, under agreement). See also Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions Erected by King Dhammacetī at Pegu in 1476 A.D: Text and Translation (Rangoon: Superintendent, Government Printing, 1892). 4.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “A Legal Judgement Regarding a Sīmā Controversy: Ñeyyadhamma’s Sīmāvivādavinicchayakathā,” in Facets of Indian Culture. Gustav Roth Felicitation Volume, ed. C. P. Sinha (Patna: Bihar Puravid Parishad, 1998), p. 215; and “Translocal Debates and Legal Hermeneutics: Early Pāli Vinaya Texts in the Adjudication of Sīmā Procedures, c. 1200–1900 CE,” Buddhism, Law & Society 2 (2016–2017): pp. 103–158.

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5.  Kitsiri Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society 1750–1900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), p. 181. 6.  Steven Kemper, Rescued from the Nation: Anagarika Dharmapala and the Buddhist World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), p. 448. 7.  Kaṅkhāvitaraṇī aṭṭhakathā (Yangon: Ministry of Religious Affairs Press, 1996), p. 88; Kkh p. 8,12–13. We are using the Burmese sixth council editions of Pāli texts, but in several cases also provide the references to Pali Text Society editions. See also now the English translation by K. R. Norman, Petra Kieffer-Pülz, and William Pruitt, Overcoming Doubts (Kaṅkhāvitaraṇī): The BhikkhuPaṭimokkha Commentary (Bristol: The Pali Text Society, 2018). 8.  In addition to Kaṅkhāvitaraṇī aṭṭhakathā, pp. 88–90 (Kkh pp. 8,12–10,15), see also Vinayālaṅkāra ṭīkā, vol. 1 (Yangon: Ministry of Religious Affairs, 1993), pp. 370–374, Vinayasaṅgaha aṭṭhakathā (Yangon: Ministry of Religious Affairs, 1970), pp. 180–187, Vinayavinicchaya ṭīkā, vol. 2 (Yangon: Ministry of Religious Affairs, 1965), p. 178. 9.  Peter Skilling, “Introduction,” in How Theravāda Is Theravāda? Exploring Buddhist Identities, ed. Peter Skilling, Jason A. Carbine, Claudio Cicuzza, and Santi Pakdeekham (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books 2012), p. xiv. 10.  The external size of the Mahāpāsāṇa sīmā (to the nimitta markers, which are outside the cave) is 455 feet long and 370 feet wide, but the cave’s internal length is 220 feet and its width is 140 feet. The entire cave was consecrated as a sīmā and can accommodate at least 2,500 monks. If monks also sit outside, up to the nimitta, however, the sīmā could have 3,000 or more monks. See the following information uploaded by the Burmese Ministry of Information during repairs to the roof undertaken in 2004: https://www.moi.gov.mm/npe/?q=article%2F22%2F 12%2F2015%2Fid-33943&fbclid=IwAR2sAuig6GtSoojiDU-Huzzg9nXzs2WpuC4NcHvlsGhmcy1CKrXBvqPQl1E. 11.  The Samantapāsādikā (Sp) and the Kaṅkhāvitāraṇī (Kkh) have both been ascribed to Buddhaghosa since the tenth century. Petra Kieffer-Pülz and William Pruitt, however, cast doubt on this shared authorship in the introduction to their new translation, with K. R. Norman, of Kkh. The shared authorship is doubtful because of differences between the two commentaries in fairly fundamental matters, including the order of the nissaggiya-pācittiya rules in the bhikkhunīpātimokkha, differences in technical terms, and in how the two texts classify the rules, as Kieffer-Pülz and Pruitt amply demonstrate. Kkh quotes Sp extensively and is also more developed in a number of ways, indicating that it is the more recent of the two texts. Kieffer-Pülz and Pruitt suggest that the extensive quotation may have been the basis for the ascription of Kkh to the same author as the Samantapāsādikā (Norman, Kieffer-Pülz, and Pruitt, Overcoming Doubts,



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pp. xvi–xxi and xlv–vi). Oskar von Hinüber has also proposed that Sp itself was the product of multiple specialists rather than a single author. He suggests this partly because of the nature of the content, which includes historical, doctrinal, and legal material, but also because of differences in the commentary of different sections. He cites by way of example a cross-reference in the Pācittiya section of the Samantapāsādikā commentary to a view expressed in the section of that commentary. But the cross-reference on the third pārājika appears to correspond to an earlier commentary on that pārājika, rather than the more developed commentary found in the Samantapāsādikā in its final form. This leads him to propose that different specialists were working on different sections of the text (Oskar von Hinüber, A Handbook of Pāli Literature, Indian Philology and South Asian Studies, vol. 2 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), pp. 108–109. 12.  On definition of a village boundary, lack of clarity in the definition, and variations in interpretation, see Nagasena Bhikkhu, “The Monastic Boundary,” p. 151; see also chapters 5 and 12 in this book for additional discussion of matters related to village boundaries. 13.  Ashin Janaka and Kate Crosby, “Heresy and Monastic Malpractice in the Buddhist Court Cases (vinicchaya) of Modern Burma (Myanmar),” Contemporary Buddhism 1 (2017): pp. 230–231. 14.  Ashin Sīlānanda, Theinthindan (Yangon: Sweesandathun Publication, 1975; reprint 2002). 15.  Pācittiyādi aṭṭhakathā (Yangon: Ministry of Religious Affairs Press, 1965), p. 322; Sp V p. 1040,16–20. 16.  Mahāvagga Pāli (Yangon: Ministry of Religious Affairs Press, 1979), p. 149; Vin I p. 106,5–8. 17.  Sīlānanda, Theinthindan, p. 31. 18.  See Murphy, chapter 2 in this volume. 19.  Vimativinodanīṭīkā, vol. II (Yangon: Ministry of Religious Affairs Press, 1992), p. 155. See Nagasena Bhikkhu, “The Monastic Boundary,” chapter 8.4., p. 300 ff., for the procedure. 20.  Pācittiyādi aṭṭhakathā, p. 318; Sp V pp. 1035,23–1036,4. 21.  Mahāvagga Pāli, p. 150; Vin I p. 106,9–19. 22.  On the explanation of this unusual compound, see Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā, p. 61, note 96. 23.  Sīlānanda, Theinthindan, p. 66. 24.  Ṭhānissaro Bhikkhu, The Buddhist Monastic Code, vol. II (Valley Center, Calif.: Metta Forest Monastery, 2001), p. 205. 25.  Ashin Sobhitācāra, Thein myozon bhāsāṭīkā (Yangon: U Tin Aung Publisher 1968), p. 75.

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26.  Mahāvagga Pāli, p. 150; Vin I p. 111,4–6. 27.  Pācittiyādi aṭṭhakathā, p. 334; Sp V p. 1052,27–34. 28.  Pācittiyādi aṭṭhakathā, p. 334–335; Sp V p. 1053,20–31. 29.  Pācittiyādi aṭṭhakathā, p. 334; Sp V p. 1053,11–14. 30.  Nagasena Bhikkhu, “The Monastic Boundary,” p. 204. 31.  Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati,” pp. 125 and 132ff.

pa rt I

Histories: Stones, Places, People

ch a pter 2

Rituals Set in Stone Tracing the Archaeological Evidence for the Sīmā Stone Tradition in Southeast Asia Stephen A. Murphy

In a Southeast Asian context, a sīmā on land is often demarcated by a set of boundary stones usually referred to as sīmā stones. In modern-day Thailand for example, a set of eight sīmā stones are placed around an ubosot (originally from Pāli uposatha, meaning “ordination hall”), either singularly or in pairs (therefore amounting to sixteen sīmā stones in total). Once this formal procedure has been correctly carried out, the area is then deemed sacred and the requisite ceremonies can take place within it.1 Where and when this particular method of demarking sīmā with boundary stones arose and its subsequent development over time is the subject of this chapter. In Thailand, these stones are usually referred to as sema or baisema. Sema (เสมา) is actually a vulgarization of the Pāli term sīmā, while bai (ใบ) means “leaf.”2 Baisema (ใบเสมา), therefore generally refers to the shape of the predominant slab type sema, particularly from the Ayutthaya period onward. While the majority of examples in this chapter are from what is today Thailand, in the interests of consistency this chapter shall use the term sīmā stones throughout while also acknowledging the varying terminology used throughout Southeast Asia for these objects. In Southeast Asia, this tradition may have begun as early as the sixth century CE (see discussion below on Vesali, Myanmar). Over the centuries it spread throughout what are today the modern nation-states of Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Myanmar. The most extensive evidence for this tradition is on the Khorat Plateau, today made up of parts of northeast Thailand and central Laos. By the thirteenth century, the sīmā stone tradition had also firmly taken hold in the Sukhothai and Ayutthaya kingdoms. This ensured that it was eventually disseminated throughout all of what is now modern Thailand. Today

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it is an integral part of Buddhism practiced within Thailand, Cambodia, and Laos. The tradition of sīmā stones also existed in what is today Myanmar and Sri Lanka, though the material record is not nearly as robust as in Thailand and Laos. Nevertheless, they too make up part of the story of the sīmā stone tradition and are discussed herein.

The Sīmā Stone Tradition and Its Beginnings on the Khorat Plateau Buddhism moved into Southeast Asia from the early centuries of the first millennium CE.3 It established itself primarily at urban centers that were emerging out of Iron Age predecessors. In Thailand, the Dvaravati culture adopted Buddhism from about the fifth century CE, with architecture and sculpture appearing in abundance from the seventh century onward.4 Similar developments can be observed with the Pyu culture in what is today Myanmar5 and in pre-­ Angkorian Cambodia, though in the latter Brahmanism was more dominant.6 While Buddhism spread into all these areas, however, it appears that the sīmā stone tradition had its origins on the Khorat Plateau. How other regions demarcated sīmā at this period is uncertain. They may have used perishable materials such as wooden posts or natural features, and as a result no evidence for this has survived in the archaeological record. On the Khorat Plateau, moated sites represent the major urban settlements during the Dvaravati period (ca. sixth to eleventh centuries) and are the main locations into which Buddhism spread. There are around forty moated sites on the Khorat Plateau that have sīmā stones present to a greater or lesser extent.7 In total, 110 sites and more than 1,200 sīmā stones have been recorded on the Khorat Plateau.8 By analyzing and plotting the distribution of sīmā and their sites, it becomes clear that their distribution follows the courses of the Chi, Mekong, and Mun river systems. During this period, they were usually placed around ubosots, stupas, and sometimes Buddha images.9 In many cases, forms of Buddhist religious architecture, such as ubosots and vihāras, have not survived, as they were presumably made of perishable material such as bamboo and straw weave.10 Sīmā, on the other hand, were made of durable materials such as sandstone, so they survive to this day. Their presence at a given site therefore indicates the existence of a community of monks or a Buddhist monastery, even if the latter structure no longer exists. As a result, sīmā afford us the ability to locate where and how extensive a Buddhist presence there was during the Dvaravati period.11 The first clear evidence for sīmā stones comes from around the seventh century CE. This date has been ascertained by analyzing epigraphic and art historic aspects of sīmā. For instance, some twenty-two of these stones bear



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Figure 2.1.  The distribution of sīmā and their sites along the Chi, Mekong, and Mun river systems. Courtesy Stephen Murphy.

inscriptions that have largely been dated to the seventh to ninth centuries.12 About 10 percent of sīmā have narrative art carved on them, usually Jātaka or Life of the Buddha scenes. Stylistic comparisons with Dvaravati art in central Thailand also point toward a date from the seventh to tenth centuries.

46 Murphy

A number of sīmā stones have inscriptions stating their function. For instance, a circular stone found at Wat Si Tat, in the Khumphawapi district of Udon Thani and now in the Khon Kaen National Museum, was discovered in 1963–1964 during the archaeological salvage expedition led by William G. Solheim II and Chester Gorman.13 It has a fragmentary Sanskrit inscription in Pallava script (K. 981), which has been translated by George Cœdès.14 He dated it to approximately the seventh or early eighth century CE. (1) [. . .] māyo śilām imām asau saimīṃ (2) [. . .] ne daśame caitraśukle bhūt

yatir vviprādipūjitaḥ sthāpayām āsa bhikṣubhiḥ śucisaṃvatsare śake sīmeyaṃ saṅghasammatā

Cœdès’ French translation is as follows: “[. . .] cet ascète honoré par les brahmanes a érigé cette pierre tenant l’office de borne, avec les bhikṣu.” This has also been translated into English by Piriya Krairiksh15 as “[. . .] this ascetic honoured by the Brahmans erected this stone having the function of boundary stone with the Bhikkhus [sic].” Peter Skilling16 has recently presented me with a revised reading of this inscription that seems to downplay the Brahmans role somewhat: (1) [Name or epithet] the renunciant venerated by Brahmans and others caused this stone in the form of a boundary by the monks to be established. (2) [Year in words] the tenth day of the bright half of Caitra, this boundary was agreed by the Saṅgha. In Cœdès’ reading, it appears that the ritual was conducted by Brahmans, but in Skilling’s it indicates that Brahmans were present but did not conduct the consecration. Either way, the inscription appears to indicate that Brahmans may have been present during the consecration, or if not, they were at least invoked by those carrying it out. This, to some extent, indicates their presence alongside Buddhists within the seventh- to eighth-century religious milieu. Revire has also shown that these two religions may have interacted more closely with each other during this period than previously thought.17 By the eighth to ninth centuries the sīmā tradition had developed substantially in the Chi River system in particular and was producing refined forms of slab-type sīmā, sometimes accompanied with narrative art or Buddhist symbolism such as stupa-kumbhas.18 The area along the Middle Mekong was



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Figure 2.2.  A slabtype sīmā with Buddhist stupa-kumbha symbolism. Courtesy Stephen Murphy.

also fashioning slab-type sīmā, again with stupa and stupa-kumbha motifs and narrative art to a small extent. By the tenth to eleventh centuries the tradition had firmly rooted itself throughout the Khorat Plateau. The site of Muang Fa Daed in Kalasin Province provides a good case study of the sīmā tradition during the period in question. Measuring 171 hectares in total, it was one of the largest Dvaravati-period settlements in the

48 Murphy

Khorat Plateau. The site has ample Buddhist remains including fourteen stupas, an ubosot, and more than 170 sīmā stones, many of which display highquality Buddhist art. Two sīmā stones are discussed below to highlight the style and iconography that could be depicted on such stones. One of the finest sīmā stones to be discovered from the Khorat Plateau illustrates an episode from the Life of the Buddha: his return to Kapilavastu, the town of his birth.19 After first meeting with his father, the Buddha then meets his wife and son. Yasodhara, the Buddha’s estranged wife, has coaxed her son Rahula into asking his father for his inheritance. But instead of receiving great material wealth as Yasodhara had hoped, the Buddha instead bequeathed his son with the Four Truths and the eight-fold noble path. Turning our attention to the sīmā stone, we can observe this scene being played out. At the top center of the arrangement the Buddha sits in pralambāsana (legs pendant), while his wife and son are shown kneeling at his feet. The emotions of the Buddha’s estranged wife are masterfully depicted by the sense of movement conveyed by her posture. She leans toward the Buddha, who in turn tilts his head to the side to address her. The Buddha seems to be almost stepping on her hair, while she in turn is almost clasping his feet with her right hand, an arrangement that closely follows the description of this scene in the Nidāna-kathā. The emotionally charged nature of the scene is further emphasized by the depiction of the Buddha’s young son, who stretches out his small arms in an attempt to touch his father. Finally, the whole composition is neatly framed by an architectural structure placed above the head of the Buddha, most likely a wooden pavilion of some kind. The overall sensitivity and balance of the composition points not toward an individual struggling to convey Buddhist themes and narratives, but, on the contrary, illustrates the mastery reached by the artist in this particular medium by the eighth to ninth centuries. A further scene of note was identified by Kingmanee as depicting an episode from the Bhūridatta Jātaka.20 It is a dramatic moment in the story, where the Brahman Alambayana is pulling the Bodhisattva in the form of a nāga free from the anthill. The nāga’s tail is wrapped around the Brahman’s neck and shoulders, the latter leaning away to his right in an attempt to use gravity in his struggle to dislodge the nāga. The sampot worn by Alambayana has a distinctively Khmer style, which dates the stone to the tenth to eleventh centuries,21 a period in which the Angkorian Empire significantly made its presence felt in the region. An interesting aspect to note is that the sīmā stones of this period show a preference for the Mahānipāta Jātaka, the last ten “great jātaka.” Sixteen



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separate jātaka tales have been identified on a total of forty-nine sīmā, the majority of which come from the sites of Muang Fa Daed, Ban Nong Hang, Ban Kut Ngong, and Ban Khon Sawan.22 Nine out of ten Mahānipāta Jātaka have been identified. For instance, the Vessantara Jātaka is depicted on seven sīmā, the Mahosadha Jātaka on eight sīmā, the Vidhurapaṇḍita Jātaka is present on eleven sīmā, and so forth. Only the Nemi Jātaka is absent; it must have also been present but the depiction does not survive. It appears that at this period, the concept of the Mahānipāta Jātaka had already taken shape. Perhaps it was not as uniform as it became in later stages in the history of Buddhist art in Southeast Asia, but those depicted on sīmā stones from the Khorat Plateau at the very least represent a nascent stage in the development of this tradition. While sīmā stones are the focus of this chapter and represent the predominant evidence for the spread of Buddhism into the region, other material traces such as Buddha images, dharmacakra, votive tablets, and inscriptions also survive. Buddhist architecture can also be found to a limited extent in the form of stupas and to a lesser extent ordination halls (ubosots) and assembly halls (vihāra). Taken as a whole, these objects of Buddhist material culture provide the only firm evidence available to us to reconstruct the history of the religion in the region during the last quarter of the first millennium CE.23

Cambodia and Central Thailand The sīmā stone tradition that developed on the Khorat Plateau during the seventh to eleventh centuries was the most extensive known in Southeast Asia at that time. By the tenth to eleventh centuries its influence spread out into what is today central Thailand, and some material evidence is also present in this region from that date. Before looking at this, however, let us briefly turn our attention to Phnom Kulen, a mountain range about twenty kilometers north of Angkor in Cambodia, where two sets of sīmā stones from approximately the eighth to ninth century exist. The sīmā at Phnom Kulen are located at two sites, Peam Kre and Don Meas.24 They are in a heavily forested area that had become extremely overgrown, but in June 2015, APSARA Authority and the Nalanda-Sriwijaya Centre carried out excavations and survey of these two sites.25 While few diagnostic ceramics were recovered, the style and iconography on the sīmā clearly link them to those found on the Khorat Plateau in the eighth to ninth centuries.26 The dharmacakra and stupa-kumbha motifs in particular point toward a direct link.

50 Murphy Figure 2.3.  Dharmacakra motif on sīmā stones from the Khorat Plateau (left) and Phnom Kulen (right). Courtesy Stephen Murphy.

The apparent enigma of the sīmā stones on Phnom Kulen has recently received some clarification and context. LIDAR survey work carried out in 2012 and 2015 revealed that their location corresponds to that of the city of Mahendraparvata, the eighth- to ninth-century capital of the Khmer civilization.27 Their work shows that this urban center covered an area of forty to fifty square kilometers. Both of the sīmā stone sites are within this zone, and it appears that one of the sites, Peam Kre, was about two to three hundred meters away from an architectural structure the excavation team believes could be a palace site, perhaps even that of Jayavarman II himself.28 This discovery is key to explaining the presence of the sīmā stones at Phnom Kulen. I contend that the proximity of the sīmā stones to the presumed palace site indicates that Buddhist monks set up a monastery here during this period. These monks, aware of the presence of a powerful new kingdom ruled from Mahendraparvata atop Phnom Kulen, most likely set out from the Khorat Plateau and headed south to seek the patronage of this new king and his people. The motifs on the sīmā stones are similar to those found in the Mun River valley, an area that had come under Khmer influence from as early as the seventh century with the conquests of Mahendravarman and his son Isanavarman I.29 Routes of communication and travel were therefore well-established by this stage and the movement of monks and artisans would have been easily achievable.



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That two monasteries were established on Phnom Kulen indicates that the Buddhist monks were initially successful in gaining the support of, if not the king, then enough of the local populace and elites to maintain their presence. It appears, however, that in the end they could not compete with the dominant Śaivism of the Khmers, as no more sīmā sites appear on Kulen, and when the capital shifted down to Angkor in the ninth century, it appears the Buddhist monks did not go with them and therefore failed to establish a lasting presence at Angkor. The presence of sīmā stones at Phnom Kulen illustrates the extent to which traditions and belief systems traveled during this period. It seems that Buddhism, to a limited extent, was able to function alongside the predominantly state-sponsored Śaivism. The two religions, however, were not mutually exclusive and the distinctions between them may not always have been so clearly defined as we tend to view them today. As Revire has noted in his study of this question in regard to Dvaravati and Zhenla, “Sharp, self-conscious, ideological distinctions between these systems may not have been adopted, at least amongst the popular devotional milieu and certain royal circles, until a much later date and may not be present in modern adherents of these religions even today.”30 Because of Śaivism’s political dominance, however, the Buddhism that took root on Phnom Kulen probably had little opportunity to spread extensively as it had done on the Khorat Plateau. Turning attention to what is today central Thailand, a few sīmā stones are present here. Two sites in the upper Chao Phraya Basin, Dong Mae Nang Muang in Nakhon Sawan Province and Si Thep in Petchabun Province, appear to possess roughly shaped sīmā stones. At Si Thep the sīmā stones, which are pillars, are placed around various religious buildings. At Dong Mae Nang Muang, the sīmā stones are cruder in form, being fashioned from limestone, and have been found placed around earthen mounds that upon excavation have turned out to be religious structures, most likely stupas.31 The absence of sīmā stones from key Dvaravati sites in central Thailand such as Nakhon Pathom and U Thong suggests that during this period the tradition was not firmly established in the region and began to move in at a later stage. Two sites, at Ratchaburi and Petchaburi, respectively, indicate this process, starting in the late Dvaravati–U Thong period, ca. eleventh to thirteenth centuries. The sīmā stones at Ratchaburi are located at two temples, eighteen such stones at Wat Mahathat temple and fourteen at Wat Khok Mor temple. Both are within the modern-day city of Ratchaburi and today the sīmā stones are on the temple grounds. Wat Mahathat is situated on a Dvaravati

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period site that transitions into an Ayutthaya period site, with the temple from this latter period—a quincunx prang formation—still extant. Wat Mahathat in Petchaburi is in the center of the modern-day town and the sixteen sīmā stones present have been placed in pairs around the temple’s ubosot. Despite the geographical proximity of Petchaburi and Ratchaburi (approximately sixty kilometers apart) the sīmā stones at this temple differ greatly from those found at Ratchaburi or anywhere else in Thailand. They appear to be a fusion of Khmer, Dvaravati, and early Ayutthaya period elements and therefore probably date to somewhere in the twelfth to thirteenth centuries. The form resembles the Dvaravati slab type, but they are smaller in size. The artwork and motifs are clearly Khmer, with a number of sīmā stones having kāla motifs depicting disgorging foliage, a leitmotif of Khmer lintels. A further example has a figure grasping a floral motif, almost identical in design and composition to a figure depicted on a pilaster at the temple complex of Phimai in Nakhon Ratchasima Province.32 By the eleventh to thirteenth centuries sīmā stones begin to appear throughout much of Thailand, as far south as Surat Thani and Nakhon Si Thammarat. They become particularly prevalent in central Thailand, being found at most towns in the region at this stage.33 These so called “U Thong style” sīmā stones are consistent in style and form, with a carved base panel surmounted by a triangular-shaped floral motif that narrows into a spine in the center of the stone.

Sukhothai and Ayutthaya Periods In about 1260 CE, the kingdom of Sukhothai broke free from Khmer overlordship. Shortly afterward, King Rama Khamheng (r. 1279(?)–1298) instituted Theravāda Buddhism as the official religion of the kingdom. His grandson Lu Thai (r. 1298–1346–47) continued in this vein and invited sangha from Sri Lanka to Sukhothai to purify the Thai sangha and organize it along Singhalese lines.34 Sīmā stones were present in Sri Lanka during this period (see discussion below), but it is more likely that the sīmā stone tradition reached Sukhothai from the Khorat Plateau, perhaps coming via Loei Province or along the Pasak River from sites such as Si Thep in the Upper Chao Phraya Basin. They were then incorporated into the architectural and religious traditions of Sukhothai. The earliest Sukhothai sīmā stones are slab type, plain in design with the axial stupa evolving into a thin line that now seems to represent the central spine of a leaf. They were usually made of gray schist as opposed to sandstone.35



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An interesting development takes place with the sīmā tradition during the Sukhothai period, namely the incorporation of luk nimit into the ritual. Luk nimit (from the Pāli nimitta) are round stones that are buried directly under the above-ground sīmā stones.36 A further stone is placed under the main Buddha image at the center of the building. There is no archaeological evidence for this tradition existing during the Dvaravati period. Excavations that have taken place at sites throughout the Khorat Plataeu, and the recent 2015 project on Phnom Kulen, have found no material remains for these objects. It appears that this is a Thai tradition that emerges during the Sukhothai period, perhaps as a fusion between chthonic or Brahmanic rituals to placate spirits of the earth (pi chao din) and the Buddhist tradition of demarcating a sīmā. We also see here an interesting divergence of opinion of what sīmā stones actually represent. For Kieffer-Pülz in her discussion of Thailand, for example, the sīmā stones are not the actual nimitta that demarcate the sīmā.37 They instead merely demarcate the location of the nimitta that is buried under it. Ian Harris also shares this opinion in his discussion on Cambodian sīmā.38 As discussed above, however, to date no material evidence whatsoever has been recovered from excavations of sites with Dvaravati-period sīmā stones in Thailand or Cambodia. It appears therefore that during this period, the sīmā stones themselves functioned as the actual nimitta. It is only from the Sukhothai period onward that luk nimit were buried under the sīmā stones. The Ayutthaya kingdom rose to prominence in the fourteenth century and largely absorbed and continued the religious traditions—including that of sīmā—of its predecessor Sukhothai. As with Sukhothai, the sīmā stones become smaller in size, the axial stupa becomes part of the leaf design, and they lack any form of narrative art. The Ayutthaya forms in general develop out of the U Thong–style sīmā. They were carved from both gray schist and sandstone, probably depending on availability. The axial line was sometimes decorated with lozenge and half-lozenge motifs. Furthermore, on some examples the base from which the axial line emerged formed a triangular motif that was usually filled with foliate designs or sometimes a deva figure.39 In the late Ayutthaya period, sīmā stones began to be placed upon pedestals or enclosed within shrines, sometimes with a luk nimit placed directly below them, a tradition that continues to this day.

Myanmar Clear evidence for Buddhism in what is today Myanmar appears from the fourth century CE, particularly in the Pyu city of Sri Ksetra in the center of the

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Figure 2.4. A sīmā stone on a pedestal with luk nimit below. Courtesy Stephen Murphy.

country.40 The earliest evidence for sīmā stones, however, comes from the ancient city of Vesali, about ten kilometers north of the town of Mrauk-U, in modern-day Rakhine State. The site is in a coastal region close to the border with modern-day Bangladesh. During excavations that took place there between November 1983 and February 1984, a rectangular brick building (22.5 x 15.2 meters) (mound no. 5) was unearthed.41 Surrounding it, the excavation team found thirteen fossilized wood pillars about sixty centimeters in height, set up in pairs. This building was designated as a thein (ordination hall), and the thirteen fossilized pillars were identified as sīmā markers, erected to mark out the sīmā precinct of this building.



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The site is dated from between the fifth and ninth centuries CE. Moore points out that while there are no radiocarbon dates available, there is an eighth-century inscription of Anandacandra at Vesali recording eighteen previous rulers.42 The 1983–1984 Vesali excavations provide some of the earliest evidence for the practice of sīmā being placed around ordination halls, albeit in wood, in this region from possibly as early as the fifth to sixth century CE. In recent years, more evidence has come to light for sīmā markers at the ancient Pyu settlement of Beikthano. The site is located in the Yin valley of what is now central Myanmar, north of the modern village of Kokkogwa, Taungdwingyi Township, Magwe Division. It is situated between a number of streams, all of which flow westward to the Ayeyarwady River fifteen kilometers to the west, making the surrounding region ideal for wet rice cultivation.43 The city is roughly square and is bounded by walls of fired brick enclosing an area of 8.81 square kilometers.44 By the third to fourth centuries CE, numerous brick structures had been constructed within the city. Apart from a palace site, the majority of them are Buddhist.45 Excavations carried out in 2009– 2010 on five mounds uncovered Buddhist structures including stupas and two thein, designated as monuments BTO-30 and BTO-33, respectively.46 BTO-30 is rectangular and contains twelve rooms. Fragments of fossilized wood were found at the southwest and northwest corners of the building and the excavators identified these as sīmā markers.47 BTO-33 is a semirectangular monument. It has a large entrance hall, 1.8 meters wide and 13 meters long. Pillars of fossilized wood bordering the southwest, southeast, and northeast corners were found during the excavations. They are similar to the arrangement encountered at BTO-30 and may also be sīmā markers. It appears therefore that at both Vesali and Beikthano, sīmā markers were being employed to demarcate ordination halls. The lacuna of material evidence in other areas of contemporary Myanmar does not necessarily indicate that sīmā markers were not being used there. They could have been made from perishable materials that did not survive. There is, for instance, inconclusive evidence at the Pyu site of Śrīkṣetra in central Myanmar, approximately six kilometers outside the modern town of Pyay (Prome). Dating from about the fifth century onward, it is one of the most substantial early urban sites in Myanmar, with its surrounding walls measuring approximately fourteen kilometers in circumference.48 A group of so-called Buddhist Megaliths, in two sets, faced each other surrounded by a small brick wall.49 While these are not strictly themselves sīmā stones, Stadtner for instance has suggested that they functioned in a similar way, as they too possibly demarcated an

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ordination hall.50 The stones also indicate the existence of a well-established Buddhist stone-carving tradition by this period and make them at least favorable objects of comparison with sīmā stones. The site of Thaton in present-day Mon State provides clearer evidence for sīmā stones, albeit four to five centuries later. There is a group of eleventhcentury sīmā stones placed around the Kalyānī Sīmā.51 These stones and the jātakas that adorn them were first illustrated and identified by Maung Mya, who, on the basis of an inscription on one of the stones, dated them to the twelfth to thirteenth centuries.52 Both Luce and Shorto, however, subsequently dated the inscription to before 1057 CE, that is, prior to the conquest of Aniruddha recorded in later Burmese chronicles.53 These sīmā stones have invited comparisons with those in northeast Thailand. Piriya Krairiksh in particular stresses this point, arguing they may have been set up by a group of Mons that fled northeast Thailand as the Khmers began to take over their territories.54 The natural place for them to seek refuge, he argues, was Thaton, being as it was one of the main centers of “Mon Buddhism.” This hypothesis, however, has a number of problems, and I have debunked it elsewhere.55 Upon close investigation of the sīmā stones from both northeast Thailand and Thaton, it becomes apparent that while the content of these narrative scenes is similar and at times identical, the style, composition, and morphology of the sīmā stones from both locations differ considerably. This leads to the conclusion that there was no direct contact between those who carved and set up the sīmā stones at Thaton and their counterparts in northeast Thailand. It is much more plausible that the inhabitants of northeast Thailand and those in lower Myanmar instead shared extremely similar Buddhist religious traditions, perhaps derived from the Pāli tradition. This is because the jātakas that were chosen in both regions are from the Pāli literary tradition. This suggests they were using the same sources, most likely the Nidana-katha. This would provide a much more satisfactory explanation of the similar and at times identical content of the sīmā stones from the two regions. Staying within lower Myanmar, but moving forward to fifteenth-century Bago (Pegu), we find epigraphic references to the function of sīmā. The Kalyānī Sīmā inscription commissioned by King Dhammacetī in 1477–1478 CE clearly outlines the preferred arrangement for demarcating a sīmā with sīmā stones, stating that eight sīmā should be set up to form a rectangular or square shape.56 The relevant passage from Blagden’s translation is as follows: the extent of the site where the sima was to be made, having been marked (at) the corners (facing) the four quarters these four middle



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stones . . . it being an advantage to have eight boundary stones with a view to making (the plan) other than four-sided figure, the middle of each (side) to bulge somewhat (outward) were planted (there also). 57 This inscription illustrates that by the fifteenth century the sīmā stone tradition had a certain uniformity to it, with the number of stones seemingly restricted to eight and the boundary shape preferably square. Variations in this layout, however, continued to exist throughout Southeast Asia. In Dvaravatiperiod northeast Thailand and Laos for instance, sīmā stones could also be arranged in circles and sometimes were set up in groups with as many as twenty-four.58 At Wat Suthat Dhepvararam temple in Bangkok, a nineteenthcentury manuscript shows sīmā set up with groups of three, four, or seven stones to demarcate the ritual space.59 While the setting up of sīmā stones in groups of eight became a more common formation, variations in this pattern have occurred.60

Sri Lanka To date, no systematic study of the sīmā stone tradition has been carried out in Sri Lanka, with the only definitive examples dating from the Polonnaruwa period (eleventh to thirteenth centuries). There is one possible example from Anuradhapura: the Niki Vihara Chaitya is surrounded by small stone posts at its corners and center, which Pinna Indorf suggests are sīmā stones.61 If so, they would represent the earliest material evidence for the tradition in Sri Lanka, dating to about the seventh century, and would therefore be contemporaneous with developments on the Khorat Plateau. The archaeological evidence for uposathaghara in Sri Lanka is much earlier, however. The Lohapasada, for example, dates to ca. 161–137 BCE. Other examples date from the second, fifth, and seventh centuries CE, respectively, illustrating a long and continuous architectural tradition.62 None of these early Sri Lankan examples have surviving evidence for sīmā stones, but it is highly likely that they were demarcated in some way. It may be therefore that the markers used were not made of stone, but instead of perishable material such as wood. For definitive evidence, we need to turn to the twelfth-century Baddhasimapasada within the Alahana Parivena associated with Parakramabahu I, and also the small poyage at Polonnaruwa.63 The Alahana Parivena monastery consisted of many separate units demarcated by smaller boundary walls with small entrance doorways. The Baddhasimapasada was placed on the highest

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terrace and functioned as the uposathaghara of the monastery. It is surrounded by twenty sīmā stones set up in pairs. Their design is quite different from the leaf-shaped versions found in Southeast Asia. Instead they are long, square pillars surmounted by a bulbous, pot-shape finial reminiscent of a purnagata, but without the foliage. The inner stone of the pair was carved smaller, about half the size of the outer one. Further in-depth study of sīmā stones in Sri Lanka is required to more fully annunciate this tradition and its links with Southeast Asia. Given that the only clear evidence to date for sīmā stones in Sri Lanka is in the twelfth century, it raises the possibility that the Khorat Plateau sīmā stone tradition may have influenced this development. Given the close contact between Sri Lanka, Thailand, and Myanmar from the twelfth century onward in particular, it is possible that ideas and forms may have been moving freely back and forth between these cultures.64

Later Cambodia While the eighth- to ninth-century sīmā stone tradition on Phnom Kulen appears to have died out as power shifted down to Angkor, we do find later examples reappearing in Cambodia. One unique and remarkable example is today kept at the Angkor Conservation Office. It depicts Hevajra—a multiarmed, multiheaded Tantric deity—dancing on a corpse and is said to have been discovered in northwest Cambodia, near the Thai border, but the exact spot where it was found is uncertain.65 It most likely dates to the reign of Jayavarman VII (r. 1181–1215), when a tantric form of Buddhism became the state religion. The artwork is executed in Khmer style and apart from the lotus band at its base, which is reminiscent of Dvaravati sīmā stones, it has little in common with that found on the Khorat Plateau. At present, this is the only one of its kind known and is thus an outlier in this study. It does, however, provide tantalizing evidence that sīmā stones continued to be used in a tantric context during the thirteenth century. Growing incursions by the Kingdom of Ayutthaya from the fourteenth century onward led to the eventual abandonment of Angkor by the Khmer kings. In tandem with this, the religion of the area shifted and reoriented toward Theravāda Buddhism. It is within this context that we also see the reemergence of sīmā stones at Angkor. For instance, the so-called Bayon Terraces, laterite structures placed around the edges of the temple, became locations for vihāras and ubosots, presumably in wood. Today, sandstone slab-type sīmā stones still survive in situ surrounding the edges of these terraces. They are



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straight-sided and more square and angular than their Phnom Kulen predecessors, and they have a lotus carved at their apex.66 Further evidence comes from the Western Prasat Top temple. This temple was also converted to Theravāda Buddhism sometime around the fifteenth to sixteenth centuries by the construction of a terrace around it and the setting up of sīmā stones in pairs.67 Excavations and restoration work carried out at this temple by the Nara National Research Institute for Cultural Properties, in Japan, discovered that numerous sīmā stones were also reused as components of the upper and lower platforms of the southern sanctuary. Their placement appears intentional, as the excavators note that the sections of the stones that were exposed above ground were shaped.68 They also appear to be placed near the gateways and the foundations of the stairways. This reuse of sīmā stones as foundation stones, particularly near the gateways/thresholds of the monument, may indicate that they at least retained their boundary function to a certain extent. To date, no other comparable examples have been found. As further research into post-Angkorian structures continues, however, a clearer picture will hopefully emerge. Sīmā stones from this period are also present at eight other sites and Sato has classified them into three types.69 Type A has a tripartite head, type B is bullet-shaped with little decoration, and type C is bullet-shaped with a lotus bud at the top.70 The sīmā stones from Vihear Prampil Loven in particular, are similar in style to the Ayutthaya-period examples found in Thailand and probably derived their form from here.

From the Eighteenth Century until the Present Day By the eighteenth century sīmā stones had become a ubiquitous part of Buddhist temple architecture in Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia. Their form in general follows that of the late Ayutthaya period. Some exceptions, however, do exist. The Thammayut order formed in 1833 by the future King Mongkut, for instance, used cubical-shaped sīmā stones in their temples.71 Sīmā stones also begin to appear as crenellations on temple and palace walls, the Grand Palace in Bangkok being one such example. Their form was also replicated for other uses. One such example, electric lanterns shaped in the form of sīmā stones, were produced during the reign of King Rama VI (r. 1910–1925) for use in the veneration of Vesak day. Sīmā stones at times also got repurposed as ritual objects in their own right or used as boundary markers for villages, or town pillars, and thus take on a life beyond that of their original function.72

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In Cambodia, Giteau has observed that the consecration and laying of sīmā stones is one of the most popular ceremonies among modern-day lay Buddhists.73 They believe those who take part are guaranteed a long life, and large donations are given to the monks during the ceremony. The ceremony also addresses the deities of the cardinal points of the earth and prayers and offering are made to placate them.74

Conclusion This chapter has traced the development of the sīmā stone tradition over the last millennium and a half. The earliest archaeological evidence comes from regions within what are today the countries of Myanmar, Thailand, and Laos. For instance, there are substantive remains of sīmā stones in today’s northeast Thailand and central Laos dating from approximately the seventh century CE onward. At sites in Myanmar during this period, the evidence is more tenuous, but a number of sites in Beikthano and Vesali do appear to be using sīmā markers, albeit made of fossilized wood, by the mid- to late first millennium CE. The sīmā stone tradition appears to have moved into what is today central Thailand only from the eleventh century onward. Accordingly, it must surely have spread into this region from the Khorat Plateau. Prior to this, Buddhist sites in central Thailand, and other regions of Southeast Asia for that matter, did not appear to be setting up sīmā stones, though they may have instead been using perishable materials that would not show up in the archaeological record. The eleventh century also saw sīmā stones spreading into what is today lower Myanmar at the Kalyāni Sīmā at Thaton. By the fourteenth to fifteenth centuries, sīmā stones were also evident at the Bayon Terraces at Angkor, illustrating that this practice had spread eastward as well as westward. In the Sukhothai and Ayutthaya periods, the sīmā stone tradition had taken a firm hold within these kingdoms, and this ensured that it was eventually disseminated throughout all of what is today modern Thailand. Today sīmā stones are a common sight at many Buddhist temples throughout mainland Southeast Asia. They represent a tradition that has developed over approximately fourteen hundred years, and while they have taken on a variety of shapes and forms over this long history, their function essentially remains the same. They at times form the only visible trace of Buddhist monasteries from a bygone age, as is the case in the seventh to ninth centuries on the Khorat Plateau. Their function thus goes beyond that of their original intention as they become as much markers of the history of Buddhism as markers of ritual space.



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Notes 1.  See Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby, chapter 1 in this volume. 2.  No Na Paknam, The Buddhist Boundary Markers of Thailand (Bangkok: Muang Boran Publishing House, 1981 [in Thai and English]), p. 57. 3.  Stephen A. Murphy and Leedom Lefferts, “Globalizing Indian Religions and Southeast Asian Localisms: Incentives for the Adoption of Buddhism and Brahmanism in 1st Millennium CE Southeast Asia,” in The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, ed. Tamar Hodos (London: Routledge, 2016), pp. 768–788. 4.  Stephen A. Murphy, “The Case for Proto-Dvaravati: A Review of the Art Historic and Archaeological Evidence,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 47, no. 3 (2016): pp. 366–393. 5.  Janice Stargardt, “From the Iron Age to Early Cities at Sri Ksetra and Beikthano, Myanmar,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 47, no. 3 (2016): pp. 341–365. 6.  Nicolas Revire, “Dvāravatī and Zhenla in the Seventh–Eighth Centuries— A Transregional Ritual Complex,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 47, no. 3 (2016): pp. 394–418. 7.  Stephen A. Murphy, “Buddhism and its Relationship to Dvaravati Period Settlement Patterns and Material Culture in Northeast Thailand and Central Laos ca. 6th–11th centuries CE: A Historical Ecology Approach to the Landscape of the Khorat Plateau,” Asian Perspectives 52, no. 2 (2014): pp. 300–326. 8.  Stephen A. Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers of Northeast Thailand and Central Laos, 7th–12th Centuries CE: Towards an Understanding of the Archaeological, Religious and Artistic Landscape of the Khorat Plateau” (PhD diss., School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 2010). 9.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 268. 10.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 274; Piriya Krairiksh, “Semas with Scenes from the Mahanipata-Jatakas in the National Museum at Khon Kaen,” in Art and Archaeology in Thailand (Bangkok: Fine Arts Department 1974), p. 42. 11.  Stephen A. Murphy, “How Many Monks? Quantitative and Demographic Archaeological Approaches to Buddhism in Northeast Thailand and Central Laos, 6th–11th Centuries CE,” in Buddhist Dynamics in Premodern Southeast Asia, ed. Christian Lammerts (Singapore: ISEAS Publications, 2015), pp. 80–119. 12.  Christian Bauer, “Notes on Mon Epigraphy,” Journal of the Siam Society 79, no. 1 (1991): pp. 31–83; Hunter Watson, “Old Mon Inscriptions in the Northeastern Region of Thailand / Charuk pasa mon boran nai phak tawan ok chiangneua kong prathet Thai,” Muang Boran 2, no. 1 (2016): pp. 77–120 (in Thai).

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13.  Wilhelm G. Solheim and Chester Gorman, “Archaeological Salvage Program; Northeast Thailand, First Season,” Journal of the Siam Society 54, no. 2 (1966): p. 159. 14.  George Cœdès, Inscriptions du Cambodge, vol. VII (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1964), pp. 159–160. 15.  Krairiksh, “Semas with Scenes,” p. 41. 16.  Peter Skilling, personal communication. 17.  Revire, “Dvāravatī and Zhenla.” 18.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” pp. 210–343. A kumbha is a type of water pot, sometimes elaborately decorated and sometimes more plainly presented. 19.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 270, fig. 5.73. 20.  Arunsak Kingmanee, “Bhuridatta Jataka on the Carved Sīmā in Kalasin / Phapsalakruang ‘bhuridattachadok’ bon baisema chak mueangfadaetsongyang changwat kalasin,” Muang Boran 23, no. 4 (1997): pp. 104–109; Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 233, fig. 5.22. 21.  Arunsak Kingmanee, “Bhuridatta Jataka.” 22.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 217, appendix 1, tables A7 and A8. 23.  For further discussion see Murphy, “Buddhism and its Relationship.” 24.  D. Kyle Latinis and Stephen A. Murphy, “Sema Stones and Mountain Palaces from the Dawn of Angkor,” NSC Highlights 6 (Sept.–Nov., 2017): pp. 7–9; see also J. Boulbet and B. Dagens, “Les sites archéologiques de la région du Bhnam Gulen,” Arts Asiatiques XXVII (1973): pp. 1–130, where the sites are referred to as Bam Gre (Peam Kre) and Tun Mas (Don Meas). 25.  Latinis and Murphy, “Sema Stones.” 26.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” pp. 198–199, 328–333; Robert Brown, The Dvaravati Wheels of the Law and the Indianization of Southeast Asia (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1996), pp. 93–95; Hiram Woodward, “Dvaravati, Si thep, and Wendan,” Bulletin of the Indo-Pacific Prehistory Association 30 (2010): pp. 87–97. 27.  Damian Evans, “Airborne Laser Scanning as a Method for Exploring Long-Term Socio-Ecological Dynamics in Cambodia,” Journal of Archaeological Science (2016): pp. 1–12. 28.  Latinis and Murphy, “Sema Stones.” 29.  Michael Vickery, Society, Economics and Politics in Pre-Angkor Cambodia: The 7th–8th Centuries (Tokyo: Centre for East Asian Cultural Studies for UNESCO and the Tokyo Bunko, 1998), pp. 321–415. 30.  Revire, “Dvāravatī and Zhenla,” p. 415.



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31.  Stephen A. Murphy and Pimchanok Pongkasetkan, “Fifty Years of Archaeological Research at Dong Mae Nang Muang: An Ancient Gateway to the Upper Chao Phraya Basin,” Journal of the Siam Society 98 (2010): pp. 65–69. 32.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 364, fig. 6.24. 33.  Na Paknam, The Buddhist Boundary Markers, pp. 62–64. 34.  Jane Bunnag, “The Way of the Monk and the Way of the World: Buddhism in Thailand, Laos and Cambodia,” in The World of Buddhism: Buddhist Monks and Nuns in Society and Culture, ed. Heinz Bechert and Richard Gombrich (London: Thames and Hudson), p. 159. 35.  Na Paknam, The Buddhist Boundary Markers, p. 72. 36.  Editor’s note: These “luk nimit” stones appear to be the same as the buried stones found in contemporary Cambodian and many Thai sīmā ceremonies today. 37.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Rules for the Sīmā Regulation in the Vinaya and its Commentaries and Their Application in Thailand,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 20, no. 2 (1997): pp. 141–153. 38.  Ian Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse on Territory: Genealogy of the Buddhist Ritual Boundary (Sīmā),” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 41, no. 2 (2010): pp. 220–222. See also Irwin, chapter 5 in this book, where he discusses two layers of nimitta. 39.  Na Paknam, The Buddhist Boundary Markers, fig. 75. 40.  Thein Lwin, Win Kyaing, and Janice Stargardt, “The Pyu Civilization of Myanmar and the City of Sri Ksetra,” in Lost Kingdoms: Hindu-Buddhist Sculpture of Early Southeast Asia, ed. John Guy (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press), p. 65. 41.  Stephen A. Murphy, “Sema Stones in Lower Myanmar and Northeast Thailand: A Comparison,” in Before Siam: Essays in Art and Archaeology, ed. Nicolas Revire and Stephen A. Murphy (Bangkok: River Books and The Siam Society, 2014), pp. 355–358. 42.  Elizabeth H. Moore, Early Landscapes of Myanmar (Bangkok: River Books, 2007), p. 23. 43.  Moore, Early Landscapes, p. 155. 44.  Janice Stargardt, The Ancient Pyu of Burma: Volume One, Early Pyu Cities in a Man-Made Landscape (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 156. 45.  For an overview of Buddhism at Beikthano, see Stephen A. Murphy and Win Kyaing, “The Pyu: An Ancient Civilization of Upper Myanmar,” in Cities and Kings: Ancient Treasures from Myanmar, ed. Stephen A. Murphy (Singapore: Asian Civilisations Museum, 2017), pp. 22–33.

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46.  U Thein Lwin, “Beikthano: Summary of 2009–2010 Archaeological Excavations,” trans. Elizabeth Howard Moore and Htwe Htwe Win, Archaeology Report Series 4 (2016): pp. 11–17. 47.  U Thein Lwin, “Beikthano,” p. 11. 48.  Moore, Early Landscapes, pp. 167–172. 49.  Gordon H. Luce, Phases of Pre-Pagan Burma (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985), pp. 130–131, pls. 12, 13, 15c. 50.  Donald Stadtner, “The Art of Burma,” in Art of Southeast Asia, ed. Maud Girard-Geslan and Albert Le Bonheur (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1998), p. 45; see also Murphy, “Sema Stones in Lower Myanmar,” pp. 356–357. 51.  Editor’s note: This Kalyānī Sīmā is different than the Kalyānī Sīmā discussed in Carbine, chapter 11 of this book. 52.  Maung Mya, “Pillars with Scenes from the Mahānipāta-Jātakas around the Kalyāṇī Sīmā, Thaton,” Archaeological Survey of India, Annual Report 1930– 34 (1934): pp. 203–204, pl. 1 CXVI. 53.  Gordon H. Luce, Old Burma-Early Pagan (New York: J. J. Augustin, Locust Valley, 1969), pp. 25–27; Harry L. Shorto, A Dictionary of the Mon Inscriptions from the Sixth to the Sixteenth Centuries (London: Oxford University Press, 1971), p. xxxviii. 54.  Krairiksh, “Semas with Scenes,” p. 63. 55.  Murphy, “Sema Stones in Lower Myanmar.” 56.  On the Kalyani inscriptions, see Jason A. Carbine, “Sāsanasuddhi/ Sīmāsammuti: Comments on a Spatial Basis of the Buddha’s Religion,” in How Theravāda Is Theravāda? Exploring Buddhist Identities, ed. Peter Skilling, Jason A. Carbine, Claudio Cicuzza, and Santi Pakdeekham (Chiang Mai, Thailand: Silkworm Books, 2012), pp. 241–274; Jason A. Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati Handled His Boundary Case: Sīmā, Sāsana, and Buddhist Law,” Buddhism, Law & Society 1 (2015–2016): pp. 105–164; Carbine, chapter 11 in this volume. 57.  C. O. Blagden, “Mon Inscriptions Section II—The Mediaeval Mon Records: No. XII, The Inscriptions of the Kalyāṇīsīmā, Pegu,” Epigraphia Birmanica 3, no. 2 (1928): p. 247. As published, the translation here relies heavily on Taw Sein Ko’s Pāli version, and the passage in Pāli is very difficult. Carbine has retranslated the Pāli passage in “How King Rāmādhipati,” p. 147. 58.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” pp. 97–99. 59.  No Na Paknam, ed., Sima katah samot kong Wat Suthat Dhepvararam [Sīmākathā: Manuscript of Sīmā of Wat Suthat Dhepvararam] (Bangkok: Muang Boran Publishing House, 1997), p. 60. 60.  See, for example, Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby, chapter 1 in this book, where they discuss markers.



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61.  Pinna Indorf, “The Precinct of the Thai Uposatha Hall [BOT], A Southeast Asian Spirit World Domain,” Journal of the Siam Society 82 (1994): pp. 19–54, esp. figs. 7 and 8. 62.  Roland Silva, Religious Architecture in Early and Medieval Sri Lanka: A Study of Thupa, Bodhimanda, Uposathaghara and Patimaghara (Druk: Krips Repro Meppel, 1988), p. 188. 63.  Silva, Religious Architecture, p. 185. 64.  Editor’s note: In Sri Lanka, the other types of permitted sīmā markers (e.g., trees, woods) continued to be used as well. 65.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 309, fig. 5.132. 66.  A PhD thesis focusing on the Buddhist Terraces and their related sīmā was completed while this present publication was in its final stages of production, and it was thus not possible to include insights from this comprehensive study into this chapter. See Andrew Sydney Ross Harris, “Early Theravāda Place-Making in the Shadow of Mount Meru: Negotiating the Architecture, Space, and Landscape of ‘Buddhist Terraces’/Praḥ Vihār at Angkor Thom, Cambodia c. 13th–16th Centuries” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 2020). 67.  Yuni Sato, “New Elements of Theravada Buddhism Found at Western Prasat Top,” in Annual Report on the Research and Restoration Work of the Western Prasat Top Dismantling Process of the Southern Sanctuary II (Nara National Research Institute for Cultural Properties, 2015), pp. 55–57. 68.  Sato, “New Elements,” pp. 56–57. 69.  Sato, “New Elements,” p. 57. 70.  The sites include Kok Thlok, Tep Pranam, Vihear Prampil Loven, Preah An Thep, Preah Ngok, Vihear Prampil Loven, Vihear Prambuon, and Preah Pithu. 71.  Paknam, The Buddhist Boundary Markers, p. 81. See also Chirapravati and Sheravanichkul, chapter 4 in this volume. 72.  Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers,” pp. 103–108. 73.  Madeleine Giteau, Le bornage rituel des temples bouddhiques au Cambodge (Paris: Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1969), pp. 10–54. 74.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, pp. 64–65.

ch a pter 3

The Development of Ordination Platforms (jietan 戒壇) in China The Translation and Interpretation of Sīmā in East Asia from the Third to Seventh Centuries Thomas Newhall

The Ordination Platform of the Sixth Patriarch at Faxing Temple 法性 寺六祖戒壇 By Li Qunyu (?–862), 李群玉著 初地無階級、餘基數尺低。 天香開茉莉、梵樹落菩提。 驚俗生真性、青蓮出淤泥。 何人得心法、衣缽在曹溪。 The first ground is without step or grade just a base of a few feet and low. The heavenly scent of jasmine pervades and from the brahma tree1 descends Bodhi. Jolting awake the worldly, true nature is born like a blue lotus appearing from the silt and mud. What kind of person can receive the dharma of the mind? In Caoxi2 lies their robe and bowl.3 After a series of harrowing attempts to travel from China to Japan, the first task Ganjin 鑑真 (Ch. Jianzhen; 688–763) was charged with when he arrived in the capital of Nara in 754 was to oversee the construction of an ordination platform, or kaidan 戒壇 (Ch. jietan) in front of the Great Buddha Hall (Daibutsu den 大仏殿) at Tōdaiji 東大寺, the largest building in Japan at the time and a symbol of both the material wealth and religious authority of the Japanese imperial government. Once the platform was constructed, Ganjin used the structure to lead ordination ceremonies or jukai-e 授戒会 to bestow 66



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Figure 3.1.  The ordination platform (kaidan 戒壇) at Tōshōdaiji Temple 唐招提 寺, Nara, Japan. Courtesy Thomas Newhall.

precepts—vows to uphold the moral code of Buddhism—to both monastics and lay people, including the Emperor Shōmu 聖武上皇 and Empress Kōmyō 光明太后. He would later go on to oversee the construction of two more ordination platforms at Kanzeonji 観世音寺 in Chikuzen 筑前 (modern-day Fukuoka Prefecture), and Yakushiji 薬師寺 in Shimotsuke下野 (modern-day Tochigi Prefecture) in order to conduct such ceremonies in locations more distant from the capital. Although the construction of these three platforms during the Nara period may have been the first appearance of these structures in the history of Japanese Buddhism, it was not the last. A generation after Ganjin, the founder of the Japanese Tendai 天台 school, Saichō 最澄 (766/767–822) advocated using the Mahāyāna Precepts (daijō kai 大乗戒 or bonmō kai 梵網戒) found in the The Scripture of the Pure Divinity’s Net4 (Fanwang jing; Jp. bonmō kyō 梵網經) to ordain the monks of his Tendai school, rather than the śrāvaka precepts (shengwen jie; Jp. shōmon kai 聲聞戒) found in Vinaya texts like the Four-Part Vinaya (Sifen lü; Jp. Shibun ritsu 四分律), the set of monastic rules traditionally used in China and Japan up to his time. Saichō’s advocacy for these precepts eventually led Emperor Saga 嵯峨天皇 (786–842; r. 809–823) to sanction the creation of a Mahāyāna ordination platform (Jp. daijō kaidan 大乗戒壇) on Mount Hiei 比叡山 at Enryakuji 延暦寺, the main temple of the Tendai school in Japan, soon after Saichō’s death in 822.5

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Today, the ordination platform pictured in figure 3.1 can be seen at Tōshōdaiji 唐招提寺 in Nara, the temple Ganjin is most closely affiliated with, although this structure was likely built during the Kamakura era (twelfth to thirteenth centuries), centuries after Ganjin, and the small stupa-like structure at the top level was added as recently as the 1980s.6 Nevertheless, this structure is still used to conduct ordinations today, though such ceremonies are held only once every few years, and with dwindling numbers of Japanese monks qualified to be members of the ten-member quorum required to oversee the ceremony, just as in the Nara period, monks are now invited from China to fulfill this role.7 Prior to Ganjin’s construction of ordination platforms in Japan, and in an entirely different context, such a platform crops up as being the setting for one of the fundamental texts of the Chan (Jp. Zen) 禅 school, the Platform Scripture of the Sixth Patriarch (Liuzu tanjing 六祖壇經), as alluded to in the above poem from ninth-century China. In the opening lines of the Platform Scripture, Huineng 慧能 (638–713), the so-called Sixth Patriarch of the Chan school, ascends a platform, where he receives the “formless precepts” (wuxiang jie 無相戒) before beginning the lecture that forms the basis of the rest of the text.8 While the specific significance of these formless precepts, the setting of the platform, and their relation to the contents of his lectures are not made clear in the text itself, they are thought to be connected to the Bodhisattva Precepts and related movements to ordain laity, as well as to the Prajñaparāmita texts that feature in the sermon, invoking the authority of tradition and forming the backdrop of one of the central texts and figures in the Chan tradition.9 Clearly, these ordination platforms had meaning beyond simply being a space to perform a ritual. As the medieval Chinese historian and scholar of the Vinaya, Daoxuan 道宣 (596–667) claims in his text recording the history of, and promoting the establishment of, ordination platforms throughout China, the Illustrated Scripture on the Establishment of Ordination Platforms in Guanzhong (hereafter, Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms; Guanzhong chuangli jietan tujing 關中創立戒壇圖經):10 故使江表佛法，經今五六百年，曾不虧殄，由戒壇也。以戒為佛 11 法之源，本立而不可傾也。 Because of precept platforms, for five or six hundred years up to now, the Buddha’s teaching has never diminished south of the [Yangtze] River.12 Because the precepts are the root of the Buddha’s teaching, if the base is established, it cannot be overturned.



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Or, as he put it succinctly in his Lüxiang gantong zhuan 律相感通傳, “the flourishing of ordination platforms is important for the Buddha” (戒壇 之興，佛所重也).13 Here, in addition to the notion that having and using ordination platforms is seen as bulwarks against the decline of Buddhism, Daoxuan also seems to believe that having the precepts, which required going through a proper ordination ceremony on a precept platform, was the basis for Buddhism flourishing and persisting in the world. For Daoxuan, without ordination platforms there could be no ordination, without ordination there would be no precepts, and without the precepts the Buddhist teachings would be sure to fall to ruin. Indeed, the effort that monks like Daoxuan, Ganjin, and their patrons put into building and conducting ordinations on such platforms shows that these structures were more than just another structure within a monastery, but that they represented the spread of Buddhism, sanctioned not only by the saṃgha, but by the government as well. From this perspective, whoever or whatever institution or ideology controlled the establishment of ordination platforms controlled the development of the Buddhist church and the spread and development of Buddhism. Thus the symbolism of the Platform Scripture from the seventh century, the impetus to bring Ganjin to Japan in the eighth century, and Saichō’s concern with precept platforms in the ninth century is clear and is coextensive with issues surrounding the use and administration of sīmā in Southeast Asia and other parts of the Buddhist world. While the work of Daoxuan, Ganjin, and Saichō may be some of the most conspicuous examples of ordination platforms in Buddhist history, these structures have a long history in China, with roots stretching back to India. In this chapter, I will examine these roots and the relation of these structures to sīmā found in translated Vinaya texts, and I will discuss the development of these ordination platforms, using some examples from Chinese texts created between the third and seventh centuries. From this evidence, it was found that although there is not clear description of such structures in the four main Vinaya texts translated prior to the seventh century, these structures nevertheless seem to have developed outside China, most likely in India, but their use became widespread in China from the fifth to seventh centuries and continued to develop without reference to specific Indian precedents.

Previous Research Up to now, most research on the subject of ordination platforms has been done based on accounts of them found in classical Buddhist texts. Scholars

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studying monastic regulations, such as Ōchō Enichi 横超慧日 (1906–1995), Hirakawa Akira 平川彰 (1915–2002), and Miyabayashi Akihiko 宮林昭彦 (1932–2014),14 have analyzed some of the sources and made them into a cohesive narrative, while more recent research by John McRae (1947–2011), Funayama Tōru 船山徹, and Huaiyu Chen15 have gone into more detail on specific sources, with a dissertation by Zhihui Tan focusing on Daoxuan’s Illustrated Scripture of Jetavana Monastery of the Kingdom of Śrāvastī in Central India (hereafter the Illustrated Scripture of Jetavana; Zhong tianzhu sheweiguo zhihuan si tujing 中天竺舍衛國祇洹寺圖經),16 an important work that discusses ordination platforms discussed in more detail below.17 Additionally, there have also been a few studies on the subject in the field of architectural history, including work by the well-known Japanese architect and historian Itō Chūta 伊東忠太 (1867–1954) as well as several other examples by Murata Jirō 村田治郎 (1895–1985) and others.18 There is, however, one interesting discrepancy in this prior research. While some of the above-mentioned research, particularly those by Japanese scholars, assumes or directly asserts that ordination platforms originated in India, or at least were brought from outside China, other sources argue that ordination platforms were an entirely Chinese development. Hirakawa, for example, writes that “there is no doubt that ordination platforms were used during the period of sectarian Buddhism,” referring to the period of several centuries after the death of the Buddha, in which various sects of Buddhism developed in India, and that owing to the differences among the various Vinaya texts, “it is difficult to say with certainty whether or not this goes back to the period of early Buddhism,” that is, the period before such sects developed.19 In contrast, McRae writes, commenting on the work of Ōchō Enichi, that “it is clear that the notion of the ordination platform as a raised earthen or stone dais is derived from Chinese rather than Indian culture.”20 In a broader sense, this problem connects to the more general debate about to what extent Chinese and East Asian Buddhism was a product of a process of “sinification,” that is, the idea that the Buddhism found in China “became Chinese” through its interaction with Chinese people and language and aspects of Chinese thought and culture that existed prior to Buddhism, and to what extent East Asian Buddhism is more the product of a long process of transmission and translation of an entire cultural system and reflects the influence of Indic cultures on China as much as it does distinctly Chinese ones.



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Perhaps the main reason for this confusion about ordination platforms is that in the Pāli Vinaya as well as the four main Vinaya texts translated into Chinese, although there are regulations pertaining to the space in which to perform ordinations, there is no explicit mention of such platform-like structures for performing ordinations, and with their disproportionate importance in Chinese and East Asian Buddhism, coupled with the fact that clear evidence for their existence is found mainly in Chinese-language sources, some scholars have concluded that ordination platforms were possibly a Chinese invention. Through re-examining this evidence and by looking at some new pieces of evidence, however, I claim that such platform-like structures for ordination did exist in India, though they underwent a certain degree of embellishment and development after being brought to China.

From Sīmā Territories to Ordination Platforms—The Space for Ordination in Translated Vinaya Texts As Hirakawa has shown, what came to be known in Chinese as jietan or in Japanese kaidan 戒壇 are essentially an incarnation of one specific type of sīmā, that is, the territory or demarcated space where formal decisions and actions made by the saṃgha known as kamma in Pāli or karman in Sanskrit were meant to be conducted. One such kamma/karman is the upasaṃpadā, or ordination ceremony, and sīmā for conducting these kamma/karman are called khaṇḍa-sīmā “small territory,” a term that is typically found in Chinese translations as xiaojie 小界, meaning “small area,” even though such areas did not necessarily require a particular platform-like structure.21 This small area is in contrast to the large area (dajie 大界) that demarcated the territory of particular monastic community, such as those studied by Petra Kieffer-Pülz, and the natural area (ziran jie自然界) that demarcated the spaces outside and between the borders of different monastic communities.22 Such smaller sīmā were created both to cordon off space for conducting the ordination ritual and to delineate those in the larger community who were involved in the ordination ceremony from those who were not.23 In order to establish this small sīmā, an “act [of the saṃgha]” (Skt. karman; Ch. jiemo 羯磨), specifically a “twofold act with a proposal” (Skt. jñaptidvitīyā karmavācanā; Ch. baier jiemo 白二羯磨),24 was needed to gain the approval for the use of the space and the ritual that was to take place in it. Such procedures are described in many Vinaya texts, and the following passage from the Four-Part Vinaya (Sifen lü 四分律), the text that would

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eventually become the standard Vinaya used in East Asia, describes this space and how it was meant to be determined:25 佛言：「聽結戒場。當如是結：白二羯磨，稱四方界相，若安 杙、若石、若疆畔作齊限。 眾中當差堪能羯磨人如上： The Buddha said: “Let an area for the precepts (jiechang 戒場) be demarcated.26 It should be demarcated like this: by a twofold act (karman) of a proposal [and a vote] (baier jiemo 白二羯磨) an area marked in four directions (sifang jiexiang 四方界相) should be announced and a stake, or a stone, or the edge of a field should be made the border. From within the group [of monks] a person who can perform the act should set it apart like this: 『大德僧聽！此住處比丘稱四方小界相。若僧時到，僧忍聽， 僧今於此四方小界相內，結作戒場。』白如是。 “Great venerable monks, listen! The bhikṣus of this dwelling place have announced the marks for a small area in four directions. If it is the right time for the saṃgha, and the saṃgha agrees, the saṃgha will then demarcate inside these marks for a small area in four directions, an area for making the precepts.” This is the motion. 『大德僧聽！此住處比丘稱四方小界相。今僧於此四方小界相 內結戒場。誰諸長老忍僧於此四方相內結戒場者默然，誰不忍 說。』」 “Great venerable monks, listen! The bhikṣus of this dwelling place have announced the marks for a small area in the four directions. Now, the saṃgha will demarcate an area for the precepts inside these marks for a small area in the four directions. Any of the elders or monks who accept this place for the precepts be demarcated within these marks for a small area in the four directions, be silent. If someone does not accept it, speak.” 27 僧已忍於此四方相內結戒場竟。僧忍默然故，是事如是持。 The saṃgha has accepted that an area for the precepts has been demarcated within these marks for a small area in the four directions. Because the saṃgha was silent, this act is upheld as such.



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Here we see that a “small area with markers in the four directions” is proclaimed and accepted as an appropriate “area for the precepts” by a silent acknowledgment of the community. The term jietan 戒壇, however, does not appear, and instead the place where the ordination ceremony should be conducted is described as a jiechang 戒場, meaning “an area for the precepts,” a term that does not imply anything more than a piece of ground, much less a built-up structure.

The Term “Ordination Platform” Used Alongside Others in the Wufen lü In contrast to the above passage from the Four-Part Vinaya, attributed to the Dharmaguptaka school, the Vinaya attributed to the Mahīśāsaka school, known as the Five-Part Vinaya (Wufen lü 五分律), the term “ordination platform” (jietan 戒壇) can be found, albeit used in conjunction with other terms: 諸比丘將欲受戒。人至受戒處，欲為受戒。遇賊被剝，殆死 而還。 Some bhikṣus wanted to receive the precepts. These people went to the place to receive the precepts (shoujie chu 受戒處), and wanted to do [the procedures to] receive the precepts. [Along the way,] they met a bandit and got cut. Nearly dying, they went back. 諸比丘作是念：「若世尊聽我等於僧坊內立受戒壇者，不遭此 難。」 The bhikṣus had the idea: “If the venerable one [i.e., the Buddha] allows us to build a platform for taking the precepts (shoujie tan 受戒 壇) inside the monks’ quarters, we will not encounter this problem.” 以是白佛，佛言：「今聽於僧坊內白二羯磨結作受戒場，應先白 二羯磨捨僧坊界28 Based on this, they reported to the Buddha and the Buddha said: “I will now allow by a twofold act (karman) of a proposal [and a vote] a place for taking the precepts be bound inside the monks’ quarters, but the area for the monks’ quarters should first be cancelled by a twofold act (karman) of a proposal [and a vote].” In contrast to the previous passage, which seems to imply that the place for performing the ordination ceremony should be outdoors, here the monks want to create a place to carry out the procedures inside the monastery or some sort of

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building, ostensibly to avoid danger. Such a place is described both as “a place to receive the precepts” (shoujie chu 受戒處) and a “platform for taking the precepts” (shoujie tan 受戒壇) in the passage, but no further description is given. Beyond these examples, other texts, such as the Vinaya in Ten Recitations (Shisong lü 十誦律), the Vinaya text attributed to the Sarvāstivādins, use terms like “place with a boundary” (jiechang 界場), etc., to describe the place for performing the ordination ceremony.29 The same term is used in the Mohesengqie lü 摩訶僧祇律, the Vinaya texts attributed to the Mahāsāṃghikas, as well as the homophonic “place for the precepts” (jiechang 戒場), which may have been translations of the same term, though we may never know as Indic versions of these texts are only remain in fragments.30 Finally, in the Vinaya texts of the Mulāsarvāstivādins, translated by Yijing 義浄 (635–713) about two centuries after the above texts were translated, we again find the terms “place for the precepts,” but also a “platform-area” (tanchang 壇場), indicating that Yijing was aware of problems with earlier translations of Vinaya texts and made his translations based on firsthand experience at Indian temples and monasteries.31

Parallel Passages in the Shanjian lü and the Samantapāsādikā Although there are only a few fragments of the Four-Part Vinaya extant in Sanskrit, 32 we can nevertheless surmise what Indic terms, if any, may have been used for these special sīma was by looking at other texts that use them. One final passage offering a clue about the Indic roots of the ordination platform comes from one of the few texts translated from Pāli to Chinese in the premodern era, the Shanjian lü piposha 善見律毘婆沙, a partial translation of the Samantapāsādikā, a Pāli commentary on the Vinaya attributed, likely incorrectly, to early fifth-century commentator Buddhaghosa and translated in the late fifth century by Saṃghabhadra 僧伽跋陀羅.33 At the beginning of the second scroll of the Shanjian lü, the following passage, also identified by Hirakawa, describes the ordination of Mahinda (moshentuo 摩哂陀) on an ordination platform: 是時摩哂陀年滿二十，即受具足戒於戒壇中得三達智，具六神通 漏盡羅漢。34 At that time Mahinda was a full twenty years old, and received the full precepts on the ordination platform and there attained the three types of knowledge, and was endowed with the six supernatural powers of an arhat who has extinguished the outflows.



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The corresponding passage in Pāli reads: Tadā kira kumāro paripuṇṇavīsativasso va hoti. So tasmiṃ yeva upasampadā-sīmā-maṇḍale35 saha paṭisambhidāhi arahattaṃ pāpuṇi.36 Now at that time, the [king’s] son (i.e., Mahinda) had just reached a full twenty years. At that time, in the maṇḍala of the area for ordination along with analytic insight, he achieved arhathood. Although the Pāli we have now may be slightly different from the text the Chinese translation was made from, comparing the two passages clearly indicates that the term jietan 戒壇 was most likely a translation of either the term upasampadā-sīmā-maṇḍala or simply upasampadā-maṇḍala (as noted in the Taishō edition of the text). Petra Kieffer-Pülz has also argued that these two terms are synonymous with khaṇḍa-sīmā,37 and indeed, the understanding that jietan was known as a maṇḍala (Ch. mantuluo 曼荼羅) in Indic languages is noted in several Chinese sources as well.38 Beyond this, a passage from the Tibetan translation of the “Chapter on Leaving the Home [to become a monk]” (Pravrajayāvastu) of the Mūlasarvāstivādavinaya uses the similar term maṇḍalaka to describe the site for performing the ordination ritual, indicating that this term was not limited to the Pāli tradition.39 Schopen also notes that the passage suggests that this ritual was done outdoors, almost certainly in the presence of a Buddha stūpa or image.40 While the term maṇḍala brings to mind the colorful diagrams ubiquitous in Indian religion and in Buddhist culture throughout Asia, the term can mean more generally “anything comprised within certain limits or boundaries.”41 Although the term appears again later in the Samantapāsādikā and Shanjian lü,42 no further description can be found in the text. One hint though, is that a sīmā-maṇḍala is distinct from, and not directly related to, a khuragga,43 a term found in a different part of the text, probably referring to a small building (agga) used for shaving the head of a newly ordained novice monk (khura), a less formal procedure that does not require a sīmā like upasampadā or full ordination. Through the passages above, from both the Vinaya texts and commentaries translated into Chinese, we can first of all observe that the term used for the place for ordination was not fixed, and that while the translated Vinaya texts clearly outline how to create a space to perform an ordination, none specifically indicate that this must necessarily be some sort of platform or stagelike structure. While Chinese exegetes would have been aware that these

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differences may have been merely a matter of translation or terminology, they nevertheless came to understand the space for performing ordinations to be special type of platform-like structure. Even when a clear Indic and Pāli parallel is available for the Chinese text, as in the Samantapāsādikā and its Chinese translation, the Shanjian lü, whereby the term “ordination platform” (jietan 戒 壇) was used as a translation for demarcated site (upasampadā-sīmā-maṇḍala or sīmā-maṇḍala), this term itself does not indicate anything more than a demarcated space, and the procedure creating such a space only requires a piece of land to be marked off or otherwise set apart from the surrounding area. On the other hand, as later designs such as the one at Tōshōdaiji testify, East Asian Buddhists clearly saw these as being structures built above ground. To understand how this shift may have occurred, the remainder of this chapter will deal with some of the earliest examples of ordination and ordination platforms used in China and how these led to the full-fledged structures, some which may have even been as large and elaborate as the one pictured at the beginning of this chapter.

The First Ordinations and Ordination Platforms in China With the exception of Yijing’s translation of the Mūlasarvāstivada Vinaya, made in the early eighth century, the texts of the “full vinayas,” such as those cited above, were all translated in quick succession in the first quarter of the fifth century. But, while these texts provided many details of what monastic life was nominally supposed to be like, Buddhist monasticism in China had already been developing for several centuries prior to this, based on the model provided by immigrant monks who came to China from abroad, and on the limited monastic codes such as the lists of rules (Skt. prātimokṣa, or Ch. jieben 戒本 texts) or texts offering instructions for performing various monastic procedures such as the ordination ceremony (i.e., Skt. karman, or Ch. jiemo 羯磨 texts). In the following section, we will look at several accounts of ordination platforms in China from the third to the fifth centuries in order to establish how the practice of using platforms for ordinations developed in China.

*Dharmakāla and an Ordination in the Wei Dynasty In the tenth century, Zanning’s 贊寧 (919–1001) comprehensive history of Buddhism, the Abbreviated History of the Saṃgha Written in the Song Dynasty (hereafter, Abbreviated History; Da song seng shi lue 大宋僧史略), outlines the history of ordination platforms in a section titled “Establishing platforms



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and receiving the precepts” (litan dejie 立壇得戒). Here Zanning claims that the first platforms in China were created as early as the third century, during the Wei dynasty (220–265): 迦羅以嘉平正元中，與曇帝於洛陽出僧祇戒心，立大僧羯磨法。 44 東土立壇，此其始也。 During the Jiaping 嘉平 (249–254) and Zhengyuan eras 正元 (254– 256), Jialuo 迦羅 (*[Dharma]kāla),45 produced the Sengqie jiexin 僧 祇戒心 with Tandi 曇帝, and established the method [to perform] karman for the great sangha. This was the beginning of platforms in the eastern lands [i.e., China]. More details about this event and the two individuals mentioned, here called “Jialuo” 迦羅 and “Tandi” 曇帝, can be found in an earlier work, Huijiao’s 慧皎 (497–554) Biographies of Eminent Monks (Gaoseng zhuan 高僧傳), written in the sixth century. This text was almost certainly Zanning’s source, and in the biography of a monk named “Tanke jialuo” 曇柯迦羅 (thought to be a transliteration of the name *Dharmakāla46), of which the above “Jialuo” is an abbreviation, he is described as coming to the Chinese capital, Luoyang 洛陽, during the Jiaping 嘉平 era (249–254) and performing an ordination: 以魏嘉平中來至洛陽。于時魏境，雖有佛法，而道風訛替，亦有 眾僧，未稟歸戒。正以剪落殊俗耳，設復齋懺47，事法祠祀48。 迦羅既至，大行佛法。 In the Jiaping era of the Wei dynasty, he [*Dharmakāla] came to Luoyang. At that time in the lands of the Wei, although there was the Buddha’s dharma, the winds [that lead people down] the Buddhist path were deceptive and in decline, and although there was a group of monks, they had not yet taken refuge or the precepts. Though they cut off their hair, it was only to distinguish themselves from the common people, and if they did a purification or repentance [ceremony], the method and procedure [was the same as a traditional Chinese] festival. Once [*Dharma]kāla arrived, the Buddha dharma became practiced widely. 時有諸僧，共請迦羅，譯出戒律。迦羅以律部曲制，文言繁廣， 佛教未昌，必不承用，乃譯出《僧祇戒心》止備朝夕。更請梵 僧，立羯磨法受戒。中夏戒律，始自于此。迦羅後不知所終。

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At that time, several monks together requested that [*Dharma]kāla translate the Vinaya. [*Dharma]kāla thought that because the language of the detailed regulations of the Vinaya texts was complicated and verbose, and Buddhist teachings had not yet flourished, they would surely not be passed on or used, so he translated the Sengqie jiexin 僧祇戒心, only going as far as the daily provisions. Furthermore, he asked an Indian monk to establish the procedure [for performing] the karman to receive the precepts. This was the beginning of the precepts and the Vinaya in China. After this, we do not know where [*Dharma] kāla died.49 Although this earlier version of the account claims to be the first ordination based on a written set of rules coming from India, in contrast to Zanning’s Abbreviated History there are no details here specifying that a platform was used for this ordination. This discrepancy between Zanning’s version may be accounted for by either some other source or oral tradition, or the distinct possibility that Zanning’s assertion was simply a conjecture. Later in the same account from the Biographies of Eminent Monks, Tandi 曇帝 (a name that has been provisionally reconstructed as *Dharmasatya50), also mentioned in the passage from Zanning’s Abbreviated History, is said to have come to Luoyang in the subsequent Zhengyuan 正元 era (254–256): 又有安息國沙門曇帝，亦善律學。以魏正元之中，來遊洛陽， 譯51出《曇無德羯磨》。 There was also a Parthian śrāmana named Tandi 曇帝, who was well-versed in Vinaya studies. During the Zhengyuan era of the Wei dynasty, he traveled to Luoyang and translated the Dharmaguptaka Karman (Tanwude jiemo 曇無德羯磨).52 Though it is not explicit here, later accounts assert that the “Indian monk” that *Dharmakāla asked to perform the ordination was this Tandi, and that it was his Dharmaguptaka Karman that was used to perform the ordination.53 If we knew more about this text, we could know more about the character of this ordination procedure. Indeed, there is a text titled Jiemo 羯磨 (a transliteration of karman, an abbreviation for karmavācanā, the collection of ritual expressions used for carrying out ecclesiastical acts (karman) such as the ordination ritual), published in volume 22 of the Taishō canon, attributed to Tandi 曇諦 (with the second character given as di 諦 rather than di 帝), but the



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provenance of this text, as well as another similar text that claims to have been produced around the same time by Kang Sengkai 康僧鎧 (d.u.), have been called into question by both Hirakawa and Heirman.54 Comparing these texts to the description of the same rituals found in the full text of the Four-Part Vinaya, translated more than a century after the events depicted in the Biographies of Eminent Monks, Hirakawa has found that the content of these texts attributed to Tandi and Kang Sengkai matches the Four-Part Vinaya in a way that suggests that these texts found in the Taishō canon are in fact extracts from the full Four-Part Vinaya translated by Buddhayaśas 佛陀耶舍 (fl. fifth century) and Zhu Fonian 竺佛念 (d.u.) rather than earlier translations of the same set of regulations. That the content is a character-for-character match in many instances is the most compelling evidence for his conclusion, though the order and content of some passages differs between the Four-Part Vinaya and the two karman texts. Nevertheless, Hirakawa does not deny that such translated compilations of rules and ceremonial texts for performing ceremonies, known as karman texts, could have existed in the time of *Dharmakāla and Tandi. While the earliest catalog from this time period, Sengyou’s 僧祐 (445–518) Chu sanzang jiji 出三藏記集, does not record these works, texts by the same name can be found in a work titled Zhongjing mulu 眾經目錄,55 another catalog of texts compiled in approximately 594, as well as the Lidai sanbao ji 歷代三寶, another catalog completed in 597. Furthermore, the Lidai sanbao ji notes that both these texts were these “First seen in Zhu Daozu’s 竺道祖 (347–419) catalog of the Wei Dynasty” and adds the detail that both of these were translated in the city of Luoyang, at the famous “White Horse Temple” (Baima si 白馬寺).56 While Zhu Daozu’s catalog of Wei sources is no longer extant, if we accept the Lidai sanbao ji’s account, it would confirm that both Tandi’s “Dharmaguptaka Karman” and *Dharmakāla’s Sengqie jiexin 僧祇戒心 (“The heart of the precepts of the saṃgha”57), seemingly a pratimokṣa text, existed during the Wei dynasty and the time of Dharmakāla. If karman texts did exist at this early date, they may have included instructions for performing a karman to demarcate the sīmā used for ordination, like those full Vinaya texts discussed above.58 But since even extant karman texts don’t mention a platform explicitly, there seems to be no way to verify Zanning’s claim that this was the earliest platform used in China. Because of this, although it is possible that some form of karman text did exist in this period, as the Biographies of Eminent Monks and the note from the Lidai sanbao ji indicates, it is more likely that a space like the one that described in Vinaya or karman texts (i.e., one marked by “small area with markers in the four

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directions,” etc.), was used, rather than a platform-like structure. Evidence for either of these possibilities is only circumstantial, however, and the best we can say with the available evidence is that if a karman text was translated at this point, it is probable that a sīmā would have been established to conduct the ordination, but our earliest evidence does not specify whether or not this ordination performed by *Dharmakāla was done with a platform-like structure.59

An Early Ordination of Nuns on a Boat Though it is uncertain whether or not the ordination in Luoyang in the midthird century used an ordination platform, or any sort of designated space for performing the ordination ceremony, we have one other early account of ordination that does clearly employ such a space, remarkably, on a boat. In addition to demarcating the boundaries of a small sīmā for ordination with “a stake, or a stone, or the edge of a field” as mentioned above, a boat or platform unconnected to land could be used to form the smaller sīmā for ordination, as such a configuration would make it difficult for outsiders to intrude on the solemn ceremony. This particular ordination is recorded in the Biographies of Buddhist Nuns (Biqiuni zhuan 比丘尼傳), written in 517 by Baochang 寶唱 (d.u.). In the biography of the nun Jingjian 淨撿 (291–36160) of the “Bamboo Grove Nunnery” (Zhulin si 竹林寺)61 the following events are recorded to have occurred during the Jin dynasty, around 357: 晉咸康中沙門僧建，於月支國得《僧祇尼羯磨》及《戒本》。 升62平元年二月八日63於洛陽譯出。 During the Xiankang 咸康 era (335–342) of the Jin dynasty, the Śramana Sengjian 僧建 obtained a *[Mahā]saṃghika Bhikṣuni Karman and a *Prātimokṣa from the country of Yuezhi. It was translated on the eighth day of the second month in the first year of the Shengping 升平 era (357) at Luo-yang. 外國沙門曇摩羯多為立戒壇。晉沙門釋道場，以戒因緣經為難 云：「其法不成。」因浮舟于泗，撿等四人同壇上64，從大僧以 66 受具戒。晉土有65比丘尼，亦撿為始也。 [Upon doing so,] A foreign Śramana named *Dharmagupta (Tanmojieduo 曇摩羯多) built an ordination platform. A Śramana from Jin



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[i.e., China], Shi Daochang 釋道場, criticized this based on the text that explains the causes and condition [that lead to establishing] the precepts (Jie yinyuan jing 戒因緣經),67 saying “this method will not do.” Because of this, a boat was floated onto the Si 泗 river,68 and four people including [Jing]jian alighted the platform, and she received the full precepts from the head monk.69 Now there were Bhikṣunis in the lands of Jin [i.e., China], and [Jing]jian was the first of them. In addition to being the first recorded ordination of nuns in China, this account is also evidence of an ordination performed with an awareness of the procedures required to establish a sīmā for performing an ordination. While it may seem unusual that a boat was used, the practice of making a sīmā on a boat or floating platform on a river is attested to in other texts, and the practice of using a boat for ordinations is found occasionally before the Tang dynasty.70 A curious detail from the passage mentions that something referred to as an ordination platform—seemingly on land, though no description is given— was rejected (「其法不成。」) in favor of using a boat on a river. Nevertheless, this is the earliest known description of an ordination done in a specifically designated place and on a special structure, though that it was on a boat on a river—most likely a temporary arrangement—indicated a distinctly different practice than the more permanent structures on land that developed later.

The Platforms at Nanlin Temple and in Sanwu While the assertion that the ordination by *Dharmakāla at Luoyang in the midthird century was the first ordination platform in China is difficult to confirm, and though Jingjian’s ordination platform in the river in the late fourth century may be the first clearly recorded use of a specially designated space for performing ordinations, the practice of building specific structures for ordination on land is first attested in the fifth century, during the Southern dynasties period. In his work outlining the construction and history of ordination platforms, the Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms, mentioned above, Daoxuan writes that the earliest platform in China was built at Nanlin Monastery (Nanlin si 南林寺) in the capital of Jiankang (modern-day Nanjing) around the year 429:71 今明東夏創立戒壇之源。《梁僧傳》云：「昔宋文帝元嘉七年， 有罽賓國沙門求那跋摩者，梁曰功德鎧也。越自南海來達楊都， 文帝禮異恒倫，號稱三藏，譯出經戒。

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Now I will clarify the origins of the establishment of ordination platforms in the Eastern [land of] Xia 東夏 [i.e., China].72 In the Biographies of Monks from the Liang Dynasty [i.e., Huijiao’s Biographies of Eminent Monks, discussed above] it says: “In the days of Emperor Wen of the Song 宋文帝 (407–453, r. 424–453), in the seventh year of Yuanjia 元嘉 Era (430), there was a Śramana from Jibin 罽賓 [A region typically said to correspond to Kaśmir] named Guṇavarman (Qunabamo 求那跋摩; 367–431); in the [language of the] Liang he was called “armor of virtue” (gongde kai 功德鎧). He came from Yue 越 [i.e., southern China] to Nanhai 南海 [modern-day Guangdong], and arrived at the capital in Yang 揚73 [i.e., Jiankang], where Emperor Wen bowed in respect to his formidable appearance, and called him Three Baskets (Sanzang 三藏; i.e., an honorific title for monks who were learned in the “three baskets” of Buddhist texts), and he [then] translated sutras and precept [texts]. 甞遊南林寺，見竹樹扶疎，便有終焉之志，乃於寺前園中立戒 74 壇。令受戒者登壇上而受也。 One time he visited Nanlin temple, and saw their trees and bamboo stretching out [before him], and at that moment resolved to bring his life to its end, but also built an ordination platform in the garden in front of the temple. There, he had some candidates who were to receive the precepts ascend the platform and receive them. As both Heirman and Funayama have discussed, the ordination mentioned here is mentioned in several sources.75 Guṇavarman himself, however, appears to have passed away before the actual ceremony is reported to have occurred, and the ordination platform in front of Nanlin temple was also used for Guṇavarman’s funeral, done “using the foreign method of shepi 闍毘 (i.e., jhāpita, or cremation).”76 The ordination ceremony itself took place in the tenth year of the Yuanjia 元嘉 era (433), and was overseen by Guṇavarman’s disciple Saṃghavarman (Sengjiabamo 僧伽跋摩).77 Though Daoxuan’s passage here clearly asserts that this platform and Nanlin temple were the first in China, Zanning’s Abbreviated History claims the first platforms of the Southern dynasties were built during the later Yongming 永明 era (483–493) in an area known as Sanwu 三吳.78 Zanning’s claim seems to be based on a record in the Chu sanzang jiji, from the fifth century, in which a text titled “A record of building the first ordination platforms in Sanwu and of ordinations and the first construction of an ordination platform



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in Sanwu during the Yongming era” ([永]明中三吳始造戒壇受戒記)79 is listed as being part of a larger collection called the Catalog of Records of the Sarvāstivada Lineage (Sapoduobu ji mulu 薩婆多部記目錄), though this text is no longer extant.80 While the platforms at Sanwu and Nanlin may have both existed, Zanning’s omission of Guṇavarman’s platform at Nanlin temple from his history, especially when it was also mentioned in the Chu sanzang jiji,81 is more likely to be simply an oversight on Zanning’s part rather than evidence against its historicity. But as for the platform in Sanwu, without evidence beyond this brief mention in the Chu sanzang jiji, there is not much to say about it beyond that it may have existed sometime before the Chu sanzang jiji was produced.

Waguang Temple and a Text from Dunhuang While he still maintains that the ordination platform at Nanlin temple was the first in China, Daoxuan’s Illustrated Scripture goes on to clarify that according to a separate transmission (biechuan 別傳) “in the southern countries [of China], there was not just one precept platform,” and goes on to list more than a dozen by name, saying that “below the state of Yu 渝州, between the Yangtze and the Huai Rivers, there are a total of three hundred platforms or more.”82 A similar passage appears in another of Daoxuan’s works called the Lüxiang gantong zhuan 律相感通傳, a text written based on his “spiritual resonances” (gantong 感通) and visions of encounters with heavenly beings.83 Because of this, and because of the dubious source of this separate transmission, it is natural to doubt the veracity of his records, though the figure of three hundred platforms he gives must have been at least within the realm of believability to his audience. Nevertheless, there is some evidence for at least one of the platforms he mentions. In the Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms, he mentions a monk named Fatai of the Eastern Jin (東晉法汰), who was “a fellow student of the monk Daoan” (道安法師之同學也), and “prior [to the platforms at Nanlin] built a platform at the temple Waguang-si 瓦官寺 in the capital in Yang [province, i.e., Jiankang].”84 This record corresponds to the biography of a Zhu Fatai 竺法汰 (320–387)85 found in the Biographies of Eminent Monks, who is also mentioned in Daoan’s 道安 (312–385) biography,86 and while Fatai’s biography mentions staying at Waguang temple, and even being involved with a construction project there,87 no specific mention of a platform is made. By chance, however, one of the texts recovered from Dunhuang and now in the Pelliot collection, known as A Method for Those Who Leave the Home

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to Receive the Bodhisattva Precepts (Chujiaren shou pusajie fa 出家人受菩 薩戒法),88 mentions creating a platform for performing a ceremony to bestow the Bodhisattva Precepts. In the second section of the text, titled fangbian 方便, a word that typically translates to the Sanskrit upāya or “expedient means” but can be understood to mean something more like preparatory actions (i.e., for taking the precepts) in this case, the following passage describes preparing a space to perform an ordination: 未受戒三日，先建立戒場，亦有不作戒場者，各随意解，作戒場 勝。若作戒場散誕作（外國云散誕，此云円作。） Three days before taking the precepts, first build a place for the precepts, or, for those who do not build a place for the precepts, each should act according to their understanding, but making a place for the precepts is superior. If you make a place for the precepts, make it a sandan 散誕 (“as you like”?).89 (In foreign lands it is called sandan, but here [in China] it is called “made in a circle.”)90 Though the author of this text is unknown, according to the afterword (bawen 跋文), the text was copied by a monk named Huiming 慧明 of Waguang Temple in the eighteenth year of the Tianjian 天監 era (519) during the Liang dynasty.91 While monks with the name “Huiming” are mentioned in both the Biographies of Eminent Monks and the Continued Biographies of Eminent Monks (Xu gaoseng zhuan 續高僧傳),92 neither record mentions a Waguang temple, so the identity of the copyist is uncertain. Furthermore, though this composition is dated to the sixth century, before Daoxuan’s time, it is not clear whether this can be traced as far back as Zhu Fatai in the fourth century. While this passage does not explicitly state that such a platform was actually built at Waguang temple, we may conjecture that this text was likely meant as a guide for performing an ordination, and the monks of Waguang temple actually built such a platform around the time this text was copied. Were this to have happened, it could be that the mention of Waguang temple in Daoxuan’s list of ordination platforms in the Illustrated Scripture was not only based on his visions of heavenly beings, but may have come from information that was never written down in historical works such as the Biographies of Eminent Monks, or was made known to Daoxuan through works that are no longer extant. We may also say based on this assumption that such platforms may have existed in the periphery of Chinese territory, in Dunhuang, where presumably



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Buddhists, both Chinese and foreign, would have acted more according to the customs of Buddhism outside China, compared to monks in more central parts of China, indicating that such platforms may have been an acceptable practice within a non-Chinese monastic community. In contrast, however, the detail that “here [in China] it is called ‘made in a circle,’ ” suggests that there was an awareness that the practices in China differed from elsewhere, in contrast to later designs, which were clearly square.93 While drawing concrete connections is only speculative, other altars in China, such as the famous Temple of Heaven (tiantan 天壇, more literally translated as “platform of heaven”) in Beijing, as well as a recently discovered site in Xinjiang Province labeled as a sun altar (taiyang jitan 太陽祭壇, though its actual function is unclear), may suggest that such circular altars were not uncommon in premodern Chinese culture and that the designs of such platforms may have been based on these structures, rather than any particular text.94 While there is little evidence to determine the historicity of the rest of the platforms that Daoxuan mentions in the Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms, his account at least shows that there may well have been several, if not many, other such platforms constructed from the mid-fourth century onward. Additionally, they may have been simply spaces demarcated as indicated in Vinaya texts, and the term “ordination platform” was only applied to them later as a catchall for all these spaces for ordination. Whatever the case may be, Daoxuan’s assertion that the platform at Nanlin temple was the first in China may be true only if we add the caveat that it is the first attested in multiple sources, but there are several examples of other spaces or structures, such as those discussed above, that served the same purpose prior the construction of the platform at Nanlin temple in the early fifth century. With that in mind, we turn to a problem that emerged out of the fact that platforms in China began to develop independently from their south Asian counterparts: eventually, people began to notice that platforms in China were distinctly different from the spaces for performing ordinations in India.

Daoxuan and Yijing: Visionary Experience vs. Travel Experience Yijing’s Account of an Ordination Platform at Nālanda Although the use of structures for ordination underwent some development in China, there is evidence for similar structures existing in India as well, though they were probably built differently than those in China. Yijing 義浄 (635– 713), the pilgrim and prolific translator of texts such as the Mūla-sarvāstivāda Vinaya (Genben shuoyiqie youbu pinaiye 根本説一切有部毘奈耶), gives a

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description of the layout of what he calls the *Śri Nālanda Mahāvihāra (Shili nalantuo mohe piheluo 室利那爛陀莫訶毘訶羅95), that is, the famous monastery Nālanda, in his travelogue and collection of stories of sixty monks who traveled to India, the Great Tang Chronicle of Eminent Monks who Traveled to the West Seeking the Dharma (hereafter, Great Tang Chronicle of Eminent Monks; Da tang xiyu qiufa gaoseng zhuan 大唐西域求法高僧傳). In his description, he writes: 根本殿西有佛齒木樹。非是楊柳。其次西畔有戒壇。方可大尺一 丈餘，即於平地周壘96。塼牆97子，高二尺許。牆內坐基，可高 98 五寸，中有小制底。 To the west of the main hall [at Nālanda] there is the Buddha’s toothwood tree. It is not a willow.99 After this, to the west on a footpath there is a precept platform (jietan 戒壇). It was maybe a dachi 大尺 and one zhang 丈 (approx. 3.5 meters)100 and then some to a side, and was a level ground surrounded by a [rampart-like] wall. The wall’s height was maybe two chi (~62 cm). Inside the wall, there was a place to sit that was maybe five sun 寸 (~15 cm) high,101 and in the middle, there was a small caitya102 (zhidi 制底). If we compare Yijing’s description with those of precept platforms that were depicted in China, for example, in the diagram found in Daoxuan’s Commentary on Conduct and Procedure (Xingshi chao),103 as well as extant precept platforms in Japan, such as the one found at Tōshōdaiji, we see that rather than being a large square stone structure with several levels, Yijing is describing a level ground surrounded by a low brick wall, with a low raised platform with a small caitya, or stūpa-like structure, in the center. Beyond this firsthand account of Nālanda, Yijing describes both the ordination platform and the ordination ceremony based on what he saw in India and compares it to those in China, in a note appended to a description of the ordination procedure in a text called One Hundred and One Karman of the Mūla-sarvāstivādins (Genben shuo yiqie youbu baiyi jiemo 根本説一切有部 百一羯磨): 五天壇場安在寺中閑處。但唯方丈，四邊塼壘可高二尺，內邊基 高五寸。僧於上坐，中有小制底，高與人齊。傍開小門得容出 104 入。



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In the five regions of India (wutian 五天), the platform area (tanchang 壇場) is placed in a quiet place in the temple.105 It is just one zhang 尺 to a side, and the four sides a brick wall that is maybe two chi 尺 high, the base on the inner part is five sun 寸 high. The monks sit on this, and in the middle, there is a small caitya (zhidi 制底) the same height as a person. On one side, there it is an opening with a small entrance way for entering and exiting. While this is essentially a restatement of the above, here Yijing is not just describing one particular temple, but he is saying that this is the custom in India generally, implying that this is how it was done at those monasteries that used the Mūla-sarvāstivāda Vinaya. He then goes on to describe how the platform was used in an actual ordination ceremony: 其求受戒人立在壇，外其屏。教師於屏處問，不令眾見。 Those aspiring to take the precepts stand outside the platform, outside this screen [mentioned in the preceding passage]. The teachers are in the screened area and ask questions [to the ordinands, about whether they have fulfilled the qualifications to become ordained], and do not let the group see them. 不同此方皆在戒場內令眾共覩。此即全乖隱屏之義。既問障法 106 已，可教其人別立壇外。師即前行半路，遙白眾知。 It is not the same as here [in China] where everyone sits inside the precept area, which allows the group to see one another. This totally goes against the meaning of this screen to hide [the proceedings]. Once they have finished questioning about the factors that prevent [a monk from becoming accepted into the Saṃgha] (zhangfa 障法), they then may tell that person to stand separately, outside the platform. The teacher will then walk down the small path in front of them, and from a distance makes a proclamation to the group so that they know [the results of the proceedings]. This passage may be one of the few passages that clearly describe the difference between ordination procedures that developed in China and those in India. While Yijing’s main point is about the use of a screen on the platform to hide those who are in the process of being asked about their qualifications

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to become a monk—another detail of the ordination proceedings that does not appear in the Vinaya texts themselves—for our purposes, this provides clear evidence that a special structure built separate from the monastery was part of the ceremony in India, though it may have been simpler than the multitiered structures depicted in Daoxuan’s texts.

The Ordination Platform Movement and Daoxuan’s Revelatory Experiences Among Daoxuan’s works, the Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms, mentioned above, deals more directly with the construction of these platforms, while another, the Illustrated Scripture of Jetavana, describes Daoxuan’s vision of Jetavana monastery during the Buddha’s time and is known for the extraordinary circumstances in which the author came to compose this work. As he writes in its preface: 余以祇洹本寺主，久所居二十五年。. . . 五部四含之玄藉107法， 多從於斯寺。由是搜採群篇特事通敘，但以出沒，不同懷，鉛未 即。忽於覺悟感此幽靈。積年沈欝，霈然頓寫。 It is thought that the head of this Jetavana temple, [i.e., Śākyamuni Buddha] lived there for twenty-five long years. . . . The five divisions [of the Vinaya] and the four Āgamas—these profound books and their teachings—many of them came from this temple. Because of this, I have scoured these many texts for specific episodes or general descriptions, and although these appeared sporadically, I felt they were inconsistent and I did not put down any lead. Then suddenly, I awoke, moved by a numinous spirit. After years of accumulated melancholy, in a torrent, I suddenly wrote it down.108 Inspired by a “numinous spirit” in this text, Daoxuan describes what he imagines to be the prototypical monastery in the Indian Buddhist tradition, in order to create what some have called a “utopian” vision for a monastery in China.109 In contrast to earlier works such as his Commentary on Conduct and Procedure (Xingshichao), however, where his typical method for proscribing how the saṃgha and monasteries should be run involved comparing multiple Vinaya and other scriptural sources, here he admits that his sources come up short. Instead, he seems to be “filling in the gaps” of the texts in an imaginative—indeed, religiously inspired—way, characteristic of his later works.



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Instead of relying on the accounts of pilgrims who visited India, or even monks from India who lived in the Tang capital at the time, Daoxuan, never having been to India himself, instead displays a sort of imagination that, as Ōchō Enichi writes, was “not a unique characteristic of Daoxuan alone, but rather should be considered a general tendency of faith at the time,”110 and therefore may have been more commonplace than such embellished accounts do to us today. Beyond this text, Daoxuan’s visions play a key role in his Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms, where we see not one, but three platforms described: 檢別傳云：「佛在祇樹園中，樓至比丘請佛立壇，為結戒受戒 故。爾時如來依言許已，創置三壇。」 If we look at the separate transmission (biechuan 別傳), it says: “When Buddha was in the grove at Jeta’s park (i.e., the Jetavana monastery), the Bhikṣu Luozhi 樓至 requested that the Buddha build a platform in order to make a binding vow to keep the precepts and to receive the precepts. At that time the Tathāgata permitted it by his words, and three platforms were first established.” 佛院門東名「佛為比丘結戒壇」。佛院門西名「佛為比丘尼結戒 壇」，外院東門南置「僧為比丘受戒壇」。 [The one at the] east gate of the Buddha’s monastery was called “the platform for bhikṣus to be bound to the precepts by the Buddha.” [The one at the] at the west gate of the Buddha’s monastery was called “the platform for bhikṣunis to be bound to the precepts by the Buddha,” and outside the monastery’s east gate to the south was placed the “platform for bhikṣus to receive the precepts from the saṃgha.”111 Here, a monk named Luozhi 樓至 (*Ruci?) requests that ordination platforms be established at Jetavana, the grove where Buddha is said to have resided for much of his life. Although the name Luozhi appears in other texts, this particular story appears, based on what Daoxuan terms a separate transmission, to be part of his own unique vision of Jetavana rather than some historical record. Of the three platforms described, two platforms, one for nuns and one for monks, are for “being bound to the precepts by the Buddha,” while one was “to receive the precepts from the saṃgha,” indicating that Daoxuan

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wanted to emphasize not only that the approval of monastic community was necessary to become a monk, but also that creating a connection to the Buddha was an essential part of his vision of the ordination procedure. While on the surface these elements seem to have precedent in India, what is most telling is that this account is clearly drawn from his own Illustrated Scripture of Jetavana112 rather than from some particular sūtra or Vinaya text, and so the “separate transmission” he speaks of refers to the vision that led to the creation of this work, indicating that establishing the historicity of these ordination platforms was important enough for Daoxuan to fabricate or envision an origin story for them, apparently from whole cloth.

Yijing’s Criticism of Daoxuan’s “Jetavana Diagram” Though there is an account in Daoxuan’s Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms of a monk named Shijiamituoluo 釋迦蜜多羅 (*Śākyamitra?) from India who, upon seeing one of the platforms Daoxuan had constructed and confirmed that “all the temples in India have ordination platforms,”113 Yijing, who had been to India himself, took notice of the idiosyncrasies of Daoxuan’s description. In his Great Tang Chronicle of Eminent Monks, the same text that contains the above description of Nālanda, Yijing criticizes the diagram that accompanied Daoxuan’s text, albeit some twenty years after Daoxuan had passed away: 曾憶在京，見人畫出祇洹寺樣，咸是憑虛。為廣異聞，略陳梗概 云爾。雖復言陳寺樣，終恐在事還迷。為此畫出其圖。冀令目擊 無滯。如能奏請，依樣造之，即王舍支那理成無別耳。 I remember once, in the capital, I saw someone draw the likeness of Jetavana temple, but it was based on nothing at all. Because this incorrect information has spread, I have given a brief outline as above. Although I repeat my explanation of the temple’s appearance, I still worry that with regard to the actual fact of it there is still some confusion. Because of this I have drawn out this diagram, I hope it will make what I have witnessed not remain. If the emperor is petitioned to build based on this diagram, it would make the rule in China no different from that of Rājagṛha.114 “The capital” in this case would mean the city Chang’an, and this is indeed where Daoxuan worked during the latter part of his life. While Yijing does not mention Daoxuan by name (and it is possible that others could have drawn



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similar diagrams as well), the “likeness of Jetavana” likely refers to the abovementioned Illustrated Scripture of Jetavana, with its accompanying illustration, a text that could be seen as being “based on nothing at all,” or rather, nothing beyond Daoxuan’s religious visions. Nevertheless, we have to wonder if Yijing’s account of India ordination platforms had any effect on ordination procedures in China or anywhere else in East Asia. Ōchō asserts that “in general, all of the ordination platforms in China and Japan were all based on this [Daoxuan’s] text,”115 and so it is often thought that Yijing’s observations were disregarded in favor of the tradition already established before his time. For example, even today at ordinations held at Tōdaiji in Japan, five scrolls with the names of three Bodhisattva Bhikṣus (pusa biqiu 菩薩比丘) including the above-mentioned Luozhi (Jp. Roshi bosatsu biku 樓至菩薩比丘) in addition to Ganjin and Daoxuan are hung above the platform during ordination ceremonies at the ordination platform hall (Kaidan-in 戒壇院). This practice is described in the Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms, showing that, despite its idiosyncrasies, Daoxuan’s text remains influential to this day.116 While certainly such monks who made the painstaking journey from India to China and back were revered in their home land, the actual fact of Buddhism as it existed in India had little impact on how Chinese practiced Buddhism in their own land and how they understood India, the land from where Buddhism came, and the rest of the “western regions” as based on the semilegendary, idealized depictions found in Buddhist texts and other accounts. In the case of ordination platforms, aside from the fact that Daoxuan’s imagined Jetavana had the power of historical precedent over Yijing, his separate transmission, created outside the authority of the translated scriptures through an experience of “numinous spirits,” seems to have overshadowed Yijing’s own firsthand account. In short, while many factors were at play in the development of ordination platforms in China, among Buddhist practitioners it was Daoxuan’s visionary experience that won out over Yijing’s travel experience.

Summary and Conclusions Summary: A Chronology of the Development of Ordination Platforms from the Third to the Seventh Centuries To summarize the preceding evidence, we can offer a brief timeline of how ordination platforms developed in China between the third and the seventh centuries.

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In the Wei dynasty (third century), although Zanning’s Abbreviated History claims a platform was used by the monks *Dharmakāla and Tandi for their ordination in Luoyang, this is based on little evidence beyond the reported existence of a translated karman text. While the actual text they translated is no longer extant, reports from scripture catalogs indicate that such a text may have in fact existed as early as the Wei dynasty, and the biographies of *Dharmakāla and Tandi from the Biographies of Eminent Monks report that an ordination took place using them. If such a karman text did exist and these regulations were used to perform this ordination, a sīmā may well have been used, but the biographies of Dharmakāla and Tandi do not make explicit mention of a sīmā, much less a platform, and therefore we cannot be certain exactly how this ordination was performed or whether such a sīmā or platform-like structure was used. In the mid-fourth century, according to the Biographies of Buddhist Nuns, the nun Jingjian was ordained using a special structure—in this case a boat— to create a sīmā for ordination on a river. While this may be the earliest direct evidence for such a structure made for this purpose, it indicates that at this time period there was indeed an awareness that a special space was meant to be used to perform an ordination. Into the fifth century, the platform established by Guṇavarman at Nanlin temple, near Jiankang ca. 429 appears to be the earliest platform that was built specifically for ordinations that we have clear records of. This coincided with the explosion in translation of Vinaya texts at the beginning of the fifth century in Chang’an and Jiankan, but the relationship between these events is not immediately clear, though it would stand to reason that the translation of texts for ordination was done to conduct ordinations based on these texts. Also in the fifth century, a platform in Sanwu is mentioned by Zanning’s text, but few details can be gleaned from extant Buddhist historical texts, beyond that such a structure may have existed. For future research, as with *Dharmakāla’s platform, other sources such as local gazetteers (fangzhi 方志) may hold more concrete information about these structures. If Daoxuan’s claim about the fourth-century monk Fatai building an ordination platform at Waguang temple are true, it would mean that it predates the Nanlin temple platform by about a century, but like other examples, no record of constructing an ordination platform is found in Fatai’s biography in the Biographies of Eminent Monks. If we accept that the Bodhisattva Precepts text found in Dunhuang was copied by a monk from the same Waguang temple, and that the instructions in the text to create an ordination platform were actually carried out there, we might conjecture that there may have been a



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platform at Waguang temple in the early sixth century, but tracing it back to the fourth century is difficult with the evidence available. Jumping to the late seventh century, we see that Daoxuan was promoting the creation of and performance of ordinations on such platforms, but to what degree this should be considered a “movement,” as McRae calls it, that extended beyond Daoxuan is difficult to say. To determine the extent of the role platforms played in Buddhism of that time, the role of the central government in controlling the construction and use of ordination platforms needs to be examined more thoroughly, with reference to dynastic histories and nonBuddhists historical works, to the extent that they discuss the matter. Twenty or so years after Daoxuan passed away, Yijing returned to China from India with new firsthand information on the operation of Buddhist monasteries from “on the ground,” so to speak, and he criticized Daoxuan’s vision of Jetavana based on this experience, while providing more accurate information about ordination platforms in India. To what degree this actually had an impact on the practice and use of ordination platforms (if indeed it did at all), however, also needs to be examined. Beyond this, platforms continued to be used through the eighth century, likely influencing those built in Japan under Ganjin, and later into the Song dynasty, with the development of the so-called Vaipulya ordination platforms (fangdeng jietan 方等戒壇) and Mahayana ordination platforms (dasheng jietan 大乘戒壇) and indeed, up until the present era. Finally, there is little research on such platforms built in the Korean peninsula, though reference sources do mention a monk Chajang 慈藏 (seventh century) who built a Diamond ordination platform (Kr. Kŭmgang kyedan 金剛戒壇) at T’ongdosa 通 度寺,117 and the relation to this structure to those elsewhere could shed light on the development of Buddhism in Korea.

Conclusions From the above evidence, we can draw two main conclusions about ordination platforms. First, we can say that ordination platforms did not develop directly out of regulations found in Vinaya texts. We saw that although several different terms were used to describe the place where ordinations were carried out in the Vinaya texts translated into Chinese around the beginning of the fifth century, and terms such as jietan could reasonably be understood to indicate a platform, the regulations themselves do not clearly stipulate that a raised structure is needed for ordination. Rather, the texts surveyed describe a method for demarcating a piece of land as a sīmā for ordination, though

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a raised piece of land, or a man-made structure could theoretically be used for the same purpose. Second, although the discrepancy between what was written in translated Indian texts and the practice of using platforms for ordination in China from as early as the fourth century would lead us to assume that platforms were developed in China, I argue that the practice of using ordination platforms developed outside of China. Although there are no firsthand accounts of such platforms from India or Central Asia earlier than those found in Yijing’s works (the late seventh and early eighth century) in the sources surveyed here, platforms constructed as early as the fourth century were built with an awareness of the regulations found in Vinaya texts for demarcating a sīmā (e.g., on a platform in water, etc.), and that several of them were built with the involvement of monks who likely came from India or Central Asia. Thus, it is reasonable to suggest that the practice of building a platform as a sīmā for ordination developed as a common practice in India or Central Asia and was subsequentially introduced to China by Buddhists from those regions. With these two points in mind, we can say that the practice of using platforms developed extratextually, that is, without being stipulated in such canonical Vinaya texts. In other words, platforms became prevalent in China simply as a matter of conventional practice, first introduced by monks who learned the practice abroad. Despite this extratextuality, these platforms were still aware of and built based on the limits imposed in translated canonical Vinaya texts; platforms were, in a sense, an embellishment, or a practical means of creating and demarcating a sīmā for ordination and putting the stipulations of the Vinaya into practice. Because of this apparent conceptual and literary gap between the letter of the Vinaya and the convention of using ordination platforms, later in history Daoxuan and Yijing both sought to clarify how these platforms ought to be built. For Daoxuan, this discrepancy was addressed partly through revelatory experiences, showing to him that indeed such platforms were found in the Buddha’s time and were thus a legitimate practice to emphasize. For Yijing, on the other hand, this discrepancy was addressed by what we might describe today as anthropological knowledge, that is, knowledge that came from traveling to and studying the society that developed ordination practices. As an aside, the practice of addressing such gaps in knowledge between what was written can be seen as an example of the “ignorance-driven innovation” found in many places in Chinese Buddhism, as described in the recent work of Sangyop Lee.118 Thus we can understand the development of ordination platforms according to three factors. First, translated textual information from India and



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Central Asia provided the basic stipulations for how a sīmā was to be demarcated to conduct ordinations. Second, extratextual information coming from India or Central Asian Buddhists who practiced in China influenced the use of a platform as a sīmā for ordination, as opposed to, say, a bare piece of land. Third, information developed by Chinese Buddhists themselves was used to address the discrepancy between the doctrine and the practice, which helped to refine the understanding and use of these structures as they became an evermore important part of Chinese Buddhist practice. While ordination platforms were in a certain sense no more than structures used to perform a religious ceremony, understanding their development can help to understand many larger trends within the history of Buddhism in China. Moreover, the weight of the ritual performed on these platforms, where individuals affirmed their identity as Buddhists and put their commitment to Buddhism and its teaching on display, gave these spaces a special meaning and power, and with such potential to create power and meaning it is no wonder why, as Daoxuan says, “the flourishing of ordination platforms is important for the Buddha.”

Notes 1.  Although this clearly refers to what is more commonly known as the “bodhi tree” that Śaykamuni Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment under, this particular expression, likely used for poetic effect, could either be referring to the story of Brahma coming to the Buddha to implore him to teach the Dharma, or may simply be meant to imply an “Indian” tree. 2.  Caoxi 曹溪 is a river in Shaozhou 韶州 China (modern-day Guandong/ Canton) and is also an epithet referring to where the monk Huineng 慧能, the Sixth Patriarch of the Chan school and main character of the Platform Sutra, lived. 3.  Donald Sturgeon, ed., “Chinese Text Project,” Quan Tang Shi 全唐詩, scroll 569, http://ctext.org/text.pl?node=221187. 4.  I.e., the so-called Brahma’s Net Sūtra. This translation of the title is adapted from a new work by Funayama Tōru 船山徹, Higashi ajia bukkyō no seikatsu kisoku bonmōkyō: saiko no katachi to hatten no rekishi 東アジア仏教の生活規 則 梵網経 最古の形と発展の歴史 [The scripture of the pure divinities’ netted [banners] (fanwang jing), a Mahāyāna code for daily life in East Asian Buddhism] (Kyoto: Rinsen shoten, 2017). 5.  For more information on Saichō and his ordination platform, see part 2 of Paul Groner, Saichō: The Establishment of the Japanese Tendai School (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2000).

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6.  See Inagi Yoshikazu 稲木吉一, “Tōshōdaiji ni okeru kaidan no sōsetu mondai ni tsuite 唐招提寺における戒壇の創設問題について,” Bijutsushi kenkyū 美術史研究 22, no. 3 (1985): pp. 105–120 for information on the history of this structure. 7.  The above was related to the author by Mr. Nishiyama Akinori 西山明範, vice abbot (shitsuji 執事) of Denkōji 伝香寺 temple during a visit to Tōshōdaiji on June 5, 2017. Although Vinaya texts allow for a smaller quorum of five (three preceptors and two witnesses) in the “borderlands,” in Nara, ten appears to have been standard, perhaps indicating that for Japanese Buddhists, their capital was central and should not be considered a “borderland.” 8.  Liuzu tanjing 六祖壇經 (Dunhuang version, T2007):「 惠能大師於大梵寺 講堂中，昇高座，說摩訶般若波羅蜜法，受無相戒。」 (T48, p. 337, a9–10): “In the lecture hall of Dafan temple, Master Huineng ascended to the high seat, spoke the teaching of the Mahāprajñāpāramitā, and then received the formless precepts.” It should be noted that while this passage is found in the transcription of an older version of the text from Dunhuang contained in the Taishō canon (T2007), it is not found in a later version of the text (T2008), based on an edition from the Ming dynasty. See: T 48, p. 347, c26. Please note that the passages from the Taishō shinshū daizōkyō 大正新脩大蔵経 (abbreviated as T) are taken from the Chinese Buddhist Electronic Text Association (CBETA) version, http://cbetaonline.dila.edu.tw, accessed between March 19 and April 12, 2017. The bibliography to this book lists the cited works according to the order in the Taishō shinshū daizōkyō. 9.  Paul Groner has analyzed the role of precepts and ordination in this text in his “Ordination and Precepts in the Platform Sūtra,” in Readings of the Platform Sūtra, ed. Morten Schlütter and Stephen F. Teiser (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), pp. 134–160. More recently, two articles by Pei-ying Lin, “The Doctrinal Evolution of Formless Precepts in the Early Chan Tradition: The Theory of Mind Purification in the Laṅkāvatāra Sūtra and the Brahmā’s Net Sūtra” and Morten Schlütter, “The Transformation of the Formless Precepts in the Platform Sūtra (Liuzu tanjing 六祖壇經),” have discussed the role of the so-called “formless precepts”; see the essays in Susan Andrews, Jinhua Chen, and Cuilan Liu, eds., Rules of Engagement: Medieval Traditions of Buddhist Monastic Regulation, Hamburg Buddhist Studies 9 (Bochum: Projek Verlag, 2017). 10.  Guanzhong 關中 was the name of a region that included the capital, Chang’an, and is where Daoxuan worked during the latter years of his life. 11.  Guanzhong chuangli jietan tujing 關中創立戒壇圖經: T45, p. 814, a10–12. A similar expression appears elsewhere in Daoxuan’s works, i.e., the Lüxiang gantong zhuan 律相感通傳 (T45, p. 881, b18–19), and Daoxuan lüshi gantong lu



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道宣律師感通錄 (T52, p. 441, c8–9), both compiled at nearly the same time. For more information on this passage, see Huaiyu Chen, “The Revival of Buddhist Monasticism in Medieval China” (PhD diss., Princeton University, 2005), pp. 121–122. 12.  The reference to the “south of the River” (jiangbiao 江表) seems to be a reference to the persecutions of Buddhism that happened principally in northern China during the reigns of Emperor Taiwu 太武帝 of the Northern Wei 北魏 in 446, and another Emperor Wu 武帝 of the Northern Zhou 北周 in 574 and 577. 13.  Lüxiang gantong zhuan 律相感通傳: T45, p. 881, a29. 14.  Ōchō Enichi 横超慧日, “Kaidan ni tsuite 戒壇について,” in Chūgoku Bukkyō no kenkyū 中国佛教の研究, vol. 3 (Kyoto: Hōzōkan, 1979), pp. 1–74. Hirakawa Akira 平川彰, “Kaidan no gen’i 戒壇の原意 [Original interpretation of upasaṃpadā-sīmā-maṇḍala],” Indogaku bukkyōgaku Kenkyū 印度學佛教學 研究 10, no. 2 (1962): p. 689; and Genshi bukkyō no kenkyū: Kyōdan soshiki no genkei 原始仏教の研究 : 教団組織の原型 (Tokyo: Shunjunsha, 1964), esp. ch. 3, § 8: Sōgya seiritu no ninzu to kaidan 僧伽成立の人数と戒壇. Miyabayashi Akihiko 宮林昭彦, “Chūgoku bukkyō ni okeru kaidan ni tsuite 中国仏教におけ る戒壇について” [The ordination platform (upasaṃpadā-sīmā-maṇḍala) in Chinese Buddhism], Taishō daigaku kenkyū kiyō: bungaku bu bukkyōgaku bu 大 正大學研究紀要. 文學部・佛教學部 56 (1971), and Miyabayashi Akihiko 宮 林昭彦, “Kaidan ni tsuite 戒壇について,” in Sanzang 三蔵 88, Ritsubu no. 22 律 部第22巻 (1975). 15.  John R. McRae, “Daoxuan’s Vision of Jetavana, The Ordination Platform Movement in Medieval Chinese Buddhism,” in Going Forth: Visions of Buddhist Vinaya, ed. William Bodiford (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2005), pp. 68–100. Tōru Funayama, “Guṇavarman and Some of the Earliest Examples of Ordination Platforms (Jietan) in China,” in Images, Relics, and Legends: The Formation and Transformation of Buddhist Sacred Sites, ed. Jinhua Chen, James A. Benn, and James Robson (Oakville: Mosaic Press, 2012), pp. 21–45. Huaiyu Chen, “The Revival of Buddhist Monasticism,” pp. 121–122. 16.  Zhihui Tan, “Daoxuan’s Vision of Jetavana—Imagining a Utopian Monastery in Early Tang” (PhD diss., University of Arizona, 2002). 17.  In addition to the above-mentioned sources, since the original draft of this chapter, the article by Ghichul Jung, “Natural Land Is Too Weak to Sustain the Great Dharma: Daoxuan’s Commentary on the Sīmā and Medieval Chinese Monasticism,” was published in the Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 42 (2019): pp. 265–314, in which the author contributes a great deal to our understanding of how Daoxuan understood sīmās, including the sīmā used for ordination discussed here, but acknowledges that “We have yet to explore

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the degree to which Daoxuan’s model was accepted before the eleventh century” (302), a point this article attempts to address. Still, there remains room for discussion about the circumstances in the period between the seventh century, where the evidence for this article ends, and evidence from the eleventh century that Jung discusses. 18.  Itō Chūta 伊東忠太, Tōyō kenchiku no kenkyū 東洋建築の研究 (Hara Shobō 原書房, 1982). Murata Jirō 村田治郎, “Kaidan shōkō 戒壇少考,” Bukkyō Geijutsu 佛教藝術 (Ars Buddhica) 50 (1962): pp. 1–16. See also Inagi Yoshikazu, “Tōshōdaiji ni okeru kaidan.” 19.  「戒壇が部派仏教時代に行われていたことは疑いない。しかしさ かのぼって原始仏教時代においても、すでに行われていたか否かは断定 できない。」Hirakawa Akira, “Kaidan no gen’i,” p. 689. 20.  McRae, “Daoxuan’s Vision of Jetavana, p. 84, commenting on Ōchō, “Kaidan ni tsuite,” pp. 22–27. The assertions of McRae and Hirakawa, however, need to be qualified. Though he used the term kaidan 戒壇, which I have translated as “ordination platform,” Hirakawa is discussing a general meaning of the space for performing ordinations in this context and is in fact suggesting that there is little evidence to trace this practice as far back as the Buddha’s time. McRae’s question, on the other hand, is not whether there was a space used for ordinations outside China, but whether special structures were used for ordination, or whether this is entirely a development within China itself. 21.  Hirakawa, “Kaidan no gen’i,” pp. 285–286. 22.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Rules for the Sīmā Regulation in the Vinaya and its Commentaries and their Application in Thailand,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 20, no. 2 (1997): p. 141. 23.  Hirakawa, “Kaidan no gen’i,” pp. 278–279, and Hirakawa, Genshi bukkyō no kenkyū, p. 372. See also Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā. Vorschriften zur Regelung der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze in älteren buddhistischen Texten, Monographien zur indischen Archäologie, Kunst und Philologie, 8 (Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 1992). 24.  This is one of several procedures used to make decisions by the Buddhist saṃgha. First, a proposal (bai 白) of what is to be decided on (in this case, the area for conducting ordination) is made, which is followed by a vote by the other members of the saṃgha present, in which the proposal is accepted if the members remain. 25.  There is some evidence that Guṇavarman, and the platform at Nanlin temple, was based on the Dharmaguptaka tradition. See Funayama, “Guṇavarman and Some of the Earliest Examples,” pp. 21–23, as well as Ann Heirman, “Can We Trace the Early Dharmaguptakas?,” T’oung Pao 88 (2002): p. 410, and



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“Vinaya: From India to China,” in The Spread of Buddhism, ed. Ann Heirman and Stephan Peter Bumbacher (Leiden: Brill, 2007), p. 194. 26.  The term I have translated as “demarcate” could more literally be translated as “bind” (jie 結) and is likely a translation of a term related to the Sanskrit verbal root bandh- “to bind” (indeed, the English word “bind” is related this root), such as sīmā-bandha (Pāli: sīmāṃ bandhati) (jiejie 結界), literally “binding the boundary.” 27.  Sifen lü 四分律: T22, p. 819, c1–13. 28.  Wufen lü 五分律: T22, p. 112, a18–22. 29.  Shisong lü 十誦律: T23, p. 155, c18–19. 30.  Mohesengqie lü 摩訶僧祇律: T22, p. 356, b10. 31.  The above is a summary of points made by Hirakawa, “Kaidan no gen’i,” pp. 281–283, as well as in his Genshi bukkyō no kenkyū, pp. 372–375. 32.  See Shayne Clarke, “Vinayas,” in Brill’s Encyclopedia of Buddhism, vol. I, Literatures and Languages, ed. Jonathan Silk, O. v. Hinüber, V. Eltschinger (Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 60–87. 33.  See Oskar von Hinüber, A Handbook of Pāli Literature, Indian Philology and South Asian Studies, vol. 2 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), §209, for questions of the authorship of the Pāli version of this text. See J. Takakusu, “Pāli Elements in Chinese Buddhism: A Translation of Buddhaghosa’s Samanta-Pāsādikā, a Commentary on the Vinaya, Found in the Chinese Tripiṭaka,” The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland (July 1896): pp. 415–439, for comments on the relationship between this text and the Chinese translation. 34.  Shanjian lü piposha 善見律毘婆沙: T24, no. 1462, p. 682, a7–9. Cf. P. V. Bapat and Hirakawa Akira’s translation, Shan-chien-p’i-p’o-sha: A Chinese Version by Saṅghabhadra of Samantapāsādikā, Commentary on Pali Vinaya (Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, 1970), p. 33: “At this time, Mahinda had already completed twenty years [of his life] and so he was initiated. At the altar (sīmā-maṇḍala) he attained the discerning lores (vijjā) and the six high powers and became an Arhat after having destroyed the depravities.” Note that what Bapat and Hirakawa have translated as “discerning lores” is not the term vijjā, but rather paṭisamibhidā. 35.  Two Sinhalese editions have upasampada-maṇḍale, “in the maṇḍala of ordination,” while three Burmese editions have a variant spelling upasampadasīma-maṇḍale, “in the maṇḍala of the sīma for ordination.” 36.  Sp I p. 51. Cf. N. A. Jayawickrama, The Inception of Discipline and the Vinaya Nidāna: Being a Translation and Edition of the Bāhiranidāna of Buddhaghosa’s Samantapāsādikā (London: Luzac & Co., 1962), §52, text p. 173, trans. p. 46: “At that time, it is said, the Prince had completed his twentieth year.

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Even within the precincts of the sīmā for the higher ordination, he attained arhatship gaining the fourfold analytic insight.” 37.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “The Meaning of Māḷa(ka)/māla(ka) in Pāli,” in Langue, style, et structure dans le monde Indian, centenaire de Louis Renou. Actes du colloque international (Paris, 25–27 janvier 1996), ed. Nalini Balbir, Georges-Jean Pinault, and Jean Fezas (Paris: University de Paris, 1996), pp. 306ff, §16, and n. 122. 38.  E.g., Da song shi lue 大宋僧史略:「詳其曼荼羅 . . . 墠場壇不同，皆是 西域曼荼羅也。」(T54, p. 238, b11) “Specifically, [regarding] this maṇḍala . . . a shanchang 墠場 [a flat, swept piece of ground] and a tan 壇 [a platform] are not the same, but in the western regions these are all called maṇḍala.” Also, the Sifen lü shu shizong yiji 四分律疏飾宗義記, a Tang dynasty Vinaya subcommentary by Dingbing 定賓 criticizing Huaisu 懷素 and the Dongta 東塔 Vinaya school’s position: 本梵音云曼荼羅，譯為壇場，或云屈達里迦四磨、譯為小界。 “Originally in Sanskrit it is called a maṇḍala, this is translated as an area with a platform (jiechang 壇場), or it is also called a khuḍḍalika sīmā (qudarijia simo 屈達里迦四 磨), this is translated as a small bounded space (xiaojie 小界).” (X42, p. 248, a2–5. The reference X is to the Xuzangjing 續藏經, CBETA version, found at http:// cbetaonline.dila.edu.tw, last accessed July 2017.) In a personal communication from June 6, 2019, with Petra Kieffer-Pülz, she remarks that calling such a space a maṇḍala was “only in the Mūlasarvāstivāda tradition” and thus we might guess that Dingbing learned this from Yijing’s translation of the Mūlasarvāstivāda Vinaya texts, though there may be evidence for this view that precedes Dingbing or Yijing. 39.  “The monks who will enter the prepared site for the ritual (maṇḍalaka) must also be requested”; see Gregory Schopen, “Making Men into Monks,” in Buddhist Nuns, Monks, and Other Worldly Matters: Recent Papers on Monastic Buddhism in India (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2014), p. 176. While this text, the Pravrajayāvastu (Chapter on Leaving the Home [to become a monk]) of the Mūlasarvāstivāda-vinaya was also translated into Chinese by Yijing in the seventh century as the Genben shuo yiqie youbu piniye chujia shi 根本説一切有 部毘奈耶出家事, a passage corresponding to this one could not be identified. 40.  Schopen, “Making Men,” n. 1. Schopen argues that monks were “meant to pay reverence to the Buddha as if he was actually present,” and “although it is never explicitly stated, these acts of reverence were almost certainly directed toward his stūpa or image.” 41.  T. W. Rhys Davids and William Stede, eds., Pali-English Dictionary (Pali Text Society, 1925), s.v. 42.  tadā Saṃghamittā aṭṭhārasa vassāni hoti. taṃ pabbajitamattaṃ tasmiṃ yeva sīmāmaṇḍale sikkhāya patiṭṭhā-pesuṃ. “At that time Saṃghamittā was eighteen years of age. At the time they established [her] who merely had gone



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forth, in the training (sikkhā) just there in the sīmāmaṇḍala.” (Sp I, p. 52, cf. Jayawickrama, The Inception of Discipline, p. 46. Thanks to Petra Kieffer-Pülz for helping to improve this translation.) As with the above passage, Burmese editions have sīma-maṇḍale, but no editions use upasampada-* here. The corresponding passage in Saṇghabhadra’s Chinese translation, Shanjian lü piposha 善見律毘婆沙 gives 「僧伽蜜多，阿闍梨名阿由波羅，和尚名曇摩波羅。是時僧伽蜜多 年十八歲，度令出家，於戒壇中即與六法。」(T24, p. 682, a9–12), “Saṃghamittā’s ācārya was named Āyupāli and her upadhyāya was named Dhammapāli. At that time, Saṃghamittā was eighteen years of age and was allowed to leave home. At the precept platform she was given the six-dhammas (六法).” (cf. Bapat and Hirakawa, trans. Shan-chien-p’ip’o-sha, p. 33). Petra Kieffer-Pülz points out in a personal communication from June 6, 2019, that the context for this story is that “since she was only 18 she was not allowed to be ordained yet (only from 20 years of age onwards), but a female has to undergo the sikkhamāna period for two years, thus she had been a novice (pabbajita), and is now entering the sikkhamāna period of two years,” and thus does not refer to full ordination but novice ordination, which does not require a full sīmā. 43.  Bapat and Hirakawa, trans., Shan-chien-p’i-p’o-sha, p. 168, § 46; trans. p. 40. 44.  Da song seng shi lue: T54, no. 2126, p. 238, b6–8. 45.  The asterisk signifies that this name is reconstructed and not attested in Sanskrit sources. 46.  This reconstruction comes from both the Chinese transliteration of this individual’s name and a gloss on the name given in his biography: 「曇柯迦羅、此云 法時。」 “Tanke jialuo, here [in China] would be called ‘law-time’ ” (T50, p. 324, c15). One likely back-translation of the expression “law-time” (fashi 法時) would be dharma (law, fa 法) kāla (time, shi 時), which also corresponds to the Chinese transliteration. The asterisk is used to indicate that it is, nevertheless, a reconstruction. 47.  While the meaning is not clear from this context, zhaichan 齋懺 “purity and repentance” may have indicated a chanhui 懺悔 “confession and repentance” ceremony that took place at “pure gatherings” jaihui 齋會, Buddhist events that would likely have also included lay people at certain times of the month. See Huijiao 慧皎, Kōsō den 高僧伝, trans. Yoshikawa Tadao 吉川忠夫 and Funayama Tōru 船山徹 (Iwanami Bunkō, 2009), p. 60, n. 3. 48.  The version of this account in the Lidai sanbao ji 歷代三寶紀 (T49, p. 56, b17–18) includes the character tong 同 “the same” (事同祠祀 “the event was the same as a [traditional Chinese] festival”), and the text in brackets reflects this amendment.

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49.  T50, p. 324, c29–p. 325, a5. Three notes from the Taishō edition have been omitted from the above. 50.  This has been suggested by Heirman, “Can We Trace the Early Dharmaguptakas?,” p. 403, and others, but owing to the uncertainty of this reconstruction, this name has been kept in Chinese in this case. 51.  The character yi 譯 “to translate,” found in the Song, Yuan, and Ming editions was included for clarity. 52.  T50, p. 325, a8–9. 53.  In Yuanzhao’s 元照 Sifen lü hangzhu jieben shu xing song ji 四分律含注戒 本疏行宗記, a Song dynasty commentary on one of Daoxuan’s commentaries on the prātimokṣa, the Jieben shu 戒本疏 asserts that “In the biography of [*Dharma]kāla, it says ‘A foreign monk was invited to translate the karman,’ and this refers to [Tan]di.” (迦羅傳云：「請胡僧出羯磨」者即指諦也) (X39, p. 729, a24), while in Dingbing’s 定賓 Sifen lü shu shizong yiji 四分律疏飾宗義記, a Tang dynasty commentary on Fali’s 法礪 Sifen lü shu 四分律疏, this event is described as follows: (有中天竺沙門曇摩迦羅。 . . . 於雒陽更集梵僧，以羯磨法，與大僧重 更受戒，准用十僧，并翻《僧祇戒本》一卷。又安息國沙門曇諦， 亦善律學，出《曇無德羯磨》以用受戒之由。) (X42, p. 35, b23–c11, notes omitted). “A Śramana from middle-India named *Dharmakāla . . . assembled a group of monks from India in Luoyang, and using the karman procedure, they retook the precepts with the senior monks, and with [these] ten monks, also translated the one scroll of the Sengqie jieben. Furthermore, the Parthian Śramana Tandi 曇諦 (*Dharmasatya), who was also wellversed in the vinaya, produced the Tanwude jiemo 曇無德羯磨 (“Dharmaguptaka Karman”), and this was used to conduct the ordinations. 54.  Hirakawa Akira 平川彰, Ritsuzō no kenkyū 律蔵の研究 (Tokyo: Shunjūsha, 1960), p. 204–205. Heirman also supports the conclusion that the texts we have now were compiled after the Sifen lü was translated, but she elaborates on how they differ from the Sifen lü and must have been more than simply extracts of the Sifen lü. See Heirman, “Can We Trace the Early Dharmaguptakas?,” p. 407. While it is clear that these two texts were based on the text of the translated Sifen lü, the question remains by what process these texts were amended and to what extent the emendations were based on information coming from Indic sources or based on indigenous (i.e., Chinese) ideas. 55.  Zhongjing mulu 眾經目錄: T55, no. 2146, p. 140, b13. 56.  Lidai sanbao ji: T49, p. 56c2–7:「初出見竺道祖魏世錄 . . . 於洛陽白 馬寺出僧祇戒心」Here the title of *Dharmakāla’s text is given as Wei sengqie jieben 魏僧祇戒本 (Prātimokṣa for the saṃgha of the Wei) as opposed to Sengqie



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jiexin 僧祇戒心 (The heart of the precepts of the saṃgha) as found in the Gaoseng Zhuan and the Da song lue shi above. 57.  This is a provisional translation; there are other possible interpretations of this, for example “The Heart of the Precepts of the [Mahā]saṃghi[ka].” 58.  Jiemo 羯磨, T22, p. 1051, c18–p. 1052, a13: 「結戒場羯磨文. . . . . . 」 59.  Miyabayashi, on the other hand, argues that because the *Dharmakāla and Tandi ordinations were conducted with only a limited knowledge of the precepts, the participants would not have known how to construct or demarcate a sīmā or ordination platform, but we assert that it was indeed possible that such participants would have known to make a sīmā to conduct an ordination, based on the purported existence of such a karman text. See Ōchō, “Kaidan ni tsuite,” p. 412. 60.  The dates for Jingjian are based on the final line of her biography: “At the end of the Sheng-ping era (361), . . . she was seventy years old.” (到升平未。. . . . . . 時 年七十矣。) (T50, p. 935, a1–5); an emendation from the Song, Yuan, and Ming editions, however, gives the date as “the end of the Xiankang 咸康 era,” corresponding to the year 342. This date is problematic as it would place her death before the date of her own ordination ceremony, so provisionally, the death date of 361 is accepted. 61.  The Song, Yuan, and Ming editions of this text indicate that this temple was in Luoyang. 62.  The Song, Yuan, and Ming editions give the character sheng 升 as xing 興, indicating not the Shengping era, but the Xingping era. While there is in fact a Xingping 興平 era in Chinese history, it corresponds to the years 194–195, during the Later Han dynasty. While Buddhism did indeed exist in China during this period, other dates mentioned in this biography, such as the Yongjia 永嘉 period (307–312), clearly place this biography in the Jing dynasty, thus the character Sheng is kept. 63.  The amendment from the Song Yuan and Ming editions of “translated at Luoyang” (於洛陽譯出) instead of “Luoyang asked” 洛陽請 was used. 64.  The Song, Yuan, and Ming editions have the amendment zhi 止 “to stop/ to wait” for shang 上 “above/to alight” here. 65.  You 有 “to have” is omitted from the Song, Yuan, and Ming editions but is kept here from the Koryo edition. 66.  Biqiuni zhuan 比丘尼傳: T50, p. 934, c23–27. 67.  According to the Lidai sanbao ji, this appears to refer to a specific text, called “Pinaiye” (Vinaya) in ten scrolls (鼻柰耶經一十卷 [或云戒因緣經]) (T49, p. 77, a16). This text seems to correspond to the extant Binaiye 鼻奈耶 in ten scrolls (T24, no. 1464), translated by Zhu Fonian 竺佛念, but no reference to “platforms” could be found in this text. 68.  A river in Shandong Province. 69.  The number four given here seems to refer to the number of nuns who received ordination, not the number of total people on the ordination platform.

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Although the quorum of preceptors and witnesses used may have been smaller than the normal proceedings, since Vinaya texts stipulate that only five people, not ten, are necessary for ordination in “borderlands” outside the main centers of population, they still stipulate that only three people can be ordained at once, thus calling into question the regulations by which this ceremony was conducted. Thanks to Petra Kieffer-Pülz for pointing this out. 70.  See Toru Funayama, “Guṇavarman and Some of the Earliest Examples,” pp. 26–27. In addition to the sources he mentions, using a boat for ordination is mentioned in Daoxuan’s Jietan tujing 戒壇圖經 (T45, p. 817, c26–29). 71.  There is some ambiguity regarding the exact year. See Toru Funayama, “Guṇavarman and Some of the Earliest Examples,” p. 27. 72.  The expression “Eastern Xia” (dongxia 東夏) does not refer to a specific era or region, but to the idea that China (here called xia 夏) was to the east of India. 73.  Here I read 楊 as 揚, as this passage seems to clearly be referring to the capital Jiankang 健康, where Guṇavarman is known to have worked, in a region known as Yang 揚 or Yangzhou 揚州. The terms Yue 越 and Nanhai 南海 seem to be referring to locations in China during the Southern Dynasties period, and while Yue 越, or Yuezhou 越州, is not specifically mentioned in Guṇavarman’s biography in the Gaoseng zhuan, it does mention Emperor Wendi dispatching monks to order the regional inspector (cishi 刺史) of Jiaozhou 交州 (the region neighboring Yuezhou to the south) to have Guṇabhadra sent to the capital, only to find out Guṇabhadra had already arrived in the Guangzhou 廣州(Yuezhou to the east) region by boat and was in Nanhai 南海. See Gaoseng zhuan 高僧傳 Qunabamo zhuan 求那跋摩傳 (T50, p. 340, c2–11). 74.  Jietan tujing 戒壇圖經 (T45, p. 812, b21–26). 75.  As mentioned in the passage, found in the Gaoseng zhuan 高僧傳 (T50, p. 341, b18–21), as well as the Chu sanzang jiji 出三藏記集 (T55, p. 104, b1–c4), as well as several other works. In addition to the above work by Funayama in the volume Images, Relics, and Legends, this history is outlined in two contributions by Ann Heirman, “Some Remarks on the Rise of the Bhikṣunīsaṃgha and on the Ordination Ceremony for Bhikṣunīs according to the Dharmaguptaka Vinaya,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 20, no. 2 (1997): 33–85; and “Chinese Nuns and Their Ordination in Fifth Century China,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 24, no. 2 (2001): 275–304. 76.  Gaoseng zhuan:「於南林戒壇前，依外國法闍毘之。」(T50, p. 341, b18–19). 77.  Gaoseng zhuan: T50, p. 342, b11–c7. 78.  Da song seng shi lue: T54, p. 238, b14–15. Sanwu 三呉 may have referred to an area near the city Kuaiji 會稽, south of Jiankang, but this term has historically



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referred to different places. See Zang Lihe 臧励和, ed., Zhongguo gujin chiming dacidian 中國古今地名大辭典 (Hongkong: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1933), s.v. 79.  Chu sanzang jiji, T55, p. 90, a29. The brackets here indicate that the Koryo edition gives the date as the Chengming 承明 era, while editions from the Song, Yuan, and Ming dynasty give the Yongming 永明 era. Chengming was an era name used during the Northern Wei dynasty, corresponding to the year 476, while the Yongming era corresponds to the years 483–493 during the Southern Qi dynasty. Because the Sanwu region was in the south, Yongming is taken to be correct, which also corroborates Zanning’s account. 80.  Chu sanzang jiji: T55, p. 88, c26. 81.  Chu sanzang jiji: T55, p. 104, b29. 82.  Yu Prefecture 渝州 was located in southwestern China, in the area around modern-day Chongqing. “Below Yu Prefecture” would then seem to indicate “to the east of” or possibly “downstream from” Yu Prefecture. 83.  Lüxiang gantong zhuan 律相感通傳: T45, p. 881, a29–b28. 84.  Waguang temple, so named for originally being the location of a ceramics maker and also known for having housed Zhiyi of Tiantai for several years, was in Jiankang, in Yang 揚 Province, so I take 楊 to be a misprint for 揚. Jietan tujing 戒壇圖經, T45, p. 813, b29–p. 814, a2. 85.  Gaoseng zhuan: T50, p. 354, b29–p. 355, a17. 86.  Gaoseng zhuan: T50, p. 351, c27. 87.  Gaoseng zhuan: T50, p. 355, a3. 88.  A printed edition of this text can be found in Tsuchihashi Shūkō 土橋秀 高, Kairitsu no Kenkyū 戒律の研究 (Nagata Bunshōdo, 1980), pp. 832–886. The same can be found in Tsuchihashi Shūkō, “Perio bon shukkejin jū bosatsukaihō ni tsuite ペリオ本『出家人受菩薩戒法』について,” in Bukkyō bunken no Kenkyū: Satō kyōju teinen kinen 佛教文献の研究 : 佐藤教授停年記念, ed. Ryūkoku daigaku bukkyou gakkai 龍谷大学仏教学会 (Kyoto: Hyakkaen, 1968), pp. 93–148. References in the following will refer to the 1968 version. 89.  Although sandan 散誕 can mean something like “free and unfettered,” the meaning here is difficult to determine. While the Chinese indicates that it may be a transliteration for an Indic word meaning “made in a circle,” a corresponding Sanskrit term could not be found. 90.  Tsuchihashi, “Perio bon,” p. 112, ln113. 91.  Tsuchihashi, “Perio bon,” p. 148, ln5. 92.  Gaoseng zhuan: T50, p. 400, b4–c10, Xu gaoseng zhuan 續高僧傳: T50, pp. 700, c23–p. 701, a16. 93.  In addition to the drawings of ordination platforms in classical texts that depict them as being square or rectangular, such as the diagram found in the

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“Chapter on methods for demarcating areas” (jiejie fangfa pian 結界方法篇) in Daoxuan’s the Sifen lü xingshichao 四分律行事鈔 (T40, p. 16, a13), to which Hirakawa gives an explanation of in his Genshi bukkyō no kenkyū, pp. 380–382, real-life examples such as the platform at Tōshōdaiji illustrated above, are also square or rectangular. In McRae’s article “Daoxuan’s Vision of Jetavana,” 80, however, he describes the construction of platforms in Daoxuan’s text, writing “the top of the platform is trapezoidal (cefang 畟方),” upon which his drawing on the following page appears to be based. Beyond this, the term cefang does not mean “trapezoidal” but means “square” as mentioned in dictionaries and other sources such as Huilin’s 慧琳 Yiqiejing yinyi 一切經音義:「畟方〈上初色反、 正畟、四面齊等也〉」 (T54, p. 581, a) “Cefang: . . . the four faces are equal.” This term is also used in this sense in translated passages of Vasubandhu’s Abhidharma-kośa. In Xuanzang’s 玄奘 translation we find: 偈頌「北倶盧畟方、面各二千等」(T29, p. 57, c) 釋「北倶盧洲、形如方座、四邊量等、面各二千、. . . . . . 」(T29, p. 58, a) “Verse: Northern Kuru is square (cefang 畟方), each side is evenly two thousand [Yojanas]. Commentary: As for the northern part of the land of the Kurus [i.e., northern India], its shape is like a square surface, and each of the four sides is even, with each two thousand [Yojanas].” Paramārtha’s translation of this passage can be found at T29, 215a, and in the Sanskrit of the Kośa at Ch. III, vs. 55d. The author would like to thank Professor Funayama Tōru at Kyoto University for pointing out this issue and for finding the above passages. 94.  See “Xinjian faxian daxing taiyuan saitan yizhi” 新疆发现大型太阳祭 坛遗址, Zhongguo Shehui Kexueyuan Kaogu Yianjiusuo 中国社会科学院考古 研究所, 2017, http://kaogu.net.cn/cn/xccz/20170623/58656.html; and Sarah Gibbens, “300-Foot-Wide Ancient Altar Excavated in China,” National Geographic, 2017, http://news.nationalgeographic.com/2017/06/xinjiang-sun-altar-ancient-china -archaeology-spd/. The assertion made in these sources that this site was somehow related to “sun worship” is speculative at best, as is the implication that such a discovery was unique, as similar sites can be found elsewhere in China and Central Asia. 95.  A name Yijing translates as “the magnificent abode of the venerable spirit-dragon” (jixiang shenlong dazhuchu 吉祥神龍大住處). 96.  Here the while the verb dei 疊 “to stack” is found in the Song 宋, Yuan 元, Ming 明, and Imperial Household (Jp. kunaishō 宮内省, abbreviated 宮) editions, the noun lei 壘 “rampart” has been kept as this corresponds with the citation in the passage cited below.



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97.  The Imperial Household edition uses the character tan 壇 “platform” instead of qiang 牆 “wall,” here, and the phrase could alternatively be translated as “a brick platform that is maybe two chi (~62 cm) high,” but then the following sentence describing the configuration of a “place to sit” would be difficult to explain. 98.  Da tang xiyu qiufa gaoseng zhuan 大唐西域求法高僧傳, T51, p. 6, b9–16. Cf. Latika Lahiri, trans., Chinese Monks in India: Biography of Eminent Monks Who Went to the Western World in Search of the Law during the Great Tʻang Dynasty (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1986); and Funayama, “Guṇavarman and Some of the Earliest Examples,” p. 31. 99.  As Yijing describes in his Nanhai jigui neifa zhuan 南海寄歸內法傳, in a section about morning bathroom habits and toothbrushes: 「其齒木者，梵云：「憚哆家瑟詑」。「憚哆」譯之為齒。「家瑟 詑」即是其木。長十二指，短不減八指，大如小指。一頭緩，須熟 嚼，良久淨刷牙關 . . . 豈容不識齒木名作楊枝？西國柳樹全稀，譯者 輒傳斯號，佛齒木樹實非楊柳，那爛陀寺目自親觀。(T54, p. 208, c) “This tooth-wood, in Sanskrit is called a danta-kāṣṭha. Danta is translated as ‘tooth.’ Kāṣṭha is [the name of] this tree. It is twelve fingers in length, no shorter than eight fingers, and about the size of a little finger. One end is softer, but you must chew it to soften it, [and if you do] it will clean between your teeth for a good long time. . . . How could you not know what tooth-wood is and give it the name ‘willow branch’? In the western countries (i.e., India) willow trees are extremely rare. Although the translators have simply passed this designation on, the Buddha’s tooth[brush] tree is in fact not a willow, and in Nālanda temple, I saw it with my own eyes.” 100.  A chi 尺 is a unit of length, approximately 31 centimeters, while a dachi 大 尺 (a “great chi”) was a unit of length equal to 1.2 chi, so approximately 37 centimeters. There are ten chi in a zhang 丈, so one zhang is approximately 3.1 meters, making the total length approximately 3.5 meters “and then some.” Is unclear how Yijing came to these measurements, though it is possible that he had access to some sort of measuring device, or is simply estimating. For more information about the Chinese system of measurements, see Endymion Wilkinson, Chinese History: A New Manual, 4th ed. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Asia Center, 2015), pp. 552–554. 101.  A sun 寸 was a tenth of a chi, approximately three centimeters. 102.  A caitya, which is transliterated into Chinese as zhidi 制底, is a stūpalike structure. There is some ambiguity between the terms caitya and stūpa, though caitya seem to be typically smaller and found as within other buildings, rather than independent structures.

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103.  This diagram is found at T40, p. 16, a. An explanation of this diagram can be found in Hirakawa, Genshi bukkyō no kenkyū, p. 381. 104.  Genben shuo yiqie youbu baiyi jiemo 根本説一切有部百一羯磨: T24, p. 457, b26–29. 105.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz mentions that the detail “that the place should be on a quiet side of the monastery accords with the description of a khaṇḍa-sīmā in the Samantapāsādikā.” (Private communication, June 6, 2019.) 106.  Genben shuo yiqie youbu baiyi jiemo. 107.  The Taishō text has the character jiè 藉 (mat), though this seems to be a mistake for the character jí 籍 (book), and I (and Tan as well) have translated it as such. 108.  Zhong tianzhu sheweiguo zhihuan si tujing 中天竺舍衛國祇洹寺圖經: T45, p. 883, a19–24. See also Tan, “Imagining a Utopian Monastery,” p. 242. 109.  Tan, “Imagining a Utopian Monastery,” p. 7: “The significance of Daoxuan’s representation of Jetavana lies precisely in its function as a blueprint of a utopian Buddhist monastery for the early Tang Buddhists rather than as a faithful reconstruction of the historical site in India.” This idea, in particular, seems to have originated with Antonio Forte; see Tan, “Imagining a Utopian Monastery,” p. 19. 110.  「道宣にのみ特有な性格というよりもむしろその時代における 信仰の一般的傾向というべき」 See Ōchō, “Kaidan ni tsuite,” p. 16. For a more general discussion of how Chinese, in particular Buddhists, imagined India, see also John Kieschnick and Meir Shahar, eds., India in the Chinese Imagination: Myth, Religion, and Thought (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013). 111.  Jietan tujing 戒壇圖經: T45, p. 807, c3–5. 112.  For example, the passage referring to the bhikṣu Luozhi 樓至 can be found at T45, p. 887, c10. 113.  Jietan tujing 戒壇圖經:「天竺諸寺皆有戒壇。」(T45, p. 808, c26, p. 809, a5). 114.  Da tang xiyu qiufa gaoseng zhuan 大唐西域求法高僧傳 (T51, p. 6, a11–16). This passage comes at the conclusion of the text, which also seems to have been accompanied by some sort of diagram. 115.  「古来戒壇といえば、特にこれを論究したものは道宣の戒壇図 経のみであるがために、一般には中国・日本の戒壇は総て悉くこれに準 拠して立てられたものと考えられ易い。」Ōchō, “Kaidan ni tsuite,” p. 27. 116.  Of the three “Bodhisattva Bhikṣus,” which appear in Daoxuan’s Jietan tujing 戒壇圖經, T45, p. 815, c24–26, the two other “Bodhisattva Bhikṣus” whose names are hung above the platform are Zudaya bosatsu biku 豆田邪菩薩



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比丘 and Maraya bosatsu biku 馬闌邪菩薩比丘, alongside “The founder of Nanshan (i.e., Daoxuan) Bodhisattva” (Nanzan soshi bosatsu 南山祖師菩薩) and “Ganjin, bodhisattva who crossed the sea” (Ganjin kakai bosatsu 鑑真過海菩 薩). The above information about ordinations at Tōdaiji comes from an unpublished (at the time of writing) conference proceeding: Minowa Kenryo 蓑輪顕量, “Nanto no kairitsu: Chūse fukkō kara gendai o kangaeru 南都の戒律：中世復興 から現代を考える,” in Nantogaku, hokureigaku no sekai: Hōe to butsudō 南都 学・北嶺学の世界：法会と仏道 (Yakushiji 薬師寺 Nara, Japan sponsored by Ryūkoku University Research Center for Buddhist Countries in Asia, 龍谷大学 アジア仏教文化研究センター (BARC) June 3–4, 2017), pp. 99–100. 117.  Also translated as “Adamantine Precept Platform.” See Richard D. McBride II, “The Complex Origins of the Vinaya in Korean Buddhism,” in The Eastern Buddhist 45, no. 1 & 2 (2014): pp. 151–178; and Robert E. Buswell and Donald S. Lopez, eds., The Princeton Dictionary of Buddhism (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2013), p. 174. 118.  Personal communication, July 23, 2019. Lee says this topic will be addressed in more detail in his forthcoming dissertation from Stanford.

ch a pter 4

Reflections on the Boundary Markers and the New Buddhist Lineage The Mahā-sīmā at Wat Rajapradit Sathitmahasimaram by King Rama IV (r. 1851–1868) M. L. Pattaratorn Chirapravati and Arthid Sheravanichkul Sīmā stones mark the limits of the ordination hall, the most important monastic structure in a Buddhist temple compound.1 The earliest types of sīmā stones in Thailand, dated to around the seventh century, were made of large stones (e.g., sandstone and schist) and were decorated with Buddhist motifs (e.g., stupa-kumbha (reliquary container)) and narrative scenes such as those from the life of Sākyamunī Buddha and his past lives (jātakas).2 The sīmā stones are approximately 175 cm tall, 70 cm wide, and 25 cm deep. By the tenth century, the sizes, decorations, and media differed from region to region. During the Thai periods of Sukhothai (mid-thirteenth century to 1438), Ayutthaya (1351–1767), Lanna (1292–1774), and Bangkok (1782–present), sīmā stones were no longer decorated with Buddhist narratives. They were simply adorned with circular motifs, lozenge motifs, rosettes, and floral and leafy motifs. They were generally thick slabs of carved sandstone varying in height from approximately 60 to 100 cm. Toward the end of the Ayutthaya period, sīmā stones became more ornately decorated with motifs such as lozenges, royal types of jewelry, stylized floral motifs (e.g., lotuses), vegetation motifs, animals (e.g., the mythical snake [nāga], the mythical swan [haṃsa], and the mythical sea creature [makara]), and deities. While middle Ayutthayaperiod sīmā stones were commonly made of schist and red sandstone, it was more common for late Ayutthaya pieces to be made of white sandstone. The sīmā stones became smaller than in the earlier periods; the standard size was 60 cm high and 13 cm wide.3 After the fall of the kingdom of Ayutthaya in 1767, during the short period of King Taksin (r. 1767–1782), a new capital city was established in Thonburi on the Chao Phraya River. General Chakri, or King Rama I (r. 1782–1809), took control 110



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Figure 4.1.  Double bronze sīmās at Wat Phra Kaew, Bangkok. Courtesy Arthid Sheravanichkul.

over the kingdom in 1782 and relocated the capital city to Bangkok on the opposite side of the Chao Phraya River. King Rama I had the Grand Palace built in 1782 with Wat Phra Kaew (Emerald Buddha Temple) within the same walls of the palace, following the layout of the palace and main temple in Ayutthaya. The eight sīmā markers at Wat Phra Kaew, unlike any other sīmās, are made of bronze. Each of the eight directions is marked by double sīmās4 that follow the style of late Ayutthaya. They are placed directly on the base of a low wall around the uposatha. The sīmā markers, currently adorned with gold leaf, are enclosed within a shrine. The waists of the sīmā markers are decorated with a three-headed nāga on each side. The base from which the axial line emerges is decorated with a large triangular motif that is adorned with foliate designs. Each side of the upper part is decorated with ornate round floral motifs. Wat Phra Kaew’s sīmā markers are closely related to those of the late Ayutthaya style, especially those of Wat Phrom Niwat Worawihan, also known as Wat Khun Yuan, Ayutthaya.5 During the early Bangkok/Rattanakosin period—i.e., during the reigns of King Rama I to Rama III (1782–1851 CE)—sīmā markers were made of

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various types of materials such as marble (e.g., Wat Bophit Phimuk, Bangkok, and Wat Apsorn Sawan, Thonburi) and sandstone (e.g., Wat Bowon Niwet, Bangkok). They are small like those of the late Ayutthaya period and are decorated similarly to those at Wat Phra Kaew. They are placed on a double lotus base enclosed in a shrine of marble or gray schist with low reliefs of Chinese decorative ornaments such as peonies, bamboo, roosters, dragons, waves, and landscapes.6 It is clear that the concepts and styles of sīmās in the late Ayutthaya period continued in the early reigns of the Bangkok period. That is, the art historical evidence suggests that sīmā styles during the reigns of the first three kings of the Rattanakosin period drew on the concepts, forms, and decorative ornaments of those of the late Ayutthaya period. For our purposes in this chapter, what interests us most is that this continuity significantly changed under King Rama IV (King Mongkut (r. 1851–1868)), who was the founder of the new Buddhist lineage, the Dhammayuttika-nikāya. King Rama IV used the concept of a mahā-sīmā (great sīmā) and built it into many temples he erected, especially Wat Rajapradit, where he specifically dedicated it to the monks from Dhammayuttika-nikāya.7 Unlike other temples built by King Rama IV, however, the mahā-sīmā stones at Wat Rajapradit are unique as they were inscribed and put right in the wall of the temple without the demarcation of a khaṇḍasīmā (part sīmā) inside.8 The mahā-sīmā therefore marks the boundary of the temple as well as the boundary where the monks can perform the saṅghakammas (legal or ecclesiastical acts of a community) according to the Vinaya. This chapter, therefore, reflects upon how the new architectural elements could be utilized as symbols of both the new Buddhist lineage and the royal lineage. Additionally, we also discuss how King Rama IV’s concept of mahāsīmā later influenced the Mahā nikāya temples built in the reign of his successor, King Rama V (King Chulalongkorn (r. 1986–1910)).

King Rama IV’s Mahā-sīmā Stone Pillars and Inscriptions of Wat Rajapradit King Rama IV, who spent twenty-seven years as a monk before his enthronement, had a great concern about the Vinaya. In 1833, while still a monk, he established a new Buddhist lineage, the Dhammayuttikā (Order Adhering to the Dhamma) that followed the ordination of the Mon Kalyāṇī-sīmā lineage.9 The king was concerned about demarcating the temple with sīmā stones.10 As the purity of the ordination and other saṅghakammas depends on the accuracy of the sīmā boundary, King Rama IV was skeptical about the existing sīmās.



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For example, while he was ordained, he unearthed the sīmā stones of Wat Rachathiwat, where he stayed as Vajirañāṇa Bhikkhu, to check the accuracy and found that the nimitta stones were smaller than the size indicated in the Pāli Vinaya.11 He also demarcated the udakukkhepa-sīmā, or the water sīmā, in the river in front of the temple area to reordain himself under the supervision of the Mon monks of the Kalyāṇī-sīmā Order.12 It is a royal tradition for Thai monarchs, as the great patrons and upholders of Buddhism, to build temples to show their faith and power. For King Rama IV, this tradition became more sophisticated as the temples he built became the platform from which he asserted the Buddhist concepts and practices he believed to be accurate or genuine (dhammayutti), especially the sīmās, by relying on the Pāli Tipiṭaka. In some of his efforts, instead of demarcating only khaṇḍa-sīmās to mark the boundary of the uposatha hall where the monks could perform saṅghakammas as commonly practiced in previous times (i.e., during the Ayutthaya and the first three reigns of Bangkok periods), King Rama IV introduced the mahā-sīmā demarcation into the Dhammayuttikā temples he built, for example, Wat Rajapradit, Wat Borom Niwat, Wat Somanas, Wat Makut Kasatriyaram, and Wat Pathum Wanaram.13 Among these temples, Wat Rajapradit is the most significant since King Rama IV carefully chose its location near the Grand Palace so he could easily attend chanting and ceremonies. Built in 1864, the temple was later regarded as the temple of the Fourth Reign since the royal ashes of King Rama IV were enshrined under the Buddha image in the main chapel. In addition, the mahāsīmā of Wat Rajapradit is unique among the royal Dhammayuttikā temples built by King Rama IV since the mahā-sīmā stones are built directly on the outer wall surrounding the temple, each with an inscription. Furthermore, inside the mahā-sīmā there are no inner sīmās, or khaṇḍa-sīmās, as was common in other temples. That eight maha-sīmā stone pillars, called nimitta-mahābaddha-sīmā (great bounded sīmā markers) by the king, surround the whole temple indicates that the compound was demarcated as both ordination and congregational space. It has only a small vihāra called phra wihan luang, which serves as the main chapel, and a cetiya right behind it. This is untraditional since Thai temples commonly have both an uposatha hall and vihāra. While an uposatha hall is marked by khaṇḍa-sīmā markers and serves as the space for saṅghakammas, a vihāra is not marked as a khaṇḍa-sīmā and generally serves as congregational space and not as a space for saṅghakammas. In the case of Wat Rajapradit, King Rama IV was concerned that the Dhammayuttikā Order may not be supported by successive reigns, so the area

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Figure 4.2.  The seventh mahā-sīmā pillar of Wat Rajapradit (left); the Pāli verse to demarcate the temple area composed by King Rama IV is inscribed in full on this sīmā (right). Courtesy Arthid Sheravanichkul.

of the temple is small so it could support itself without royal patronage. Therefore, it was more practical to demarcate the whole temple as a mahā-sīmā so that it could serve as the place for the uposatha itself. This allowed all saṅghakammas to be performed anywhere in the temple. For these purposes, a new type of boundary stone was created. Instead of being a stone slab, the sīmā marker was carved out of light gray stone in a cubical shape. It was decorated with common motifs that were utilized during the early Rattanakosin period; the shape of the sīmā stone, however, looks more like the capital of a freestanding pillar.14 The top section has a solid cubical shape decorated with a cakra in the center at the convex section of the stone (similar to a capital) and a pair of nāga at each corner on the lower part, as in the seventh pillar. Apart from the pillars themselves, each of these eight sīmā stones also has inscriptions on the base of the cubical sīmā section as well as on the middle section of the column that is slightly elevated from the wall. The upper section of the inscription is written in Pāli verse with Khom script.15 The lower sections are written in Thai verse with Thai script. These inscriptions are



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important evidence showing how King Rama IV demarcated the boundaries of the temple and thus of the saṅghakammas. The eight pillars are installed in the eight directions, with two additional pillars in the middle between the buddhāvāsa (section of the temple dedicated to the Buddha) and the sanghāvāsa (section of the temple dedicated to the monastic community). For example, we can consider the various inscriptional texts regarding the fourth pillar. With the first eight lines added in the Thai script edition to match other pillars, it reads:16 dakkhiṇāyānudisāya catutthaṃ pāsāṇathambhaṃ sīmāyaṃ rājapatiṭṭha ghanapāsāṇathambhoyaṃ dakkhiṇāyānudisāya yenāññehi cīdisehi sīmā samānasaṃvāsā dhammayuttikasaṃghena yaṃ puññaṃ tassa saṃghassa18 samānumodantu devā sadā rakkhantvimaṃ sīmaṃ yathāyamāsamuhaññā sīmāgato saṃgho cassa saddhūpatthambhakassāsā ayaṃ kho rājapatiṭṭha- atthāya dhammacārīnaṃ

sīmāya sammatāyidha nimittaṃ kittitaṃ idaṃ17 vihārassa subhassidha pākāramajjhanissito nimittaṃ hoti kittitaṃ nimittehi samantato sammatā ekuposathā yathāpaññattikārinā saddhūpatthambhakassa ca sabbepi syāmaraṭṭhikā saṃghaṃ sīmāsamampi ca sīmāssa kena cāyatiṃ dhamme ṭhito nirabbudo dhammikā sijjhataṃ sadā vihāro tiṭṭhataṃ ciraṃ hitāya ca sukhāya ca

The English translation of the Pāli text is as follows: Here is the fourth stone pillar, which has been declared as the marker for the agreed-upon boundary of the southwest direction.19 This solid stone pillar, which lies in the middle of the wall at the boundary of lovely Rajapradit Monastery, has been declared as the marker for the southwest direction. By it and by the other identical markers all around, the boundary of shared communion and unified uposatha is agreed upon by the sangha of the Dhammayuttikā Order, who practice in accordance with the rules. May all of the deities of Siam rejoice in the merit of the sangha along with its faithful patron, and may they always protect this boundary and the sangha who is equal to it, such that in the future this boundary will

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not be uprooted by anyone, the sangha within the boundary will be established in the Dhamma and trouble-free, the righteous wishes of the faithful patron will always come true, and Wat Rajapradit will last for a long time for the sake, the benefit, and the well-being of those who practice the Dhamma.20 The fourth pillar then reads in Thai (rendered into English): The southwest pillar is the fourth marker Indicating the boundary of the temple. The demarcation of the boundary was done by the sangha. The border of Wat Rajapradit ends at this corner.21 The Thai verse that follows the Pāli (translated into English), reads: This Wat Rajapradit belongs to The monks of the Dhammayuttikā. Monks from other orders do not stay here. This was firmly stated by King Mongkut. The baddha-sīmā (bounded sīmā)22 was installed, Demarcating the whole area of the temple, As indicated by the nimitta (marker) pillars in the eight directions. The border of the temple is marked in the east. The saṅghakamma can be performed anywhere in the temple. However, caution must be observed; Every single monk must come to the congregation, And every door must be well shut.23 In these Pāli and Thai verses, the king is being as specific as possible about the relation of the sīmā to the Dhammayuttikā Order in a way that distinguishes it both visually, ritually, spatially, and temporally, under the protection of king and deities. It is as if the written words are themselves used as artistic literary motifs to explain the sīmā, marking a new starting point in the history of the Dhamma. The points made in the inscriptions on the mahā-sīmā pillars are further developed in two large inscriptions on stone slabs placed behind the vihāra about the history of the temple and the dedication of this place to the Dhammayuttikā Order. The first inscription on the stone slab in Thai reads:



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As this land has been owned by me whose name is written at the end of this statement,24 I together with my children and wives, and all the relatives and courtiers, both men and women, who have faith in the Dhammayuttikā Order, delightedly relinquish this land bordered with the ridge that is made of bricks and has the holes to install the stone pillar markers in the eight directions. May this land be separated from the kingdom; may it be the visuṃgāma-sīmā (separate-village sīmā), and be dedicated to the monks in the Dhammayuttikā Order from the four directions who have come and have not come.25 Here a visuṃgāma-sīmā is a technical term referring to an area that is given to some person or institution, in this case the Dhammayuttikā Order, and thus separated or excluded from the area, in this case, the kingdom. This is a special kind of area to help monks perform their saṅghakammas. The second inscription in Thai reads, According to the Vinaya, the baddha-sīmā can be demarcated anywhere; I absolutely have no doubt about it. I may invite the venerable members of the sangha to demarcate the baddha-sīmā in this place with the stone markers—the great pillars placed in the eight directions.26 From the statements on the sīmā pillars and the Thai inscriptions, it is clear that King Rama IV regarded the whole area of the temple inside the boundary of the wall where the eight stone pillars are embedded as the area for the performance of uposatha.27 The saṅghakammas, therefore, could be performed anywhere in the temple area, something unheard of in previous tradition. Moreover, it shows his intention to dedicate Wat Rajapradit only to the monks and disciples of the Dhammayuttikā Order that he founded.28 If in case the Dhammayuttikā disappeared from the kingdom for any reason, the king indicated that the place should be dedicated to the Buddha and that no monks from any other lineages could own the temple.29 King Rama IV’s concept of the mahā-sīmā, instantiated at Wat Rajapradit and other temples, ultimately collapsed the distinction between different spaces within the temple complex. In doing so, the king perhaps sought most to establish a spatial way of signifying that the Dhammayuttikā Order was qualitatively different than other orders, that its adherence to the Vinaya and proper monasticism were evident everywhere and anywhere within the temples.30

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Extension of the Mahā-sīmā Concept to Mahā nikāya Temples During the reign of King Rama V (r. 1868–1910), the concept of mahā-sīmā as the boundary of the whole area of the temple influenced another royal Dhammayuttikā temple: Wat Ratchabophit Sathit Mahasimaram, founded by King Rama V himself in 1864. The temple is on the opposite side of the canal (Khlong Lod); its sīmā stones are also incorporated into the temple’s fence. The style of the sīmā stones is similar to those of Wat Rajapradit, but without any inscriptions. Interestingly, the concept of the mahā-sīmā, which had become a common practice in many royal Dhammayuttikā temples, was later extended to Mahānikāya temples, namely Wat Phothinimit Sathit Mahasimaram in Thonburi, founded by the Venerable Somdet Phra Wannarat (Daeng Silavaḍḍhano, 1822–1901) in the 1870s and Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram founded by King Rama V in 1899. The demarcation of the mahā-sīmā in these two temples highlights the point that Venerable Somdet Phra Wannarat’s knowledge and expertise on sīmā drew directly from King Rama IV when the king built Wat Pathum Wanaram and invited Somdet Phra Wannarat to observe the demarcation.31 To preserve this knowledge, Somdet Phra Wannarat wrote an illustrated textbook

Figure 4.3. The mahā-sīmā of Wat Phothinimit, Thonburi, Bangkok. Courtesy Arthid Sheravanichkul.



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on sīmā titled the Sīmaṭṭhakathā.32 In addition, when he built Wat Phothinimit on property he inherited from his parents, after the khaṇḍa-sīmā was demarcated as commonly practiced, he also demarcated the mahā-sīmā with the approval of King Rama V and the Supreme Patriarch Sa Pussadeva, one of the great Dhammayuttikā masters.33 This seems to be the first significant case in which a Mahā nikāya temple adopted the concept of mahā-sīmā originally initiated and practiced in the Dhammayuttikā Order. Because Somdet Phra Wannarat’s expertise on the Vinaya and sīmā was well recognized, when King Rama V had Wat Benchamabophit built to be the temple of the Dusit Palace compound in 1899, he invited the venerable and the monks only from the Mahā nikāya temples to demarcate the sīmā of this temple.34 King Rama V was being facetious when he called the temple “Wat Benchamabophit Sathit Mahanikayaram” (Temple for the Mahā nikāya Order), which apparently was a tease of the original name of Wat Rajapradit—“Wat Rajapradit Sathit Dhammayuttikāram” (Temple for the Dhammayuttikā Order)—before it was changed to “Wat Rajapradit Sathit Mahasimaram” (Temple with the mahā-sīmā). Somdet Phra Wannarat, not knowing that it was a royal joke, took it seriously by using this tentative name when he composed the verse of the sīmā dedication statement.35 The name of the temple, however, finally became “Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram” to signify instead the location of the temple.36 King Rama V explained that the name “Sathit Mahanikayaram” was too specific and incompatible with the word in the dedication that welcomed monks to the temple from the four directions (cātu-disa-saṅgha), and it should be used only as a “nickname.”37 Although the temple he erected was for the Mahā nikāya Order, King Rama V, like his father, focused a great deal of attention on the sīmā. Because the king intended to establish Wat Benchamabophit as a college to improve the education of the Mahā nikāya monks and to be a model of Buddhist art during his reign, he attended to the details of the architecture and materials (e.g., Italian white marble), the main Buddha image, the monks’ residences, and specifically the sīmā, especially with his inclusion of Somdet Phra Wannarat. King Rama V wished the demarcation to accurately follow the Dhamma­ yuttikā practice that was initiated by his father, King Rama IV. Somdet Phra Wannarat was therefore appointed to oversee the construction of this important monastery project. The personnel who got involved in the project, for example Prince Narisara Nuwattiwongs, Prince Sommot Amarabhand, and Chao Phraya Bhasakorawongs, also had to learn about sīmā so that they could construct the architecture accurately.38 Like Wat Phothinimit, the temple has both khaṇḍa-sīmā and mahā-sīmā. According to the documents, the khaṇḍa-sīmās of Wat Benchamabophit were

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first demarcated in March 1899. Two months later, King Rama V dedicated more land around the khaṇḍa-sīmās intending to demarcate the mahā-sīmā as suggested to him by Somdet Phra Wannarat.39 The style of sīmā markers at Wat Benchamabophit is also unique. The nimitas that surround the uposatha of Wat Benchamabophit are buried underneath with only small signs and pillars on the surface; no sīmā tablets or stones were erected as commonly practiced. Each of the nimitas has an inscription stating King Rama V’s dedication of the land and merit. The markers of the mahā-sīmā were incorporated into the outer fence of the temple, but instead of stone they were made of cement pillars decorated with lotus-like tops. The cases of Wat Phothinimit and Wat Benchamabophit clearly demonstrate that the concept of mahā-sīmā, as put into practice by King Rama IV, was accepted by his successor King Rama V and Somdet Phra Wannarat, the great master of the Mahā nikāya Order. The concept influenced the demarcation of sīmā in at least two Mahā nikāya temples during the period when the royal court pursued strict orthodoxy in Buddhist teaching and practice, even in the Mahā nikāya temple.

Conclusion Sīmā stones in the reigns of King Rama I to King Rama III of the Rattanakosin period (1782–1851) continued the concepts, forms, and decorative ornaments of those of the late Ayutthaya period (early to late eighteenth century). With the establishment of the new Dhammayuttikā Order by King Rama IV in the 1830s, however, a new type of boundary stone was created specifically for this monastic order. Although the decorations and medium are traditionally Thai, the shape of the sīmā stones is different. They became part of the outer walls of the temple. The new order and the new forms of sīmā stones are the reflections of new religious practices and the new king. Interestingly, this Dhammayuttikā concept and practice of mahā-sīmā markers were later extended to at least two Mahā nikāya temples in the reign of King Rama V, Wat Phothinimit and Wat Benchamabophit. This clearly shows the king’s concern for the Vinaya, especially sīmā procedures, which is a great influence from his father that affects both the Buddhist practice and architecture in the period of modernization.

Notes Arthid Sheravanichkul’s cowriting of this chapter was partially supported by the “Towards Excellence in Thai Language and Literature” Project, Chulalongkorn University.



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1.  In the Thai context, nimittas may themselves be called sīmās. To avoid terminological confusion with other chapters in this book, when speaking about nimittas, we use sīmā stones, sīmā markers, or sīmā pillars, as appropriate. 2.  See Murphy, chapter 2 in this book. 3.  No Na Paknam, The Buddhist Boundary Markers of Thailand (Bangkok: Muang Boran Publishing House, 1981), p. 76. 4.  Prince Damrongrajanubhab, in San Somdet: the Correspondence between Prince Damrong and Prince Naris on June 18, 1940, argues that double sīmās are found in the royal temples because traditionally the Thai monastic community is divided into two lineages, the gāmāvāsī (those who live in the village or town) and the araññavāsī (those who live in the forest), and each lineage demarcated the uposatha of its own with single sīmās. Later on, in order to unite and harmonize the two monastic lineages together for the Saṅghakamma, the monarch commanded the saṅgha to demarcate the uposatha of the royal temples with double sīmās, which indicate that both lineages are supported by the monarch. See Prince Damrongrajanubhab and Prince Narisaranuwattiwongse, San Somdet: The Correspondence between Prince Damrongrajanubhab and Prince Narisaranuwattiwongse, vol. 18 (Bangkok: Khuru Sapha, 1962), pp. 167–170. 5.  Na Paknam, The Buddhist Boundary Markers, fig. 215. 6.  For further information on Chinese art during the reign of King Rama III, see Jessica Patterson, “Temples of Trade: Chinese Themes in the Thai Buddhist Art of the Third Reign (1824–1851)” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2009). 7.  A mahā-sīmā, or “great boundary,” is a designation for a boundary enclosing an entire monastery. It belongs to the category of sīmās (baddha-sīmās, bounded sīmās) that are authorized or determined by the Buddhist monastic community through a legal act (kamma). Traditionally, mahā-sīmā is used in contrast to khaṇḍa-sīmā. 8.  A khaṇḍa-sīmā is “a [monastic] boundary for a part [of a Buddhist community].” Also a type of baddha-sīmā, this smaller type of sīmā is traditionally determined in addition to a mahā-sīmā, and is traditionally used for the performance of ordinations, etc. 9.  For further information on sīmās during King Rama IV see Craig J. Reynolds, “The Buddhist Monkhood in Nineteenth Century Thailand” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 1972), pp. 82–83; see also Irwin, chapter 5 in this book. 10.  Pitya Bunnag, Sema sima: bai sima samai krungthep [Sema sima: Sīmā stones of the Bangkok period] (Bangkok: Thailand Research Fund, 2017), pp. 126–127. 11.  Bunnag, Sema sima, pp. 126–127. 12.  King Chulalongkorn, Ruang wat samorai an mi nam wa wat rachathiwat [The story of Wat Samorai or Wat Rachathiwat] (Bangkok: Maha Makut

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Rajavidyalai, 1956 [BE 2499]), pp. 32–39. This is interesting because back in the fifteenth century, when Dhammacetī (Rāmādhipati) re-established the Kalyāṇī lineage, he found a way to delegitimize most if not all monks in Rāmaññadesa, and the procedure he used for the new Kalyāṇī Sīmā was one for land, not on water. See Jason A. Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati Handled His Boundary Case: Sīmā, Sāsana, and Buddhist Law,” Buddhism, Law & Society 1 (2015– 2016): pp. 144–145; see also chapters 1 and 5 in this book, where Crosby and Nagasena Bhikkhu, and Irwin, respectively, discuss udakukkhepa-sīmā. 13.  See Bhadravarna Bongsasilp, “An Architectural Study of Wat Padumvanaram Rajvoraviharn, Bangkok” (MA thesis, Silpakorn University, 2006). 14.  Na Paknam, Manuscript of Sima, p. 81. 15.  Khom is a term referring to Khmer letters utilized in Thai Buddhist culture to inscribe sacred Buddhist mantras and manuscripts. 16.  The Pāli text of the inscription of the fourth pillar, Thai-script edition, is provided in Prachum phra ratchaniphon phasa bali nai phrabat somdet phra chomklau chau yu hua (Bangkok: Maha Thera Samakhom, 2004), pp. 282–284. The verse of the fourth pillar in that book is expanded. On the stone inscription itself, however, the first eight lines of the verse are omitted. The Pāli verse there, in Khom script, only starts with the word “yaṃ puññaṃ tassa saṅghassa” till the end, followed by the Thai verse noted below. The reason for the omission is unclear; possibly it happened because this particular pillar is placed in an unremarkable corner. It may not be necessary to inscribe the full length of the verse in cases like this. Full-length Pāli verses can be found on the seventh and eighth pillars, which are placed in a more conspicuous position. 17.  In the original text, there is a blank line between this line and the following lines. 18.  The edition found in Prachum phra ratchaniphon, pp. 282–284, adds “dhammayuttikavādino / paramendādhirājassa” here. 19.  As noted above, following the original, there would normally be a blank line inserted after this line. 20.  The English translation of the Pāli text in this chapter is by Trent Walker. The authors would like to thank him for his very kind help. 21.  Prince Damrongrajanubhab, Charuk wat rajapradit phra ratchaniphon nai ratchakan thi si [The inscriptions of Wat Rajapradit by King Rama IV] (Bangkok: Wat Rajapradit, 2015 (1918)), pp. 40–41. The English translation of the Thai verses for this chapter is by Arthid Sheravanichkul. 22.  Sīmā established by a legal act (kamma) of the monastic community. 23.  Prince Damrongrajanubhab, Charuk wat rajapradit, pp. 37–39. 24.  The name of King Rama IV—Somdet Phra Paramendra Maha Makut Phra Chomklao Chao Krung Siam—is written in Khom, Ariyaka, Thai, Latin,



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English, and Singhalese scripts. See Prince Damrongrajanubhab, Charuk wat rajapradit, p. 30. 25.  Prince Damrongrajanubhab, Charuk wat rajapradit, pp. 5–6. See also Irwin, chapter 5 in this book. 26.  Prince Damrongrajanubhab, Charuk wat rajapradit, p. 19. 27.  In “The Mahāsīmā of Wat Rajapradit,” Pitya Bunnag questions the understanding about the mahā-sīmā concept at the temples built by King Rama IV, especially Wat Rajapradit, if they are in accordance with the Vinaya. Pitya is against the idea that the saṅghakammas can be performed anywhere in the temple. He argues that although the whole area is in the mahā-sīmā, the sangha still needs to demarcate the uposatha hall to be the place to perform the saṅghakammas. See Pitya Bunnag, “The Mahāsīmā of Wat Rajapradit,” Journal of Wichitrsilp 3, no. 2 (July–December 2012): pp. 124–131. Though the term mahā-sīmā does not exist in the Vinaya, what is later described as mahā-sīmā is the sīmā of the Vinaya. The demarcation of the uposatha hall is also described in the Vinaya. But this demarcation does not function as sīmā. See also Irwin, chapter 5 in this book. 28.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz writes, “If someone founds a new lineage which has its own Vinaya tradition, and own sīmā, etc., it is clear that it only is intended and considered rightful by this lineage, but not by other lineages also existent in Thailand.” Personal communication. 29.  Prince Damrongrajanubhab, Charuk wat rajapradit, pp. 18–19. The dedication of the temple to the Dhammayuttikā Order is also evident from the original name of the temple, Wat Rajapradit Sathit Dhammayuttikāram, before King Rama IV himself later changed it to Wat Rajapradit Sathit Mahasimaram. 30.  King Rama IV’s concern for the Vinaya is shown not only in his demarcation of sīmās but also in the style of the mural paintings that feature monastic practices. These include the paintings in the uposatha hall of Wat Somanas depicting prohibited meat-eating practices, appropriate fruits for making pāna juice, contemplation on corpses, and the dhutaṅga practice. See Narumol Sarakornborirak, “The Formal Act of Buddhist Monks on Mural Paintings at Wat Pathumwanaram,” NAJUA: Architecture, Design and Built Environment 11 (1991): pp. 254–273. 31.  Sangarun Kanokphongchai, in No Na Paknam, Silapa bon bai sima [The Buddhist boundary markers of Thailand] (Bangkok: Muang Boran Publishing House, 1997), p. 162. 32.  The manuscript was published as a book under the title Sima Katah Samot kong Wat Suthat Dhepvararam [Sīmākathā: Manuscript of sīmā of Wat Suthat Thepwararam], ed. No Na Paknam (Bangkok: Muang Boran Publishing House, 1997). The book contains a translation of the Pāli text of the Sīmaṭṭhakathā and also paintings illustrating different kinds of sīmā.

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33.  Woradet Chantrasorn, Wat Phothinimit: prawat lae bot suatmon [History and chantings of Wat Phothinimit] (Bangkok: Rajabhat Suansunantha University, 2019 [BE 2562]), pp. 9–17. Nevertheless, during fieldwork in September 2017, a monk at Wat Phothinimit informed the author that the mahā-sīmā does not function as the borderline of the temple anymore since the area of the temple was expanded. The monks only perform the sanghakamma in the khaṇḍa-sīmā. 34.  Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram, Prawat Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram [History of Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram] (Bangkok: Amarin Printing and Publishing, 2000 [BE 2543]), pp. 7–8. 35.  Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram, Pramuan ekasan samkhan nuang nai kan sathapana Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram [The collection of important documents concerning the establishment of Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram], vol. 1 (Bangkok: Amarin Printing and Publishing, 1995), p. 13. 36.  Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram, Pramuan ekasan samkhan, pp. 15, 30–37. Dusit is connected to the Bodhisatta. It is Thai tradition to name the palaces or throne halls or temples by connecting them to the idea that Thai kings are the incarnation of Vishnu, Indra, and Bodhisatta on earth. In this case, Dusit refers to Tusita, where every bodhisatta resides in Tusita as an intermission during their many lives while fulfilling the perfections or after finishing the fulfillment and waiting to be born as the Buddha in their last embodiment. Dusit (Tusita) Throne Hall in the Grand Palace (mainly used for funerals) and the Dusit (Tusita) Palace signify the traditional concept of Bodhisatta king in Thai Buddhist culture. 37.  Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram, Pramuan ekasan samkhan, p. 12. 38.  Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram, Pramuan ekasan samkhan, pp. 25–41. 39.  Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram, Pramuan ekasan samkhan, pp. 41, 50–51.

ch a pter 5

Changing Sīmā, Changing World Anthony Lovenheim Irwin

The first issue we must consider is the very root of the sāsana, the thing that establishes the sāsana on the surface of the earth within our various kingdoms in the first place. . . . For example, when preparing to plant a tree, one must first consider if the soil they have chosen for planting, together with the roots of the tree, will allow for the tree to flourish into longevity. In our case, sīmā, which is where our monastic ceremonies take place, is more important than any other issue. This is because sīmā is the root and foundation upon which all monastic ceremonies depend. —Laṃkāgoḍa Siri Dhīrānanda (Dhīrānanda) to Thera Vajirañāṇamaḳuta (Mongkut), 1843 In 1843, when the Lankan monk Dhīrānanda (1808–1871) wrote to the royal Siamese monk Vajirañāṇamakuta (1804–1868), who later became King Mongkut (Rama IV) (r. 1851–1868),1 the idea of sīmā being the root and foundation of the sāsana, or “teaching [of the Buddha],” was not a new one.2 At the time, Dhīrānanda, who was a member of the Lankan Amarapura sect,3 was in contact with monks in both Siam and Burma concerning ordination lineages and sīmā consecration methods. In his letter to Mongkut on Siamese sīmā consecration practices, Dhīrānanda echoes a position held by many Theravādin reformers that came before him. As Dhīrānanda explains above, sīmā is considered the root of the sāsana because important monastic rituals—the uposatha-day recitations of the pāṭimokkha, “the collection of precepts given in the Vinaya,” and upasampadā, “higher ordinations”—depend on properly established sīmā space to be considered valid. The logic goes that because

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these ceremonies—upasampadā in particular—ensure the survival of the sangha, sīmā space “is more important than any other issue,” as Dhīrānanda states. As Theravādin orthodoxy emerged over the course of the second millennium CE, the link between the spatial and material specifics of sīmā space, the validity of monastic rituals, and the survival of the sāsana came to be one of the most powerful forces behind Theravādin reformations.4 Reformers predicated their efforts on fears of a deteriorated sāsana due to improper sīmā space configuration, and sponsored mass reordination ceremonies in which monks were ordained into new monastic lineages. These ceremonies were performed in either carefully consecrated baddha-sīmā (sīmā spaces on land), or udakukkhepa-sīmā (sīmā spaces on water).5 Ten years prior to receiving Dhīrānanda’s letter, Mongkut enacted his own reformation, known as the Dhammayuttika (a.w. Thammayut) reformation, which was largely motivated by Mongkut’s fears of improperly consecrated sīmā space and his basic distrust of land-based sīmā spaces for the performance of monastic ordination in general. The Dhammayuttika reformation began at Wat Rachathiwat, a royal temple in Bangkok central to royal education, ceremony, and identity since the beginning of the Chakri dynasty.6 In 1833, Mongkut created the Dhammayuttika sect with his reordination into the Mon monastic lineage in an udakukkhepa-sīmā consecrated around a floating uposatha-raft on the Chao Phraya River just off the banks of Wat Rachathiwat.7 The uposatha-raft remained important to Dhammayuttika practice throughout the nineteenth century, but it was abandoned by the early twentieth century, when a massive renovation to the temple’s spatial layout and aesthetic design neglected this birthplace of the Dhammayuttika lineage. The interactions between monastic literati during Mongkut’s time as a monk and into his reign as king were typical of the transregional world of Theravādin orthodoxy that flourished during the second millennium CE. Mongkut’s uposatha-raft at Wat Rachathiwat was a spatial manifestation of the ritual and exegetical interactions that had unfolded between transregional Theravādin monastic literati for hundreds of years. This chapter explores Mongkut’s motivations for enacting the Dhammayuttika reformation as they are connected to concerns for sīmā space. Then, by tracking Mongkut’s opinions and rulings concerning sīmā space, specifically concerning the validity of the Siamese use of visuṃgāma-sīmā, “separate village boundary,” both during his time as a monk and as king, this chapter offsets the view of him as a strict scripturalist who rejected all forms of monastic practice not found in the Vinaya. Ultimately, the goal is to highlight



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changes to sīmā space as a conceptual, ceremonial, and aesthetic reality, in order to investigate larger shifts in the configurations of transregional Theravādin orthodoxy and the domestic relationship between the emerging modern Siamese state and the sangha.

Mongkut’s Reformation Sometime between 1829 and 1833, Mongkut, ordained in the monkhood for less than a decade, insisted that the stone markers (P. nimitta; T. luk nimit) sanctifying the khaṇḍa-sīmā, “a boundary for a part [of the community],” around the uposatha-hall at Wat Rachathiwat be dug up from beneath their bay sīmā markers.8 The royal monk was determined to assess the validity of Wat Rachathiwat’s sīmā space by investigating its markers. Mongkut ruled the stones to be too small for orthodox standards, therefore invalidating the sīmā space at Wat Rachathiwat and along with it the monastic ordinations performed therein because of the offense of sīmā-vipatti, or “failure of sīmā.”9 The flawed state of the sīmā at Wat Rachathiwat caused Mongkut to become suspicious of other sīmā within the kingdom and therefore the validity of the entire Siamese upasampadā monastic lineage.10 With the legitimacy of his monastic lineage in question, Mongkut arranged for his reordination into the monastic lineage held by Mon monks in Bangkok. The Mon traced their monastic lineage back to the Mahāvihārin lineage imported to Rāmaññadesa from present-day Sri Lanka during King Dhammacetī’s Kalyāṇī reformation (1476).11 To facilitate his reordination and to ensure utmost sīmā purity, Mongkut constructed the aforementioned uposatha-raft on the Chao Phraya River, just off the bank from Wat Rachathiwat. With the uposatha-raft at Wat Rachathiwat in place, Mongkut invited eighteen Mon monks who had themselves been ordained within the bounds of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā at Pegu as the agents of his ordination. One of Mongkut’s main monastic interlocutors of the time, Phra Sumet, led this group of Mon monks. Earlier in the late 1820s, while Mongkut was at Wat Mahathat, Phra Sumet convinced Mongkut of the validity of the Mon monastic lineage through their conversations concerning Vinaya interpretation and monastic decorum.12 Phra Sumet chanted the kammavācā for Mongkut’s reordination ritual that conferred the imagined pure Mahāvihārin monastic lineage onto the princely monk. Mongkut’s reordination was atypical, however, in that it was a ceremony common among the Mon known as a daḷhikamma, or “act of strengthening.”

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The daḷhikamma ceremony emerged in Buddhaghosa’s Samantapāsādikā as a way of reinforcing monastic ceremonies (sanghakamma) and dealing with issues that may arise for which there is no Vinaya precedent.13 The daḷhikamma serves to strengthen, correct, and redouble monastic ceremonies whose purity could have been compromised. It is also used to allow for monks of different upasampadā lineages to perform monastic ceremonies together.14 Petra Kieffer-Pülz explains that the daḷhikamma was used as a safeguard to ensure that divergent ordination ceremony specifics between different Theravādin sects would not negate the validity of any ceremonies performed together. Because there was often debate concerning the specifics of ordination procedures such as Pāli nasal consonant pronunciation, sīmā consecration methods, and even lineal validity, the daḷhikamma emerged as a ritual stopgap that would supersede any previous monastic acts. This would ensure that no matter the original ordination of outsider monks or nuns, their presence at monastic legal procedures would not render them invalid.15 Mongkut was introduced to the daḷhikamma ceremony by the Mon, and while there is no indication that he was aware of its existence in commentarial tradition, he employed the ceremony as a ritual safeguard against the deterioration of monastic lineage, the very thing that inspired his reordination. It seems as though Mongkut’s Mon daḷhikamma reordination ceremony was similar to an upasampadā ceremony, but with one important difference: daḷhikamma do not require monks to renounce their previous ordination lineage before being ordained into the new one. As a result, the monastic ranks and years in robes (Thai: phansa) Mongkut had already achieved remained intact. This allowed for Mongkut, and many of his followers, to reordain into the Mon monastic lineage without suffering a loss in monastic rank. As a safeguard against deterioration of lineal purity, Mongkut, and many other Dhammayuttika monks, took daḷhikamma ordinations numerous times, all of which were conducted on Wat Rachathiwat’s uposatha-raft.16 In addition to embracing the daḷhikamma ceremony as a valid method of ensuring lineage purity, Mongkut also adopted the Mon lineage’s style of robe fashioning, alms-bowl carrying, and pronunciation of Pāli nasal consonants, considering these specifics to be in line with proper interpretation of Vinaya law.17 These features of monastic decorum became the staples of Dhammayuttika practice. Stanley Tambiah dubs the Theravādin quest to separate the true canon from latter, impure adhesions “scripturalism.”18 Tambiah presents the term “scripturalism” with caveats, explaining in a footnote that even in the case of Mongkut’s Dhammayuttika reformation, with all of its purported obsession



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with puritanical stripping of latter accretions, “many of the new practices introduced had no better foundation in early practice or canonical regulations than the ones replaced.”19 Later in the work, however, Tambiah reverts to the idea that the Dhammayuttika reformation was a puritanical recasting of the sāsana based on a rejection of the commentaries. He describes Mongkut’s contributions to the mid-nineteenth-century reforms as an “insistence on textual knowledge and the practice of a rigid [V]inaya discipline, his championing of scripturalism, and his devaluation of noncanonical ritual accretions.”20 Mongkut’s embrace of the daḷhikamma ceremony, his belief that upasampadā ordinations should be performed only within an udakukkhepasīmā, and his codification of the Siamese practice of royally conferring the status of visuṃgāma-sīmā—which removes all royal, private, or public ownership or usufructuary claims on areas consecrated as baddha-sīmā—are clear examples of his acceptance and promotion of “noncanonical ritual accretions.” Mongkut’s attitudes and rulings on sīmā space, then, are a form of scripturalism that actually embraced ideas that do not track directly back to the Vinaya. As will be shown in the forthcoming sections of this chapter, Mongkut’s scripturalism was concerned with solving problems he perceived in monastic practice and ritual specifics. As Tambiah has already pointed out, this resulted in his employing noncanonical regulations as functional solutions.

Transregional Connections Mongkut’s embrace of the daḷhikamma ceremony, establishment of an udakukkhepa-sīmā at Wat Rachathiwat, and intense concern for sīmā space purity all position the early movements of the Dhammayuttika reformation squarely in the transregional world of the Theravādin literati. Mongkut heavily engaged in this world during his time in the monkhood. When Mongkut received the above-mentioned letter from Dhīrānanda in 1843, he had fostered transregional connections between his Dhammayuttika lineage and various monastic sects throughout the Theravādin world. Indeed, Dhīrānanda’s letter came to Mongkut because of the connections Mongkut developed between his Dhammayuttika sect and the Lankan sangha. In 1840, a delegation of five Lankan monks traveled to Bangkok’s Wat Bowoniwet during Mongkut’s term as abbot (1837–1851). These monks returned to Lanka in 1843 with a delegation of five Dhammayuttika monks sent by the Thai king, Rama III, at Mongkut’s request. Then, later the same year, a group of Dhammayuttika monks went to Lanka. In 1844, the Siamese monks returned to Bangkok with a large group of Lankan monks and lay

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people who stayed in special quarters at Wat Bowoniwet.21 These Lankan monks brought a number of texts, Buddha images, relics, well-wishes, and letters addressed to Mongkut. The letters, written in 1843 by high-ranking monks from the disparate monastic lineages on the island, are preserved at the Thai National Library, where they have been translated and transposed into Thai.22 These letters illustrate the rift in the Lankan sangha between the Siyam Nikaya monastic sect and the Amarapura monastic sect, who were sharply divided when it came to questions of caste, monastic practice, and Vinaya interpretation.23 Many of the letters written to Mongkut directly address this monastic rift and appeal to him as a learned and respected monk to help unite the Lankan sangha. The letter written by Dhīrānanda goes into detail concerning the specifics of sīmā space consecration methods and classifications. The letter mostly deals with the Siamese custom of establishing small visuṃgāma-sīmā around uposatha-halls within temples. Petra Kieffer-Pülz explains the Siamese practice of conferring visuṃgāma-sīmā thusly: In Siam . . . visuṃgāma-sīmā describes a piece of land removed from the status of government land, and given to the Buddhist sangha to serve as a ceremonial boundary. . . . Though the visuṃgāma-sīmā is named and defined in Pāli legal commentarial literature as a piece of land within a village (gāma), legally removed from that village district by having been transferred to someone else either to exploit the land or to receive tax, the phenomenon that the land has to be removed from the status of government land in order to be used as a ceremonial boundary for the Buddhist sangha does not go back to the Pāli texts. Thus the Thai practice cannot be directly linked to the commentarial or canonical Vinaya texts.24 Kieffer-Pülz identifies that the Siamese use of visuṃgāma-sīmā does not have its roots in the Vinaya, but this is not what bothers Dhīrānanda. In his letter, Dhīrānanda does not object to the Siamese usage of the visuṃgāmasīmā in the establishment of sīmā space altogether, only that the way the Siamese use the land classification category conflicts with the definitions given in Buddhaghosa’s Samantapāsādikā.25 In only conferring visuṃgāma-sīmā status on the small portions of land surrounding uposatha-halls, Dhīrānanda says that the Siamese are misusing the category and are in fact creating what are known as avippavāsa-sīmā, which is a special condition attributed to sīmā spaces that allows for a loosening of the rules governing monastic dress.



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Normally, monks must always wear three robes, but within avippavāsa-sīmā, monks may wear fewer than the normal three and not be in breach of the Vinaya code. A main issue for Dhīrānanda is that, according to Buddhaghosa, visuṃgāma-sīmā are themselves a type of village (gāma), and as such are subject to their own taxation and exploitation by either the king or royally appointed proprietor. Since the Siamese practice includes conferring visuṃgāma-sīmā status on the small portions of land within temples that only contain single buildings, it is as if they are establishing small, single-building villages in the legal sense.26 Dhīrānanda sends along specific excerpts from the Samantapāsādikā that deal with the definition of gāma to support his claim, and he ultimately asks that Mongkut “investigate instances in which the king has established these small parcels of land [visuṃgāma-sīmā] within temples which are only as large as their uposatha-halls or vihan. I do not consider them to have the characteristics of gāma-sīmā at all.”27 Dhīrānanda urges Mongkut to split from the monks in Siam who perform their monastic ceremonies in these improperly established sīmā spaces. He suggests that instead of performing monastic ceremonies within small, fragmented visuṃgāma-sīmā, Mongkut should gather all monks residing in a large area together and perform monastic ceremonies with a unified, complete sangha. Dhīrānanda’s suggestion for the Siamese sangha echoes the rulings in the Vinaya, which require that monastic ceremonies be performed by all monks living within a “single residence.”28 At the end of the letter, Dhīrānanda requests that Mongkut and other “learned thera” within Siam confer and make a ruling on issues of sīmā and to “write to me on paper and tell me [their rulings] so that I may know for sure and will be able to forward the sāsana of the Buddha.”29 Mongkut, together with nine other Dhammayuttika Pāli scholars, responded to Dhīrānanda with a long letter sent in 1844.30 The letter, written in Pāli, contains a detailed exegesis that directly addresses Dhīrānanda’s concerns and explains some of the specifics of Dhammayuttika practice. In terms of general practice, Mongkut notes that “our [Dhammayuttika] custom for sīmā [consecration] is similar to the manner that you support.”31 Here, Mongkut clarifies that they hold their large and small monastic ceremonies in accordance with the practices defined in the Vinaya.32 Mongkut also explains to Dhīrānanda that the non-Dhammayuttika monks, who came to be known as the Mahānikaya in Siam “who perform sīmā incorrectly do so because of wrong understanding and because there is no one [among them] who contemplates sīmā practice.”33 Mongkut then explains that it would be impossible for him to attempt to reform the Mahānikaya sīmā

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methods because “If we [the Dhammayuttika] were to show your letter to the Mahānikaya it would have little benefit and would not achieve anything because the Mahānikaya monks would attack me, accusing that the Dhammayuttika would like to undermine the monkhood.”34 Mongkut defends the assertion that the Dhammayuttika practice of sīmā consecration accords with what Dhīrānanda advocates, but he argues that there is nothing within the commentaries concerning sīmā that he has encountered “that could be taken as the unchanging truth,”35 and that significant attention devoted to sīmā consecration in the commentaries are the result of “those people . . . who have made the commentaries fitting for their [own] time making them stronger than the Pali [the canon] because they have not engaged with the Pali with clarity. They are like people who are crazy.”36 Taken alone, these quotes fit into the general understanding of Mongkut as devaluing noncanonical accretions contained within the commentaries. But the implications of Mongkut’s position run deeper than a rejection of the commentaries. Mongkut here is faced with a conundrum. The fitness of the sāsana depends on properly established sīmā space for the continuation of monastic lineage through ordination. Throughout the history of the sāsana, however, different interpretations of the relatively paltry prescriptions given in the Vinaya have resulted in a variety of sīmā space consecration techniques that may or may not accord with orthodox standards. It is impossible to discern, then, if any valid monastic lineage has indeed survived since the time of the Buddha. Because the prescriptions given in the Vinaya for the establishment of sīmā do not cover the realities of a religion spread throughout numerous locales, and because Mongkut considers the commentaries to only confuse the issue, this conundrum cannot be solved using typical orthodox interpretations of Vinaya. Mongkut, therefore, presents to Dhīrānanda two connected solutions to the problem of sīmā confusion and the invalid monastic ordinations it creates. First, Mongkut asserts that because of the glut of commentaries concerning sīmā consecration techniques for land-based sīmā, upasampadā ordination ceremonies conducted on land-based sīmā are suspect. As a fix for this problem, Mongkut argues that those conducted in udakukkhepa-sīmā are without fault. He explains to Dhīrānanda: “The great monastic teachers, including the original teachers and my own preceptor, have said that upasampadā is very important because it is the root of the sāsana. If we remember from the past when the Buddha was alive up to the present, upasampadā is that which monks perform in udakukkhepa-sīmā. Upasampadā done within this type of sīmā is beyond reproach.”37



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Mongkut’s preference for upasampadā rituals done on udakukkhepa-sīmā supports his second solution to the problem of lineage deterioration due to sīmā impurity: the daḷhikamma ceremony, which was used repeatedly by the Dhammayuttika to reordain monks into their specific lineage.38 This is a surprising stance for Mongkut to take because the daḷhikamma ceremony is found nowhere in the Vinaya, and while it is present in the Samantapāsādikā commentary, Mongkut understood it to be a lineage-specific ritual creation of the Mon. Mongkut admits that “it is true that the daḷhikamma does not come directly from Pali or the commentaries.”39 Instead, he says it was developed by the lineage held by his Mon teachers as a means of maintaining upasampadā purity. Even though he understood the daḷhikamma to be absent from the Vinaya, Mongkut is adamant about the importance of the ceremony in maintaining the lineage validity. He argues that “the monks who do not take the daḷhikamma ordination are disconnected from the old lineage and disrupt [lineage] continuity. This will result in indolence or deterioration and there will be no one to sustain the old lineage from ruin.”40 Mongkut defends that even though the daḷhikamma ceremony is not found in the Vinaya, “those practitioners who follow the daḷhikamma cannot be faulted because daḷhikamma complies with the words of the Pali [canon].”41 This is because, as Mongkut explains, “[t]here are two types of conduct contained in the Vinaya. [The first is] conduct that has its origin [in Vinaya] and is advanced by lineage. [The second is] that which comes only from knowledge . . . any practice that is beyond the practice [found] in the Vinaya is called ‘that which is proper according to knowledge.’ ”42 Mongkut follows the convention of differentiating between practices that come down from one’s lineage and those that one identifies as correct according to knowledge gained on one’s own. He defends the daḷhikamma ceremony as a practice that, while not found in the Vinaya, is acceptable because it is conduct that is proper according to knowledge, but also proper according to the Mon lineage. He clarifies that in maintaining the purity of the “old lineage,” the daḷhikamma “complies with the words of the Pali.”43 Mongkut’s acceptance of the daḷhikamma—a lineage-based, noncanonical ritual—is crucial to fully understanding the range of Mongkut’s position on scriptural interpretation. It illustrates Tambiah’s points that scripturalism isn’t always a purification of ritual practice rooted in a puritanical approach to the canon, but a technology of reformation that often embraces rituals that are themselves not always rooted in the letter of the law. The daḷhikamma ceremonies that Mongkut staunchly defends in his letter to Dhīrānanda were all carried out on the uposatha-raft at Wat Rachathiwat.

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During the time that Mongkut remained at Wat Rachathiwat, numerous Dhammayuttika daḷhikamma ceremonies occurred on the uposatha-raft. After Mongkut moved to Wat Bowoniwet in 1837 the uposatha-raft was still used for Dhammayuttika daḷhikamma reordinations. Prince Vajirañāṇa, Mongkut’s son who eventually served as the supreme patriarch of the Siamese sangha during the sixth reign, recounts that while Mongkut was at Wat Bowoniwet, “any monk who was to be grounded in the Buddha’s teachings was taken by the senior monks to be re-ordained within the boundary markers defined over water.”44 Many Dhammayuttika monks took daḷhikamma at Wat Rachathiwat throughout the nineteenth century, but the Dhammayuttika Order was not unified concerning the importance of this ceremony. Regardless of Mongkut’s stated preference, the issue of valid sīmā space and ordination practices continued to vex orthodox Theravādin monks throughout the mid-nineteenth century. During this time, the monastic sects of both Dhīrānanda and Mongkut, respectively, were divided over similar, but not identical, issues concerning udakukkhepa-sīmā. Back in Lanka, Dhīrānanda became embroiled in a sīmā-based controversy, known as the Balapiṭiya controversy, that lasted for decades. This controversy, focused on how to ensure that the udakukkhepa-sīmā on the river Mādu at Balapiṭiya, which had been enlarged from its original dimensions, was truly separate from the lands surrounding it.45 The controversy developed into a decades-long debate that split the Salāgama monks who made up a portion of the Amarapura Nikāya into two camps: the so-called confusionists, led by Dhīrānanda, and the “nonconfusionists,” who defended the validity of the udakukkhepa-sīmā in Balapiṭiya.46 Because of this controversy, Dhīrānanda was openly accused of causing a split within the sangha.47 Each faction of Salāgama monks eventually sent delegates to Burma in the late 1850s to obtain authoritative rulings on the specifics of sīmā consecration.48 The controversy was never resolved, however, and it resulted in Dhīrānanda’s camp officially splitting from the Salāgama and forming its own fraternity known as the Saddhammavaṃsa fraternity.49 As the Balapiṭiya controversy raged in Lanka, the Siamese ranks of the Dhammayuttika fraternity were themselves divided over the issue of the udakukkhepa-sīmā at Wat Rachathiwat. This controversy grew from the performance of the daḷhikamma ceremony and from Mongkut’s belief that monastic ordination should only be performed within the bounds of udakukkhepa-sīmā. Once Mongkut became king in 1851 these issues split the ranks of the Dhammayuttika itself. Dhammayuttika monks were classified by what type of



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sīmā they were ordained in. Those ordained within sīmā consecrated on land were known as the “land monks,” while those monks who continued to practice the daḷhikamma ceremony on the uposatha-raft at Wat Rachathiwat were known as the “water monks.” This inter-Dhammayuttika tension stemmed from divergent ordination practices between two influential Dhammayuttika monks, Prince Pawaret and Phra Ariyamuni (Thap). Prince Pawaret was the head of the “land monks,” and the abbot of Wat Bowoniwet. Under Pawaret’s leadership, the Dhammayuttika group at Wat Bowoniwet stopped sending monks to Wat Rachathiwat for daḷhikamma and instead conducted all their monastic ceremonies in the uposatha-hall at Wat Bowoniwet, whose sīmā Mongkut had established in 1837.50 Even though Pawaret and his followers had ended their participation in daḷhikamma ceremonies, another faction of Dhammayuttika monks, the “water monks,” led by Phra Ariyamuni (Thap) based at Wat Rachathiwat and Wat Somanat, continued the practice at the uposatha-raft.51 Thap, while not of royal blood like Pawaret, was a master of Pāli and a close friend and student of Mongkut’s. Mongkut had made Thap abbot of his new temple, Wat Somanat (sometimes called Wat Somanat Wihan), and allowed him freedom to interpret monastic practice as he pleased, including continued adherence to the daḷhikamma ceremony.52 Thap himself was ordained seven times in daḷhikamma ceremonies.53 Many monks and lay people regarded the monastic practices at Wat Somanat as conforming more closely with Mongkut’s original reforms. As a result, the prestige of Wat Bowoniwet ordinations declined in popularity as more monks sought daḷhikamma strengthening ceremonies on the udakukkhepa-sīmā at Wat Rachathiwat. In addition, many monks sought out Pāli education at Wat Somanat, where they could study under Thap, who was said to be more adept at Pāli and generally more austere than Pawaret.54 Vajirañāṇa explains that the fissure within the Dhammayuttika escalated until “pious laywomen . . . fluttered about praising the ‘water monks’ and disparaging the ‘land monks.’ ”55 This division seems to have been public from the 1850s until the time that Prince Chulalongkorn, the future king, decided to ordain as a “land monk” under Prince Pawaret at Wat Bowoniwet.56 Chulalongkorn’s ordination as a “land monk” was only one of the ways he displayed his favor to the group of Dhammayuttika monks at Wat Bowoniwet who had stopped new ordinations and daḷhikamma ceremonies over water. In 1874 he appointed Prince Pawaret as head of the Siamese sangha, a move that secured royal favor for the Dhammayuttika over the Mahānikaya.57 This act also put Prince Pawaret, the head of the land monks, in the highest position of monastic power in the kingdom, which may have significantly

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undermined the importance of the daḷhikamma altogether. Vajirañāṇa points out that even though Chulalongkorn’s ordination as a land monk quieted public uproar over the division, Dhammayuttika monks continued to debate the issue even up to the time that he himself was reordained in a daḷhikamma ceremony in 1880.58 Even with all the Dhammayuttika divisions and popular uproar around the issues of sīmā space specifics and ordination validity, once king, Mongkut did not rule one way or the other on the issue of daḷhikamma reordination. This is similar to Mongkut’s restraint in not ruling on the specifics of monastic decorum in general and can be understood as a strategic move that avoided perpetuating controversies that could further divide the Siamese sangha. Given the dispute over udakukkhepa-sīmā that developed into the Balapiṭiya controversy in the Lankan sangha, it is possible that by not handing down any royal decrees that specifically advanced the daḷhikamma ceremony, Mongkut may have attempted to avoid a situation similar to the one that had emerged in Lanka. Given the anxiety Mongkut’s Dhammayuttika orthodoxy generated in his succession to the throne, it makes sense that once he became king, he strategically dodged having to rule on hot-button sangha affairs that would alienate members of the Siamese sangha. Also, there was probably still the fear, as he told Dhīrānanda, that if he did force Dhammayuttika practice on the whole of the Siamese sangha, “the Mahānikaya monks would attack me, accusing that the Dhammayuttika would like to undermine the monkhood.”59

Mongkut’s Rulings on Sīmā Surprisingly, while inter-Dhammayuttika divisions over the daḷhikamma ceremony unfolded, the only concrete ruling on sīmā space Mongkut made during his kingship concerned the bureaucratic methods for requesting and conferring another commentary-based aspect of sīmā space, the visuṃgāmasīmā. Before Mongkut became king, there was no systematic method governing how temples, either in Bangkok or the peripheries, requested visuṃgāma-sīmā rights. During the Thonburi period, King Taksin (r. 1767– 1782) made a royal proclamation giving temples the autonomy to establish baddha-sīmā without seeking royal approval. This resulted in a variety of sīmā consecration methods throughout the kingdom, as well as a number of different modes by which temples would (or would not) apply for visuṃgāmasīmā conferral. As king, Mongkut standardized the bureaucratic process by which temples throughout the kingdom applied for the right to establish visuṃgāma-sīmā. He



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did so in an 1854 royal proclamation that first clarified that the land conferred as visuṃgāma-sīmā by royal approval is “no longer the property of the ruler.”60 This land, or a portion of it, may then be ritually established as a baddha-sīmā by the sangha. The proclamation seeks to directly fix the lax and disorganized system put in place by King Taksin. As the proclamation reads: There are some temples who have not asked for royal permission for visuṃgāma-sīmā but have requested permission from [minor] government officials who approve the measurements [of the visuṃgāmasīmā] instead [of the king]. This is not proper, and is unacceptable and has resulted in the improper registry of land. In cases such as these, the high-ranking monks must review the details and correct them so that they are proper and follow the process [for seeking royal approval] we have laid out here. In the past, during the reign of Phra Jao Taksin, there was a law saying that anywhere within the kingdom, whoever wished to establish baddha-sīmā could just do it. They did not have to ask for permission from the king. But now in this reign, all administrative monks of high and low rank agree that [the way that King Taksin allowed anyone to establish baddha-sīmā] has resulted in the sangha practicing in divergent ways. Now, when establishing baddha-sīmā in any area, the area must first be requested from the king as a visuṃgāma-sīmā.61 Mongkut finds this disunified system unacceptable and therefore lays down a simple procedure by which high-ranking monks must request royal permission to establish baddha-sīmā. Before establishing baddha-sīmā the land must be given by the king as a visuṃgāma-sīmā. High-ranking sangha officials must choose a portion of land and submit the measurements—length and width—to the office of the royal secretary, which then officially recognizes the land and confers upon it the status of visuṃgāma-sīmā.62 This simple bureaucratic device of having temples send exact measurements of the length and width of the area they wish to establish as a baddhasīmā to the office of the king for approval is still in basic practice today. The earliest record of Mongkut conferring visuṃgāma-sīmā that I have been able to find is in a short, hand-scrawled proclamation from 1852. The conferral is for a visuṃgāma-sīmā at an unnamed temple in Ban Nang Takhien village, Samut Songkhram Province. The measurements of the area are only thirtyfour meters by twenty-four meters, which is quite small for an entire temple complex.63 More of Mongkut’s visuṃgāma-sīmā conferrals are preserved in

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an accordion-fold manuscript from 1865. Written in both Thai and Pāli in Khmer script, the manuscript compiles official visuṃgāma-sīmā documents from previous years. It records the visuṃgāma-sīmā of Wat Somanat, which was conferred in 1856.64 The record reads: Proclamation pertaining to Wat Somanat Wihan: The eastern side extending from the northern to the southern corner measures 2 sen, 12 wa wide. The southern side extending from this southern corner to the southwestern corner measures 2 sen, 13 wa, 2 sawk long. The western side extending from the southwestern corner to the northwestern corner measures 2 sen, 12 wa long. The northern side extending from the northwestern corner to the eastern corner, which was the starting point of this measurement, measures 2 sen, 123 wa, 2 sawk long. The king donates this [land] as a visuṃgāma-sīmā, which is an area now separated from the royal lands. It is specified as an area of residence where monastic ceremonies may be performed such as the upasampadā ceremony.65 The language of this proclamation clearly delimits Wat Somanat’s visuṃgāma-sīmā by announcing the measurements of the area in clockwise progressions beginning and ending at the northeastern corner. This covers an area roughly 147.5 meters long by 144 meters wide, which includes the entire campus of the temple.66 As mentioned previously, the Siamese practice of conferring visuṃgāmasīmā has no basis in the Vinaya. Dhīrānanda objected to the way the Siamese conferred small visuṃgāma-sīmā within the grounds of temples, citing that the exact methods the Siamese employed were in contradiction to Buddhaghosa’s commentary. In his final proclamation conferring visuṃgāma-sīmā from 1868, however, Mongkut cites Buddhaghosa’s Samantapāsādikā as providing the logic behind the Siamese practice of establishing visuṃgāmasīmā.67 Mongkut acknowledges that the Siamese and Lao practice of establishing visuṃgāma-sīmā stems from Buddhaghosa, and in a noncanonical move goes right ahead and allows the “accretion” to remain. Mongkut began the process of normalizing state visuṃgāma-sīmā conferral and temple protocol, a task that continued into the fifth reign. The state creation of a system of regular, legible religious education and temple registration was part of the creation of the modern Siamese state.68 Mongkut’s bureaucratization of visuṃgāma-sīmā request codified the power relations between the state and the sangha in this regard, and it also worked to remove



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the court from fine-grained questions of sīmā validity. Ironically, this act of power consolidation put the question of sīmā space specifics and ordination ritual details into the hands of the sangha (and resulted in an immediate split within the Dhammayuttika fraternity itself). The solidification of the bureaucratic process of visuṃgāma-sīmā requests drew a line between court power and sīmā consecration and configuration specifics. While the sangha was certainly an agent of state formation and hegemony, ritual and exegetical specifics through which this hegemony was spread were a matter for the sangha to decide and debate. As far as sīmā space was concerned, aside from its role in granting rights to visuṃgāma-sīmā, the court was, officially, uninvolved.

Conclusion This chapter has focused on Mongkut’s attitudes and rulings on sīmā space during his monastic and royal careers to reveal shifts in the Siamese Buddhist landscape of the time. The excerpt from Dhīrānanda’s 1843 letter to Mongkut that opens this chapter conveys a position that defined Theravādin orthodoxy as it emerged through the second millennium CE. That position was that sīmā was the root of the sāsana and as such was more important than any other issue for Theravādin reformers. The importance of sīmā space inspired a number of Theravādin reformations prior to the nineteenth century, and Dhīrānanda and Mongkut’s concern for properly consecrated sīmā space was a direct extension of this earlier Theravādin concern. In Mongkut’s case, his sīmāinspired doubts about Siamese monastic validity resulted in his daḷhikamma reordination into the Mon monastic lineage and the creation of the uposatharaft off the riverbank at Wat Rachathiwat. Throughout the nineteenth century, this small structure floating in the waters of the Chao Phraya River was a hub for the transregional Theravādin monastic networks that inspired its creation. The daḷhikamma ceremonies performed on this raft, however, problematize the widely held notion that Mongkut rejected all forms of monastic practice not found within the Vinaya. The early Dhammayuttika reformation was enacted due to Mongkut’s embrace of Mon interpretations of sīmā space specifics and ordination ritual practices: favoring udakukkhepa-sīmā as the site of monastic ordinations, and the noncanonical daḷhikamma as a safeguard against lineage deterioration. While still a monk, Mongkut expressed to Dhīrānanda his belief that the various commentaries that deal with sīmā space configurations were too confusing and varied to be of any use because they did “not provide a [unified] method or opportunity for practitioners to follow.”69 Mongkut abandoned

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these latter commentaries, not because they were postcanonical, but because they were conflicting and confusing. He was happy to adopt the Mon approach to sīmā and the daḷhikamma, even though they were based on postcanonical views, because they offered solutions to a particularly vexing problem. While in robes, Mongkut’s Thammayut reformation divided the Siamese sangha into the royally affiliated Dhammayuttika sect and everyone else, the Mahānikaya. The Dhammayuttika itself, however, was divided when it came to questions of ordination practice and sīmā space specifics. During his time as king, Mongkut held off on any official positions that could further divide the Siamese sangha. The orthodox fervor over sīmā space specifics that sparked Mongkut’s Dhammayuttika reformation gave way to a more nuanced and savvy form of diplomacy in the form of state maintenance of sangha affairs. Mongkut’s royal proclamations codified and normalized state involvement in conferring visuṃgāma-sīmā space throughout the kingdom. With the codification of state conferral of visuṃgāma-sīmā space, the specifics of sīmā space validity, as it was tied to ordination purity, became isolated to intersangha debate. Throughout this period of intense change and national organization, transregional sources of Buddhist authority that had united orthodox Theravādin monks for centuries gave way to a Buddhist isolationism that accompanied a consolidation of state power through a bureaucratization of the national sangha.

Notes R3.1205.149. Samnao somanasat (National Library of Thailand, Bangkok, 1843). My translation of this letter was greatly aided by the input from my Thai professor, Ajarn Kannikar Elbow. This chapter is dedicated to her memory. Petra KiefferPülz provided invaluable comments and corrections on early versions of this chapter. Thanks also goes to Anne Hansen, Katherine Bowie, Don Davis, Bob Bickner, Boonlert Visetpricha, Prakirati Satasut, Sumanus Bo Saiwiriya, Angkrit Ajchariyasophon, and Michael Hoppin Read. 1.  Because this chapter also discusses Mongkut’s son, an important monk in his own right, who went by the similar name Vajirañāṇavarorasa, I will refer to Mongkut during his time as a monk simply as “Mongkut” and his son as Vajirañāṇa. 2.  The idea that sīmā is the foundation of the sāsana is found, for example, in the Mahāvaṃsa and the Kalyāṇī Inscriptions. See Wilhelm Geiger, trans., The Mahāvaṃsa, or the Great Chronicle of Ceylon (London: Pali Text Society, 1958), pp. 15.180–184; Taw Sein-Ko, A Preliminary Study of the Kalyani Inscription of Dhammacheti, 1476 A.D. Reprinted from the Indian Antiquary (Bombay:



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Education Society’s Steam Press, 1893), p. 13; Jason A. Carbine, “Sāsanasuddhi/ Sīmāsammuti: Comments on a Spatial Basis of the Buddha’s Religion,” in How Theravāda Is Theravāda? Exploring Buddhist Identities, ed. Peter Skilling, Jason A. Carbine, Claudio Cicuzza, and Santi Pakdeekham (Chiang Mai, Thailand: Silkworm Books, 2012), p. 244. 3.  The Amarapura sect (nikāya) emerged in Lanka at the turn of the eighteenth century into the nineteenth. In 1799, a group of Lankan monks, novices, and lay people traveled to Amarapura, the capital of Burma. There, under the patronage of King Bodawpaya (1782–1819), they took higher ordination (upasampadā) in the Burmese lineage. They returned to Lanka in 1803, where they established a non-caste-restrictive monastic lineage. They created a sīmā at Balapiṭiya where, together with Burmese monks who traveled with them, they conferred their monastic lineage on a number of novices who had been denied upasampadā by the Buddhist authorities in Kandy because of issues of caste. This sect became known as the Amarapura Nikāya, while the Kandyan-linked lineage became known as the Syāma Nikāya, due to its earlier connection to a monastic lineage imported from Siam. The Amarapura Nikāya was made up of a number of different castes, the Durāva, Krāve, and Salāgama. Dhirananda was a member of the Salāgama caste. See Kitsiri Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society 1750– 1900: A Study of Religious Revival and Change (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), pp. 98, 161. 4.  See Anthony Lovenheim Irwin, “ ‘Imagining’ Boundaries: Sīmā Space, Lineage Trails, and Trans-Regional Theravada Orthodoxy” (MA thesis, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 2011). 5.  The popularity of udakukkhepa-sīmā in Theravādin orthodoxy extends back to the rule of the Lankan king Parākramabāhu I (r. 1153–1186), who had the sangha perform monastic ceremonies on a sīmā established on ships anchored in the middle of the river at Mahavāliganga each year. The udakukkhepa-sīmā was also the preferred sīmā for the importation of the Mahāvihāra upasampadā lineage to Haripuñjaya. The Northern Thai chronicle the Jinakālamālīpakaraṇam recounts numerous instances of upasampadā ordinations occurring on udakukkhepa-sīmā before the establishment of the mahā-sīmā by order of King Tiloka (N. A. Jayawickrama, trans., ed., The Sheaf of Garlands of the Epochs of the Conqueror: Being a Translation of the Jinakālamālīpkaraṇam (London: Pali Text Society, 1968), pp. 136–138). See also Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Ceremonial Boundaries in the Buddhist Monastic Tradition in Sri Lanka,” in Wilhelm Geiger and the Study of the History and Culture of Sri Lanka, ed. Ulrich Everding and Asanga Tilakaratne (Colombo: Goethe Institute & Postgraduate Institute of Pāli and Buddhist Studies, 1999), p. 85, n. 137.

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6.  For clarity and ease, I will refer to the temple as Wat Rachathiwat throughout this chapter. The full name of the temple, however, is Wat Rachathiwatsawihan. The original name of the temple was Wat Somoray, which it held from before the beginning of the Chakri dynasty. In 1851 King Mongkut had the name changed to Wat Rachathiwat. Then, in 1859, the name was extended to Wat Rachathiwatsawihan (Phra Rachakawi, ed., Namtiew wat rachathiwatsawihan [Guide to Wat Rachathiwat] (Bangkok: Hang hun Suan Samanitibukhun, 2005), p. 5). 7.  For more on udakukkhepa-sīmā, see Crosby and Nagasena, chapter 1 in this volume, and Kieffer-Pülz, chapter 12 in this volume. 8.  King Chulalongkorn, Ruang wat samorai an mi nam wa wat rachathiwat (Bangkok: Maha Makut Rajavidyalai, 1956 [BE 2499]), p. 32; See also Craig J. Reynolds, “The Buddhist Monkhood in Nineteenth Century Thailand” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 1973), p. 82. 9.  Chulalongkorn, Ruang wat samorai, p. 32. Neither Chulalongkorn nor any other source specifies what sources Mongkut drew on to determine what exactly these orthodox standards were. The sizes of the markers for sīmā, however, are not elaborated in the Vinaya, but in Buddhaghosa’s Samantapāsādikā (Sp V pp. 1036,10–1040,23). These standards are translated and discussed in Petra KiefferPülz, Die Sīmā. Vorschriften zur Regelung der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze in älteren buddhistischen Texten, Monographien zur indischen Archäologie, Kunst und Philologie, 8 (Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 1992), pp. 204–233. See Prince Vajirañāṇavarorasa, The Entrance to the Vinaya, Vinayamukha, vol. III, trans. Jotamano Bhikkhu (Michael C. Shameklis), Mr. Suchin, and Varapañño Bhikkhu (Paul Breiter) (Bangkok: Mahāmakuṭ Rājavidyālaya Press, 1983), pp. 18–19. Even though it confuses the issue further, I must include the fact that the assistant abbot at Wat Rachathiwat told me that while the accepted story is that Mongkut found the luk nimit to be too small, the real issue was that upon digging, Mongkut discovered that they had shifted from their original positions and no longer laid at the points where they had been consecrated. 10.  Chulalongkorn, Ruang wat samorai, p. 32. 11.  Chulalongkorn, Ruang wat samorai, p. 32. For more on the Kalyāṇisīmā, see Carbine, chapter 11 in this volume. 12.  R. Lingat, “History of Wat Mahādhātu,” Journal of the Siam Society 24, no. 1 (1930): pp. 1–27, 21; Chulalongkorn, Ruang wat samorai, p. 39; Reynolds, “Buddhist Monkhood,” p. 80. 13.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz provides a translation of the section of the Samantapāsādikā that deals with daḷhikamma in “Presuppositions for a Valid Ordination with Respect to the Restoration of the Bhikṣuṇī Ordination in the Mūlasarvāstivāda Tradition,” in Dignity & Discipline: Reviving Full Ordination



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for Buddhist Nuns, ed. Thea Mohr and Jampa Tsedroen (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2010), p. 223, n. 15; Bhikkhu Bodhi traces the daḷhikamma to the Vinayālaṃkāra-ṭīkā, a Vinaya subcommentary. Bhikkhu Bodhi provides the translation: “there is a daḷhikamma when an act done earlier, which was perfect is repeated, and when an act done earlier, which was imperfect, is repeated, so that it becomes perfect, fit to stand, purified.” See Bhikkhu Bodhi, “The Revival of the Bhikkhunī Ordination in the Theravāda Tradition,” p. 12 (publication version, https://sujato.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/revivalbhkni-final-21.pdf). Thanks to Jason Carbine for directing me to this source. Most recently, the daḷhikamma has been used in the Bhikkhunī ordination movement. In 1998, a group of women obtained upasampadā at Bodhgaya through a large congregation of Bhikkhunīs from a variety of lineages (Taiwanese and Chinese Mahāyāna who followed the earlier Dharmaguptaka school, Tibetan, and Western). This upasampadā was then reinforced through daḷhikamma ceremony, establishing them in a Theravāda lineage. See Bhikkhu Bodhi, “The Revival of the Bhikkhunī Ordination”; Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “The Restoration of the Bhikkhunīsaṅgha in the Theravāda Tradition,” unpublished English translation of her lecture “Weiterbildendes Studium der Univerität Hamburg” (November 2005) (http://www.congress-on-buddhistwomen.org/fileadmin/files/Sri%20Lanka%20bki%20final.pdf). 14.  Kieffer-Pülz, “Restoration of the Bhikkhunīsaṅgha,” p. 4. 15.  Kieffer-Pülz, “Presuppositions for a Valid Ordination,” pp. 223–224. 16.  Akarapan Pansamrit, “A Study of Architecture of Wat Rachathiwasrachaworawiharn (Wat Samorai)” (MA thesis, Silpakorn University, 2002), p. 18. 17.  Anne R. Hansen, How to Behave: Buddhism and Modernity in Colonial Cambodia, 1860–1930 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007), pp. 91–92. 18.  Stanley J. Tambiah, World Conqueror and World Renouncer: A Study of Buddhism and Polity in Thailand against a Historical Background (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), p. 211. 19.  Tambiah, World Conqueror, p. 211. 20.  Tambiah, World Conqueror, p. 231. 21.  Reynolds, “Buddhist Monkhood,” p. 93; Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Sīmāvicāraṇa: A Pali Letter on Monastic Boundaries by King Rāma IV of Siam, Materials for the Study of the Tripiṭaka 7 (Bangkok: Fragile Palm Leaves Foundation, 2011), p. xv. 22.  R3.1205.149. 23.  See Anne Blackburn, Locations of Buddhism: Colonialism and Modernity in Sri Lanka (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010): pp. 6–7. 24.  Kieffer-Pülz, Sīmāvicāraṇa, pp. xxi–xxii. For the implications of the practice of conferring visuṃgāmasīmā in the Khmer context, see Erik W. Davis,

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Deathpower: Buddhism’s Ritual Imagination in Cambodia (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), pp. 115–137. 25.  For more on Buddhaghosa’s Samantapāsādikā, see Nagasena and Crosby, chapter 1 in this volume. 26.  Because this letter is only available in Thai translation at this time, the exact details of Dhīrānanda’s fine-toothed exegesis are difficult to figure out. I thank Arjan Kannikar Elbow in helping with Thai-English translation, Anne Hansen in decoding Khmer text, and Petra Kieffer-Pülz for illuminating the basic outline of Dhīrānanda’s argument. Efforts are underway to locate the original Pāli version of this letter, which if successful could lead to adjustments in the arguments I make in some parts of this chapter. 27.  R3.1205.149. 28.  T. W. Rhys Davids and Hermann Oldenberg, trans., Vinaya Texts: Part I. The Pātimokkha. The Mahāvagga, I–IV, The Sacred Books of the East, vol. XIII (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas, 1968; first published 1881), pp. 252–253. 29.  R3.1205.149. 30.  The undated letter is bundled together with another, much shorter letter dated December 14, 1844. Both letters were translated into Thai in 1923 by the eleventh supreme patriarch of the Chakri dynasty, Krom Luang Chinaworasiriwat (1859–1937) and published in the cremation volume of Phra Chao Boromawong Toe Krom Luang Phrahomaworanurak. See King Mongkut, Somonasasana, translated into Thai by Krom Luang Chinaworasiriwat (Bangkok: Bamrung Press, 1925). For a critical Pāli-language edition of the first and second letters, see Kieffer-Pülz, Sīmāvicāraṇa. See the same, pp. xi–xxxii, for detailed information and a list of all Dhammayuttika authors. All of my translations are from the 1925 Thai edition (Somonasasana). I am deeply indebted to Prakirati Satasut for his hard work and patience in helping me translate this extremely difficult letter. 31.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 11. The corresponding Pāli section is found in Sīmāvicāraṇa Se1 XXVII). 32.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 11 33.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 27. The corresponding Pāli section is found in Sīmāvicāraṇa Se2 XXVIII. 34.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 28. 35.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 105. The corresponding Pāli section is found in Sīmāvicāraṇa Se2 XXXII. 36.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 105. I wonder if he would say the same about those of us involved in this edited volume! The corresponding Pāli section is found in Sīmāvicāraṇa Se2 XXXII. 37.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 106. The corresponding Pāli section is found in Sīmāvicāraṇa Se2 XXXV. Note that in the Kalyāṇī Inscription, King



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Dhammacetī’s reforms attacked all sīmā, on land or water. See Jason A. Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati Handled His Boundary Case: Sīmā, Sāsana, and Buddhist Law,” Buddhism, Law & Society 1 (2015–2016): pp. 105–164. 38.  To be clear, new ordinations that took place on the udakukkhepa-sīmā at Wat Rachathiwat would not be daḷhikamma ceremonies since daḷhikamma only “strengthens” monastic acts that have already been performed. 39.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 106. 40.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 106. 41.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 106. 42.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 106. The corresponding Pāli section is found in Sīmāvicāraṇa Se2 XXXIV. 43.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 106. 44.  Prince Vajirañāṇavarorasa, Autobiography: The Life of Prince-Patriarch Vajirañāṇa of Siam 1860–1921, trans. and ed. Craig J. Reynolds (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1979), p. 45. 45.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, pp. 152–153. See also the discussion in chapter 12 of this book, where Petra Kieffer-Pülz discusses the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī, written in defense of the legal validity of the udakukkhepasīmā of Balapiṭiya. 46.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, pp. 152–153; see also Petra Kieffer-Pülz “Translocal Debates and Legal Hermeneutics: Early Pāli Vinaya Texts in the Adjudication of Sīmā Procedures, c. 1200–1900 CE,” Buddhism, Law & Society 2 (2016–2017): pp. 103–158. 47.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, p. 158. 48.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, p. 159. 49.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, p. 162. 50.  Vajirañāṇavarorasa, Autobiography, p. 45; R. Lingat, “History of Wat Pavaranveca,” The Journal of the Siam Society 26, no. 1 (1933): p. 78. Mongkut had the sīmā space reset again in 1847 due to the renovations to the wat’s uposathahall and vihāra. 51.  Thap later was given the title Somdet Phra Wannarat. See Reynolds, “Buddhist Monkhood,” p. 108. Wat Somanat was built as a Dhammayuttika temple by Mongkut in 1853 after he had ascended to the throne. See Lingat, “History of Wat Pavaranveca,” p. 93. 52.  Reynolds, “Buddhist Monkhood,” pp. 108–110. Thap’s continued use of the uposatha-raft at Wat Rachathiwat was not due to any lack of sīmā purity at his own temple. The entire area of Wat Somanat was conferred as a visuṃgāma-sīmā in 1856, which allowed for the establishment of a baddha-sīmā around the uposatha-hall. See R4.1227.153, Prakat wisungkhamasima wat somanat, wat pathum, wat munsiri amnat, lae wat rachapradit (National Library of Thailand,

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Bangkok, 1875). This sīmā was used for uposatha ceremonies, but apparently not upasampadā ordinations. The royal proclamation in which Mongkut donates the land as a visuṃgāma-sīmā is telling. He proclaims the land to be separate from that held by the king, and therefore classified as a single residence in which the sangha can perform ceremonies such as the uposatha. This proclamation specifically mentions uposatha but leaves out any mention of the upasampadā ceremony. Possibly this was a purposeful elision so as not to incite further division within the ranks of the Dhammayuttika. 53.  J. L. Taylor, Forest Monks and the Nation State: An Anthropological and Historical Study in Northeastern Thailand (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1993), p. 43; Kieffer-Pülz, Sīmāvicāraṇa, p. xxv. 54.  Taylor, Forest Monks, p. 43. 55.  Vajirañāṇavarorasa, Autobiography, p. 45. 56.  Vajirañāṇavarorasa, Autobiography, p. 45. 57.  R. Lingat, “History of Wat Pavaranveca,” p. 121. It is possible that Pawaret was named head of the sangha earlier than 1874. See Reynolds, “Buddhist Monkhood,” p. 121, n. 14. 58.  Vajirañāṇavarorasa, Autobiography, p. 45; Reynolds, “Buddhist Monkhood,” p. 110. 59.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 28. 60.  R4.1216.123, Phra borom racha ongkan chum num phra rachakhana hai prueksa rueang wisungkhamasima (National Library of Thailand, Bangkok, 1854). I thank Sumanus Bo Saiwiriya and Angkrit Ajchariyasophon for help with this translation. 61.  R4.1216.123. 62.  R4.1216.123. 63.  R4.1214.97, Prakat protklao phrarachathan thi suan ban nang takhian pen wisungkhamasima (National Library of Thailand, Bangkok, 1852). Because the temple is not named in the document, it is impossible to confirm whether or not this visuṃgāma-sīmā is conferred on the entire temple complex, or merely the area surrounding the uposatha-hall. Editor’s note: Petra Kieffer-Pülz (private communication) notes that it is probably the latter, as this is quite common in Thailand, the size corresponds more to a khaṇḍa-sīmā, and most of the sīmās determined in Thailand are of this type and not of the mahā-sīmā type. 64.  The compilation also includes official visuṃgāma-sīmā conferral documents for Wat Pathumwanaram and Bunsirimattayaram, which were both granted visuṃgāma-sīmā in 1858. 65.  R4.1227.153; 1 sen = 40 meters; 1 wa = 2 meters; 1 sawk = 0.5 meters; 1 khip = 0.10 meters. See Sathian Wichailak, Phrarachabanyat mattrachang tuang wat phraphutthasakarat 2446 (Bangkok: Nitiwet Press, 1965).



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66.  According to the temple history, the area within the temple’s outer wall, which falls within the total area of the visuṃgāma-sīmā conferred by this proclamation, was established as a mahā-sīmā. The area outside the temple wall was established as an upacāra-sīmā in order to separate the village boundary from the monastic residence land within the mahā-sīmā. The area around the uposatha-hall has been established as a khaṇḍa-sīmā, with the courtyard that surrounds the uposatha-hall serving as a sīmantarikā. See “Prawatsat Wat” [Temple history], Wat Somanat Rachawitayalai, accessed March 25, 2017, http://www.watsomanas .com/thai/history/history01.php. 67.  King Mongkut, Phrabat somdet phra jom klao jao yu hua kap ngan phraphutthasasana (Bangkok: Kromkan Sasana, 2004), pp. 487–488. I thank Petra Kieffer-Pülz for identifying Mongkut’s direct quoting of Buddhaghosa in this proclamation. 68.  Kamala Tiyavanich, Forest Recollections: Wandering Monks in Twentieth-Century Thailand (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1997), pp. 8–9. 69.  Mongkut, Somonasasana, v. 105.

pa rt I I

Contemporary Practices: Focus on Cambodia

ch a pter 6

Lines of Influence around Cambodia’s Buddhist Temples Alexandra Kent

In 1966, the anthropologist Mary Douglas made her classic observation of the way people construct order out of “inherently untidy experience . . . by exaggerating the difference between within and without.”1 Douglas’ idea, which has so profoundly influenced anthropological thought, was that establishing boundaries and distinctions enables people to make their world seem coherent and to manipulate its powers and dangers. These insights raise the question of how a society whose internal boundaries and order have been demolished by revolution and organized violence may go about recreating the distinctions that make social life coherent again: distinctions between the living and the dead, the civilized and the wild. Cambodia is still undergoing reconstruction after decades of organized violence. This involves not simply a reconstitution of the past, however, but it means social and cultural reshaping in the context of an entirely new political economy. This chapter explores how ordinary Cambodians were trying to reconfigure their local worlds as the neoliberal order and consumerism flooded into their country in the first decades of this century. In this exploration, I shall focus on the tensions between various values that became evident in relation to the sīmā monastic boundary in Cambodia’s Buddhist temples.2 When the communist Khmer Rouge, led by the infamous Pol Pot, took control of Cambodia in 1975, they systematically broke apart key elements of earlier life, such as family, religion, markets, money, and property. The objective was to implement a radically secular agrarian program and restart society from “Year Zero.”3 After the Pol Pot regime fell to the Vietnamese in 1979, the communist command economy4 was gradually dismantled during the Vietnamese rule of the 1980s. The revival of some features of prerevolutionary

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daily life was permitted at this time, but it was not until the Vietnamese withdrew in 1989 that the regeneration of Cambodian religious life could begin in earnest. This coincided with a tide of new political and economic influences. Following the Vietnamese withdrawal, peace agreements were signed in Paris in 1991 between the country’s remaining warring factions, and the UN took over administration of the country between 1992 and 1993. A wave of foreign aid swept into Cambodia at this time, together with demands for democratization and liberalization of the economy.5 The democratization impulse shifted the competition for power from war to elections, which “meant complying with the expectations of the international community, when necessary, and protecting power in undemocratic and frequently violent ways, when possible.”6 As the country became absorbed into the global marketplace, the most significant instrument of power became property and capital instead of weapons.7 Following the 1992–1993 interlude of UN administration, Cambodia again fell into the grip of Hun Sen and his Cambodian People’s Party8 (CPP), the renamed People’s Revolutionary Party of Kampuchea (PRK) that had ruled Cambodia throughout the 1980s. These new political and economic pressures in a war-torn, underdeveloped, and economically unregulated context led to a deepening divide between an increasingly prosperous, cosmopolitan urban elite and the rural poor, whose resources the former could now exploit. Today, members of Phnom Penh’s elite continue to benefit from foreign aid and foreign investment, while in villages the key determinant of power is the state’s ability to control the inflow of resources, often delivered as personal gifts from the powerful.9 By patronizing local authorities, powerful figures also try to secure their loyalty and that of their constituencies. This strengthens ties between central and local government, but it also increases state involvement in rural settings10 and makes villagers vulnerable to dispossession by speculators. The privatization of land also means that those who lack tenure security both in the cities and in the countryside are being subjected to eviction to make way for developers.11 Although Courtney Work’s chapter in this book (chapter 9) describes how the animating forces of the sīmā stones in some cases provide effective resistance to consumer powers, in this chapter I will describe how, in many cases, the local world has been penetrated and consumed by the rich, the powerful, and the armed.12 Efforts to modernize Cambodia began during the French colonial period (1863–1953),13 then through communism (1975–1979),14 and more recently through internationally directed democratization and economic liberalization. The rural poor, however, have never been the drivers of this process. Instead



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of looking to modernization, democratization, and liberalization, those I met often looked to the past for conceptualizations of order.15 Buddhist temples played a central role in this, offering hope for restoring local microcosms of a conceived universal order in which a righteous ruler ensured order between culture and chaos.16 Although many Cambodian villagers remain poor, when I was conducting fieldwork between 2002 and 2012, I noted that they had been investing in the re-establishment of a peculiarly significant boundary: the sīmā (monastic boundary) around the vihāra (ordination hall) of the wat or Buddhist monastery. Since the early 1990s, there had been an upsurge in ceremonies to mark the consecration of (re)constructed vihāras by planting stones in the earth that mark out the sīmā. These ceremonies were rare in prerevolutionary Cambodia, but they have since become plentiful, often attracting substantial financial donations to temples. The ideas underlying the sīmā have been acquiring new relevance in the context of rapid socioeconomic change. I shall first describe the sīmā and its significance before presenting some of the ethnography I collected on the revival of Buddhism in Cambodia. I carried out the bulk of my anthropological fieldwork on this topic from 2002 to 2007, with follow-ups from 2008 to 2012. This work was conducted at several rural temples in northwestern Cambodia but included trips to temples in Kompong Speu Province, Kandal Province, Kampot Province, and the capital of Phnom Penh. The chapter concludes with a discussion of how the new political economy already represented a threat in many Cambodians’ eyes to the boundaries that maintain cultural and moral order in their world.17 Although I have discussed these issues elsewhere,18 the fieldwork that forms the basis of this chapter does not extend to the “death of democracy” that has been said to have occurred in Cambodia in 2017, when the opposition party was outlawed.19 Nor does it discuss the impact of intensifying Chinese influence over Cambodia in recent years.20

The Threshold of Civilized Space From the end of the Angkorean period (classically said to fall between 802 and 1431 CE) until the mid-nineteenth century, land in Cambodia was considered to be the property of ancestral spirits (qanak tā, a.w. neak ta). This meant that the king could not own the land; rather, he was said to “consume” (soy rājya)21 it by levying revenue. These revenues were then redistributed within the country rather than in a global marketplace. Instead of long-term accumulation of wealth by individuals and their networks, revenue was used for

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Figure 6.1. Cambodian sīmā stones, plain (left) and decorated (right). Courtesy Alexandra Kent.

ostentatious buildings, for patronizing the literati and artists, and for making merit at the temples.22 The temples in turn provided fields of merit, redistribution of resources, libraries, seats of learning, and monks, who were protectors of local tradition. Many monks, for instance, were involved in resistance to the French mission civilisatrice.23 The sīmā thus contained and protected the community’s sense of moral integrity. Cambodian temples24 are organized around the monks’ ordination hall, or vihāra,25 which is surrounded by the ritual boundary marked by eight sīmā (Sanskrit and Pāli for “boundary” or “limit”) stones and a central stone in the middle of the hall before the shrine.26 The arrangement of the nine stones echoes that of the maṇḍala,27 the model according to which Southeast Asian cosmological topography was traditionally shaped.28 The maṇḍala configuration can be found in designs, diagrams, and the monumental architecture of great temples such as the Bayon and Angkor Wat, but it also recurs in traditional Southeast Asian political relations. Hierarchical social and political relationships were mapped onto a cosmos with a righteous king as its moral as well as political fulcrum.29 The powerful royal center exerted influence over relatively autonomous satellite polities, whose leaders were free to do much as they pleased as long as they paid their tributes and provided military forces when required.30 The limits of the kingdom—the social, physical, and cosmological space protected by the king—were also referred to as sīmā.31 The outermost perimeter of the grounds of a Cambodian temple is often marked by some form of wall and is known as the mahā-sīmā, “great sīmā.”



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The mahā-sīmā may be consecrated because it delineates the area in which monks reside, but Giteau noted in 1969 that this was in fact rarely performed.32 Inside the monastery and the mahā-sīma perimeter is the khaṇḍa-sīmā,33 which is marked out around the vihāra by eight ovoid, hewn stones that are planted in the ground, sometimes demarcated above ground by leaf-shaped stones. When construction or restoration of a vihāra is completed, a consecration ceremony is held to seal the sīmā. The sīmā must be ritually laid in order to consecrate the vihāra so that ordinations can be held in it and monks can make their confessions there. The stone-planting ceremony is a peculiarly regional rite that is not found in either India or Sri Lanka,34 though it is common in Cambodia and Thailand. Harris35 has elaborated upon the relationship between the eight perimeter stones of the khaṇḍa-sīmā and the slightly larger stone known as indakhīla36 that is buried inside the vihāra, before the Buddha. This central stone is said to represent the Hindu deity Indra37 and is associated with the centralized power of the king. The area inside a Buddhist temple, however, was traditionally not answerable to secular jurisdiction and the temple was the space in which the monks’ moral authority most clearly superseded legal authority or political power. So it seems it was the “ideal king’s” cosmologically sustaining power rather than the potentially disruptive worldly authority of real rulers that was represented at the heart of the vihāra. This symbolic arrangement configures the rural world and its monks as both falling under the influence of an encompassing royal center, but also as containing the authority to check or resist the ruler’s excesses. The nine sīmā pits thus recall an ancient way of ordering relations between center and periphery and between the ruler and his people. Further, the area enclosed by the sīmā is the location par excellence at which Theravāda Buddhism most explicitly contains Cambodia’s pre-existing Brahmanist and animist traditions, onto which it was grafted in the thirteenth century. This is the space in which the power to transform dangerous and destructive forces into virtuous energies is most concentrated.38 Bertrand39 explains how mediums who are masterful in Buddhist virtues may pacify the malevolent spirits of the Khmer universe and transform them into beneficent forms known as pāramī.40 Anne Guillou has described pāramī41 as a form of sacred energy that may emanate from or circulate between “trees, stones, events, artefacts, people (especially of royal background) and spirits linked to special places” and that originates in the notion of the Buddha’s ten perfections.42 As one medium explained to Bertrand, spirit powers are an amoral and potentially harmful form of energy if they are not “educated” in the ways of the monks.43 It is only when energies and powers submit to the Buddhist

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Figure 6.2.  Indakhīla stone prepped for burial. Courtesy Alexandra Kent.

virtues so closely associated with the vihāra and contained by the sīmā that they know how to perform virtuously. The spherical sīmā stones are about the size of a human head, and they are each suspended from a beam by rattan over a pit before being “planted” during the ceremony. The ceremony culminates with a lay person at each of the outdoor pits hacking the rattan with a machete so that the stone falls into it. Wright44 suggests that the sīmā ceremony is a vestige of a pre-Buddhist earth cult in which human sacrifice45 seems to have figured, a suggestion that is supported by the felling of the human-head-sized stones. Wright also proposes that Buddhism subdued an ancient system of exchange over the threshold between the world of the living and the world of the nonliving by replacing violent human or animal sacrifice with merit making, a further example of



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Buddhist pacification. The original violence of sacrifice may be echoed in the fact that many Cambodians today make offerings of their own blood at consecration ceremonies by cutting a finger and letting it bleed over the sīmā pits. If the sīmā represents the margin of the underworld, it is also the limit of the domesticated world, known in Khmer as sruk. The creation of a ritual boundary around the epitome of cultivation and morally ordered space, the vihāra, protects it from the dangerous power of the wild (Khmer brae, lit. forest).

Making Peace with the Dead In Cambodia, the symbolic charge of this sacred perimeter is perhaps most evident in the annual festival of Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa, the festival of the dead. Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa is celebrated at temples throughout the country in September and October. It begins at the end of the rainy season, on the full-moon day of the tenth lunar month and continues throughout the moon’s wane. The fourteen days are known as kân piṇḍa (holding/taking the offerings of glutinous rice), while the final day is formally known as Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa (gathering together to offer the balls of rice).46 According to Cambodian popular ideas, most souls (viññāṇa) are reincarnated after death, but some may remain entrapped in the spirit world because of accumulated bad karma. These hungry ghosts are known as preta. The relationship of the preta to thresholds and order is captured in the fact that each day of the festival the monks chant the Tirokudda Sutta (lit. the Outside-theWall Verse) for the hungry shades. It begins, Outside the walls they stand and at crossroads At the door posts they stand, returning to their old homes.47 Davis48 notes that the preta gather outside these boundaries of civilized life because they have nothing to give so they cannot enter into the relations of reciprocity that are the basis of social life. During Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa the gates of the underworld open so that these hungry ghosts can ask their relatives for food and care and can repay with blessings. As is common in Buddhist cultures, Cambodians generally reason that since one cannot be sure of the karmic status of dead relatives, one should make merit for them by meditating, praying, and making offerings to the monks. The monks transform the offerings into merit for the dead. If the ancestors are trapped in the underworld, then this merit from the living will help them escape and become reincarnated. In this way, all parties benefit; the

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monks receive food offerings, the spirits receive care from their descendants and the donors receive blessings. Ancestors who receive nothing from their living descendants may retaliate by putting curses on them. Each day of the fortnight, one of the local families is scheduled to host a kân piṇḍa. Before their allotted day, the family takes their ancestors’ urns, which are normally kept in stūpas on the temple grounds, into the vihāra. In the evening, the family and other villagers join the monks in the vihāra for meditation and chanting. Before sunrise on the day of a family’s kân piṇḍa, they prepare special foods for their ancestors but also balls of sticky rice to throw into shaded areas of the temple grounds for spirits who no longer have living relatives. Before noon, dishes are offered to the monks, who transfer the accumulated merit to the families’ named ancestors and chant blessings and sprinkle holy water onto the donors. The fifteenth day is Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa day. Preta are phenomena of darkness that fear light, so they assemble at the temple on this darkest day of the lunar cycle. Villagers gather together at the temple before dawn on this day and offer food to the monks. As dawn breaks, they circumambulate the vihāra three times, throwing balls of sticky rice out over the sīmā, where neglected or forgotten preta wait hungrily. Afterwards the villagers return home to prepare offerings of food with which they ask their ancestors for blessings. The festival ends with the ghosts being returned to their infernal abode, often by floating representations of them on a hollowed banana tree stem along the river. Then the gates of the underworld close again. Merit transfer at Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa is associated not only with nourishing the dead but also more broadly with the regeneration of domesticated and cultured space, the sruk. In 1985, Porée-Maspero49 described how the royal version of the festival includes images of crocodiles and nāgas (the untamed serpent of the underworld) and is also the occasion for consecration of new Buddha statues. The royal rite, which finishes twenty-four hours before those in the rest of the country, asks for the dead to protect the king and all his subjects. She also reported witnessing a celebration on Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa day in the villages around Phnom Penh in honor of the earth deity to regenerate the soil and ensure a good harvest. More recently, there have been reports of buffalo racing taking place at Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa50 to bring fertility to the fields. All these activities follow the logic of merit and regeneration that is based on TheravādaBuddhist cosmology51 rather than on the values of consumerism. The power of Buddhism to domesticate dangerous forces also featured in conversations I had with Cambodians. One laywoman with whom I discussed Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa said that those who are violent or immoral today are the reborn



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spirits of people who died under the Khmer Rouge regime and whose souls were therefore not controlled by being cremated in the presence of monks. She seemed to be saying that when the cultural means of maintaining the integrity of the cultivated sruk are weak, untamed and wild souls can breach it and cause chaos. The rapid revival of Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa in the post–Khmer Rouge era may therefore be understood as an attempt to reassert the distinction between the dead and the living, to mollify the effects of the country’s traumatic history, and to recover moral order, prosperity, and well-being. Although Buddhism has undergone intense regeneration in Cambodia in recent decades, this has been taking place in an unprecedented historical setting. The boundaries, both literal and figurative, that are supposed to protect that which is sacred to Khmer people are being subjected to forceful and unfamiliar pressures.

Breaking New Ground One of the temples I visited regularly between 2003 and 2011 was an entirely new temple that was still under construction. It was in a village in northwestern Cambodia, and I refer to it as Wat Thmei. At the time, Wat Thmei had an energetic and popular head monk who spurred the lay temple committee, overseas and local donors, and his community of monks into action establishing a well-regarded temple. The temple was taking in local youths as novices, employing villagers for construction work, providing instruction in Khmer language for the village children, and offering healing and blessings for visitors from near and far. The villagers near Wat Thmei are small landholders or wage laborers, living off their rice, fishing, or gathering watercress. Few have much disposable income to contribute to the temple. In the early 2000s, however, the head monk worked tirelessly to attract donations from elsewhere, including from Cambodians resident in the United States.52 With the income, he managed to develop a lively community center that by 2007 had some twenty novices and monks and several renunciant women (ṭūn jī53) living on the premises. A stream of lay people also came to stay at the temple for periods of time for healing, and they would make donations or help out with work that needed to be done. Most of the construction work at the temple was then being financed by Khmer American supporters, who would either wire money over or make donations when they visited. The temple committee members explained that because these people are living abroad, they want to invest in visible concrete

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structures so that they know where their money is going. The growing interest in financing ostentatious temple buildings may be partly explained by the competitive commodification of culture, but also by the disintegration of communities and their ties of trust and reciprocity. An elderly layman from a village in Battambang district reminisced, In the past we didn’t know what the dollar was, or what the US was. Everything was developed by the local people . . . [who had a] . . . strong relationship with each other. . . . Many people would go and build the temple by delivering sand, logs, earth, providing food, providing water. . . . People in the past didn’t like to use money to build the temple but they like to help each other. . . . My parents always provided sacks of rice to the people building the temple and sometimes my parents went to join in the building work because they had a lot of free time after farming their rice. But now the temples have become absorbed into a depersonalized marketplace where labor and goods are traded. It is common for older people in particular to express discomfort about this newly interconnected and marketdriven world by describing memories of a more morally ordered past. The elderly man quoted above continued, In the past, people made donations into the [sīmā] pits by putting needles, thread, money, cloth, and things that they brought from home. They didn’t buy things from the market. . . . In our modern society people like to buy offerings like pens, books, mirrors, combs. . . . When people have many things to choose from to make donations with, they will not have the commitment to making merit, they will just compete for merit. They want to show off their donations to others. . . . People in the past were afraid of puṇya/pāpa (merit and sin) so no one needed to guard the pits and make sure nobody stole donations from them . . . and everything was buried, not just the stone. People in the present time don’t think about puṇya/pāpa but only about loy (money). Some older people from other parts of Cambodia complained to me that the new, colorful temples are creating a competitive ethos that violates Cambodian tradition and Buddhist principles. One well-educated Phnom Penh woman drove me out to visit the temple she was supporting in a village about half an hour’s drive from the city. She pointed out that here, the monks were



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living in simple wooden cottages and walked barefoot, and she said that the muted colors on the vihāra were in keeping with traditional Cambodian style. As we drove back into the city, she deplored the garish colors on many of the showy new temple buildings along the way, saying “Cambodians no longer know their own culture.”

The Party Takes Center Stage In the 1960s, Giteau54 described how the consecration ceremony would be presided over by at least nine ācārya (lay temple officiants55). Eight were posted to the cardinal and intercardinal points or the center, while a “Grand Ācārya,” who was normally brought in from a larger monastery that was known for its expertise in ceremonies and texts, took pre-eminence over all the others. His role was to officiate over the deity of the East. This is the female earth deity known in Cambodia as Braḥ Dhārāṇī, who represents the fertility of the soil but was also the guardian and supporter of the Buddha in his quest for enlightenment.56 Some temples were even consecrated by royal figures. It is known that both King Sisowath and Prince Sihanouk participated in sīmā-laying rituals. Harris has reproduced a photograph of Prince Sihanouk cutting the rattan for the Indakhīla stone at a temple in Kompong Speu Province in 1968.57 Following the democratization efforts of UNTAC in the early 1990s, the village temple, however, began offering politicians in pursuit of votes an excellent opportunity to access the heart of rural communities. After ousting the Khmer Rouge, the Vietnamese officially restarted the Cambodian Buddhist sangha in 197958 but maintained tight state control of it throughout the 1980s. In the early 1990s, after the Vietnamese had left, regulations were relaxed and the number of monks swelled rapidly. This coincided with the drawing up of a new constitution for postwar Cambodia in 1993 that enshrined the right of universal adult suffrage. For the first time in Cambodia’s history, monks were to become part of an electorate in a multiparty system.59 The growing cohort of young monks spread throughout the country, and some of them showed promise as leaders, which became important for vote seekers. Many young monks lament the lack of moral leadership in their temples since so much Buddhist expertise was lost under the Khmer Rouge. This, combined with the poverty and frustrations felt by many monks, made them susceptible to lavish donations from well-heeled officials. As a consequence, in the first decade of the twenty-first century, temples began to be associated with particular political parties.

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Conversely, the activities of recalcitrant monks around election time has been repeatedly dealt with by intimidation. For instance, articles in the Phnom Penh Post in 1998 described monks protesting against violence60 and police responding by beating and even murdering monks.61 After the popular Vipassana teacher, the Venerable Sam Bunthoeun, was assassinated in early 2003, investigations were reportedly stalled by the authorities.62 Later the same year, twelve monks in a Phnom Penh temple were threatened with expulsion after supporting the opposition Sam Rainsy Party in the national elections,63 and in 2013 a monk with connections to the opposition party was found beaten to death.64 All these factors influence popular ideas of Buddhism upholding moral order in contradistinction to mistrusted secular power. O’Lemmon65 noted that in the temples he studied, while political patronage was bringing valued resources, it was also tending to alienate locals from their temple since latent local ideals of the monastery could be used to critique political involvement in the temples. The sīmā ceremony illustrates how this kind of tension arises from the introduction of party politics and liberal market economics. The consecration ceremonies to mark the completion of new or restored vihāras were becoming increasingly numerous during the period of my fieldwork. They are major events that last for several days. A ceremony I witnessed in Battambang in March 2004 began with the digging of deep pits that were decorated with a roof structure and fence and then slung with a large cloth that fell inside the hole. Visitors began streaming to the temple to make offerings into the pits. They bought small packages to drop in containing combs, mirrors, notebooks, and pens. Cash donations were also dropped in. The trail of visitors came from far afield, bringing with it sellers of trinkets and snacks, fortune tellers, pickpockets, and beggars. At night, the atmosphere intensified, with crowds pushing their way along the clockwise circumambulations of the vihāra before entering to make their final donation before the shrine and offer their prayers. A stage was built on which to seat the important guests on the final day of the ceremony. Above it a banner announced that His Excellency Sar Kheng, a high-ranking CPP member, former Khmer Rouge official, and deputy prime minister at the time, would preside over the ceremony.66 Sar Kheng duly arrived accompanied by his wife, the district governor, police commissioner, and other influential officials, while military and police officers ensured security. Sar Kheng then paid his respects to five monks who were seated on the stage. The monks responded by chanting and sprinkling jasmine flowers over the minister, his wife, and his retinue.



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The district governor opened with a speech in which he declared his loyalty to the government: “In the past, I never thought about consecration ceremonies, because our country was in the civil war. Pol Pot did not allow people to make merit or build temples. But now people have survived the civil war and they are happy to make merit. All thanks to the efforts of the government.” Then a member of the lay temple committee announced that with the support of His Excellency Sar Kheng, the temple had been able to construct a new funeral room and that other donors had made it possible to restore the library and build new cottages for the monks. Finally, it was Sar Kheng’s turn to speak. He began by making it known that he had been at a consecration ceremony the previous day and was due to attend another the following day, and then he took the opportunity to politicize the event: I am often invited by temple committees and local authorities to be the chairman for their consecration ceremonies. Even though I’m busy trying to solve the political deadlock in my country, I still come to join this ceremony. If a temple has an internal conflict between the ācārya, head monk, and committee, nothing in the temple can be developed. It is the same for the whole country. If all political parties start negotiating to find a solution, then we will have no problem. . . . I am disappointed that some political parties do not cooperate with the government to find a solution to this deadlock.67 At the end of his speech, Sar Kheng donated money to the teachers and students who were attending and three million riel for the pit in the middle of the temple. He then awarded gold medals to seven people, including one monk, and silver and bronze medals as well as certificates of admiration to others. Finally, he visited the funeral room before returning to the vihāra for the cutting of the rattan to drop the stones into the pits and seal the sīmā. At this point, Sar Kheng took up his position to cut the rattan over the central stone while the temple committee declared which high-ranking official was responsible for each of the peripheral pits. Harris68 has written that the “area within the khaṇḍa-sīmā is a sanctuary that is still, at least theoretically, felt to be beyond the reach of the secular power.” The ritual involvement of officials such as Sar Kheng, however, suggests that the core of the temple’s sacred space, which was once associated with a unifying monarch and with the monks’ transformation of maleficence into virtuous beneficence, is being taken over by divisive, secular party politics.

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Unearthing the Past Cambodians I asked about the meaning of the sīmā and these consecration ceremonies spontaneously spun their narratives around the notion of sacrifice. An elderly woman from near Battambang town explained that when she was young, these ceremonies were uncommon, but she remembered seeing people offering valuable items into the pits. She recalled that it was forbidden to remove anything from the pits and she added, perhaps simply to stress this point, that people had to be careful to keep their children from falling in because if they did, they would have to be buried along with all the other offerings. Several monks also told me how the temples they come from still had treasures or amulets buried beneath the entrances to the monastery grounds and how these protect the temple and empower its inhabitants to overcome malevolent forces from outside, particularly sorcery.69 An elderly ṭūn jī told me how her father used to say that when he was young, no cloth was draped into the sīmā pits, so the donations could not simply be hauled up. He had told her that the donations should be buried for eternity, and she told me, “After the Pol Pot regime some people tried to dig round the temples in order to look for something and sometimes they could get gold or silver; this shows that in the past people liked to bury all of their donations in the ground after the ceremony.” She remembered that when Wat Norea was being restored on the outskirts of Battambang town, the head monk had ordered people to dismantle the old temple, and in doing so they had dug up many gold rings and silver plates. She reflected on how attitudes were changing: “In our modern society they don’t like to bury donations in the ground because they think they cannot make a profit this way. But if they sell the donations they will be able to develop the temple. . . . [But I think] . . . they should keep something valuable in the ground for future generations.” The items associated with the sīmā are understood to be powerful. On the final day of the consecration ceremony, a protective cotton thread (khsae) is strung around the perimeter of the vihāra, connecting the cardinal points and symbolically enclosing an ordered cosmos. After the felling of the stones, people rush to take a piece of the cotton thread to use as a protective amulet. Some maintain that this thread protects the bearer against illness or misfortune, but others claim it is powerless if it is detached from the values it represents. An elderly man told me, “I think the thread has no magic power. . . . It’s only Khmer tradition that people always want the thread from the ceremony . . . [but] . . . the thread can’t help people; only people can help themselves.” Similarly, a ṭūn jī remarked,



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I think it is useless to challenge each other to get the thread because it will only protect qanak mān sīla (people who follow precepts), but it doesn’t protect bad people. Anyone can get the thread of the sīmā but not all of them can get protection. Nowadays we have a lot of thread but we always curse people, we are boastful, we don’t pay respect to each other and we often make trouble so one day we will have doom and that is the day that we are beaten by other people. Commentaries like these illustrate how cultural treasures are seen to be vested in the sīmā and how it signifies moral integrity. But it seems that the valuables contained by this boundary are being extracted for consumption, an apt metaphor perhaps for the broader changes in a country in which evictions and land grabbing by the well-connected have become rife70 and whose mineral and forest wealth is being extracted through a process of elite capture71 for a marketplace beyond Cambodia’s borders.72

Transgressing Limits Springer73 has argued that since the early 1990s, the international community’s interest in security in Cambodia has been primarily on securing neoliberal market principles. “Stability in the neoliberal sense,” Springer observes elsewhere, “is not at all concerned with the well-being of the general citizenry.”74 The villagers I spoke to confirmed this in their descriptions of how the new predatory climate of consumerism was exacerbating their sense of vulnerability. They related their experiences of moral disintegration less to the traumas of the past than to the way new powers, both economic and political, were infiltrating the traditionally protected space of the temple. Instead of the powers of Buddhist kingship residing at the center of the universe and emanating influence outward in the maṇḍala configuration, raw or ruthless power (Khmer aṃṇāca)75 was now conceived of as intervening from the outside, transgressing the boundary that traditionally safeguarded local values and nurtured the virtuous power of pāramī. Like many older people, the elderly layman cited earlier said that the interest of loka dhaṃ (“big men,” highranking officials) in rural temples was novel: “In the past, loka dhaṃ were not interested in supporting the temple by making large donations because the support of the local people was enough. In the past, the loka dhaṃ only liked making donations to Buddhist ceremonies because they liked to get merit but they didn’t use their money for building temples because they didn’t want to interfere with the local people.”

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Pursuing the theme of moral degeneration, an elderly ācārya at a temple in Battambang explained that the khsae thread itself was becoming more important to lay people than the moral principles that underlie its value. “People right now want to live in happiness but they don’t know where to look for happiness. That’s why they try to get protection from the sīmā. People don’t want to study dhamma or practice sīla (precepts), but they want the khsae to protect them.” The ācārya commented caustically upon the way mistrusted elites were now joining the scramble for khsae threads at consecration ceremonies. It is possible he was playing upon the double meaning of the term khsae, which means not only thread but is also used to refer to the “strings” of social connections that make up networks of patronage and protection.76 “Not only the poor try to look for khsae but also high-ranking officials; we can see all consecration ceremonies have high-ranking officials to come and join as a chairman in the ceremony and when they go back they will get khsae to get good luck or protection . . . [but if] . . . we commit a lot of crime and mistreat people, then even though we have a big bunch of khsae, we still go to Hell.”

Gifts of Protection Ironically perhaps, locals may actively facilitate the politicization of temple rituals by inviting party officials to preside over them. In a revealing discussion at Wat Thmei I learned that the temple was no longer seen as providing protection for locals from power holders but, conversely, as requiring the protection of morally dubious officials in order to survive. One afternoon at Wat Thmei, a local man who was also a low-ranking official at the district office of the Ministry of Religion and Cults reasoned about the temple’s planned consecration ceremony as follows: I have talked to the head monk about which party official to invite and I have asked him to think carefully about the long-term benefits that each party might provide for the temple. . . . I think we cannot avoid inviting Deputy Prime Minister Sar Kheng, because he is a high-ranking CPP official but also a parliamentarian for Battambang. We could invite another official but they must be from the CPP because the CPP is the biggest party and it has many officials among the people that the other parties don’t have, and plenty of networks [khsae] in the villages throughout the country. The CPP is the strongest.



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He continued by explaining how his reasoning had to do with the pragmatics of survival rather than loyalty to the most powerful party. I want to invite the high-ranking official from the CPP, but that doesn’t mean that I follow the CPP. I just want the temple to get support and protection from the CPP. As you see, all the village chiefs are CPP, almost all the commune chiefs are CPP, almost all the police and military police are CPP, all provincial governors are CPP, so why don’t we invite them to attend our ceremony and get support from them? . . . If we don’t invite CPP officials to attend the ceremony, that means they will ignore us forever. The relationship between the temple and the local authorities will be cut off and if we have a problem they will not come to help us. . . . If Mr. Sar Kheng attends the ceremony, then our temple will become a recognized wat straightaway because no one would dare oppose it. . . . I just want to help the head monk become an officially recognized head monk who is approved by the provincial head monk. I have petitioned many times already but they just refuse and tell me that the temple doesn’t even have a land title. Not far from this temple is another, larger temple that had recently been renovated when I was conducting fieldwork. The official quoted above explained that that temple had received donations from a variety of high-ranking officials for the restorations, but the head monk decided to invite Prince Ranariddh of the royalist FUNCINPEC party to officiate at the consecration ceremony. Local CPP members, including the commune chief, the district chief, and police commissioners, came along to catch a glimpse of the prince but no police security was provided and the CPP officials were reportedly displeased. Not long after the ceremony, donations allegedly stopped and the temple became increasingly isolated in the village. It was also rumored that one of Prince Ranariddh’s deputies had borrowed money from the temple funds so he could make donations to other temples, and he had never repaid. Wealthier CPP officials, the story implies, would not have had to resort to this kind of thing. I later heard that one of the leading ācāryas of this unfortunate temple had resigned because of its financial problems. There was evidently no recourse to powerful networks for help. Villagers have to navigate this political landscape. Poorer villagers, who lack the funds to rebuild their temples, may be keen to buy the goods and services needed for their temple to earn stature. Elite patronage can therefore be both economically and politically expedient even though many villagers

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see what is happening as a threat to the moral fabric of society. An elderly villager gave the following account: When people are clever at making money, monks are also clever at making money, because monks come from lay people. Now monks try to find ways to make money by inviting high-ranking officials to join their ceremonies. Pol Pot destroyed the morality of living in the temple so people stopped paying respect to each other and especially, they stopped fearing [the relations of] puṇya/pāpa [good/sin]. People now don’t consider the temple as a respected place, but as a business place to make money.

Resetting the Limits? This chapter has discussed the great amount of ritual attention Cambodians pay to maintaining a boundary between the moral order epitomized by the Buddhist temple and the profane world outside, and between the living and the dead. It has also explored how this interweaves with historical shifts in political and economic power. The material I have presented suggests that the changing politico-economic order in Cambodia is perceived by many to be threatening Cambodia’s moral integrity. The danger to rural Khmer values that the people cited here identify seems to have less to do with the trauma of revolution and civil war than it does with the unrestrained greed that arrived in the wake of conflict, hand-in-hand with the neoliberal civilizing mission. When the international community began pouring funds into the reconstruction of secular institutions, Cambodians themselves were investing energy and resources into reconstructing their religion. This attests to an impressive cultural resilience and to the importance of religion in Khmer life. Many of the Cambodians I spoke to while conducting fieldwork were older and could remember a time before the 1970s that they narratively reconstructed as more morally intelligible than the present. In the early 2000s, however, I also met many younger people—students at the then active Buddhist Institute, young monks in village as well as urban temples, young academics— who were also seeking sources of cultural rehabilitation from their own country’s legends, texts, and customs rather than from Western blueprints of progress. Many were wary of the civilizing logic they saw being imposed on their country by supposedly well-intentioned outsiders.77 Their critical perspective is in keeping with the conclusions drawn by Springer,78 who has examined how an



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international agenda has been enacted in Cambodia in ways that legitimize primitive accumulation and obfuscate the violence used by elites to ensure that neoliberalism can proceed smoothly. The sīmā boundary may be understood as once having upheld civility. But if social survival means inviting consumer politics into the core of the temple, then the sīmā no longer marks a distinction between the realm of virtue and that of consumer power. With monks now absorbed into the electorate, nouveaux riches figures may enter into the heart of the temple largely free from the morally restraining influence of a robust and independent sangha. The comments made by those cited in this chapter suggest a longing for an imagined lost order, in which the right to rule was a “consequence of spiritual maturity.”79 In their view, today’s demoralization will ultimately lead to chaos. Many Cambodians, however, have been looking to Khmer religion as a realm in which moral limits may be re-established. Indeed, a postwar generation of internet-seasoned young monks has come of age and has resisted the government’s efforts to control them with its blend of benefaction and menace. In the unprecedented street protests that followed the 2013 elections, monks were prominent among the protesters. Also, reports of five monks being beaten in their temple on election day helped galvanize a movement known as “The Independent Monks’ Network for Social Justice,” a group of advocate monks who post daily on the internet to reveal social injustices and promote equality.80 Similarly, the Venerable Luon Sovath, a monk from Siem Reap who witnessed his family and neighbors being violently evicted from their homes in 2009, was undeterred by threats of arrest and disrobing and became an outspoken defender of housing rights. In 2012, he was awarded the Martin Ennals international human rights award for his advocacy work, which touches upon powerful economic interests.81 It is important to note, however, that since the general elections of 2018, Cambodian authoritarian rule has “shed its populist skin” and emancipatory space has shrunk alarmingly.82 In 2020, the Venerable Luon Sovath was, for example, forced to flee Cambodia following allegations of sexual misconduct.83 Developments like these raise serious questions about the potential of Cambodian religion to ever again set limits for the exercise of morally unpalatable, raw power.

Notes 1.  Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger (London: Routledge, 1966), p. 4. 2.  The author wishes to extend warm thanks to the Bank of Sweden

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Tercentenary Foundation for generous support for the original research, and the Swedish Research Council for supporting subsequent study. This work is also greatly indebted to the skill, sensitivity, and commitment of my research assistant Mr. Tou Seakhai. The author would also like to add a word of warm thanks to the coeditors of this volume. 3.  Francois Ponchaud, Cambodia: Year Zero (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1977). 4.  A command economy is a system in which government rather than the free market determines what goods should be produced and how much. A command economy is a key feature of any communist society. 5.  See Caroline Hughes, The Political Economy of Cambodia’s Transition 1991–2001 (London: Routledge, 2003); also, Simon Springer, Cambodia’s Neoliberal Order: Violence, Authoritarianism, and the Contestation of Public Space (London: Routledge, 2010). 6.  Evan Gottesman, Cambodia after the Khmer Rouge: Inside the Politics of Nation Building (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2003), p. 349. 7.  Anders Gerhard and Olaf Zenker, “Transition and Justice, an Introduction,” Development and Change 45, no. 3 (2014): pp. 395–414, 540. 8.  Through networks of patron-client relations, CPP members have enjoyed de facto control in Cambodia since the 1980s. See Benny Widyono, Dancing in Shadows: Sihanouk, the Khmer Rouge, and the United Nations in Cambodia (New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2008): pp. 145–147. The advent of the freemarket economy has since enabled them to use these networks for rent generation, monopolies, and concessions. See Andrew R. Cock, “External Actors and the Relative Autonomy of the Ruling Elite in Post-UNTAC Cambodia,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 41, no. 2 (2010): pp. 241–265. 9.  Caroline Hughes, “The Politics of Gifts: Tradition and Regimentation in Contemporary Cambodia,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 37, no. 3 (2006): pp. 469–489. 10.  Judy Ledgerwood and John Vijghen, “Decision Making in Khmer Villages,” in Cambodia Emerges from the Past: Eight Essays, ed. Judy Ledgerwood (DeKalb: University of Illinois Southeast Asia Publications, 2002), p. 117. 11.  See, e.g., Simon Springer, “Violent Accumulation: A Postanarchist Critique of Property, Dispossession, and the State of Exception in Neoliberalizing Cambodia,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 103, no. 3 (2013): pp. 608–626; Paul Rabé, “From ‘Squatters’ to Citizens? Slum Dwellers, Developers, Land Sharing and Power in Phnom Penh, Cambodia” (PhD diss., University of Southern California, 2009); Robin Biddulph, “Geographies of Evasion: The Development Industry and Property Rights Interventions in Early 21st Century Cambodia” (PhD diss., Goteborg University, 2010).



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12.  Alexandra Kent, “Conflict Continues: Transitioning into a Battle for Property in Cambodia Today,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 47, no. 1 (2016): pp. 3–23. 13.  See Penny Edwards, Cambodge: The Cultivation of a Nation 1860–1945 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007). 14.  John Marston, “Democratic Kampuchea and the Idea of Modernity,” in Cambodia Emerges from the Past: Eight Essays, ed. Judy Ledgerwood (DeKalb: University of Illinois Southeast Asia Publications, 2002), pp. 38–59. 15.  See, e.g., Ashley Thompson, “The Suffering of Kings: Substitute Bodies, Healing, and Justice in Cambodia,” in History, Buddhism, and New Religious Movements in Cambodia, ed. John Marston and Elizabeth Guthrie (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2005), pp. 91–112. 16.  Heng Monychenda, “In Search of the Dhammika Ruler,” in People of Virtue: Reconfiguring Religion, Power and Moral Order in Cambodia Today, ed. Alexandra Kent and David Chandler (Copenhagen: NIAS Press, 2008), pp. 310–318. 17.  See Work’s description in chapter 9 in this volume of how the spirits enacted a counterclaim against exploitation. 18.  Alexandra Kent, March 5, 2019, https://theasiadialogue.com/2019/03/05 /rights-of-transition-the-khmer-rouge-tribunal-in-cambodia/. 19.  Oliver Holmes, “ ‘Death of Democracy’ in Cambodia as Court Dissolves Opposition,” The Guardian, November 16, 2017. 20.  Alexandra Kent, March 5, 2021, https://www.newmandala.org /the-spirit-of-china-in-cambodia/. 21.  David P. Chandler, Facing the Cambodian Past: Selected Essays 1971– 1994 (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 1996), p. 106. The sense of the term “consume” here should not be confused with that of consumer culture. In this context it refers to the levying of revenue from the land by royalty or governors. Ian Harris also notes the similarity between the Cambodian and Thai connections between food and governance in his book Cambodian Buddhism: History and Practice (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2005), p. 49, note 4. 22.  Harris, Cambodian Buddhism, p. 50. 23.  See John Andrew Tully, Cambodia under the Tricolour: King Sisowath and the ‘mission civilisatrice’ 1904–1927 (Melbourne: Monash Asia Institute, 1996); Anne Hansen, How to Behave: Buddhism and Modernity in Colonial Cambodia 1860–1930 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007), pp. 55–64. 24.  The Cambodian temple (Khmer wat) was traditionally a community center that provided education for boys, a refuge for the elderly, redistribution of resources, rice and buffalo banks, library facilities, and healing services. 25.  See Davis, chapter 8 in this volume, for further detail.

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26.  Editor’s note: The sīmā stones on which Kent focuses here are the buried stone nimittas, the ṛs or “root” stones, in Khmer. 27.  Cf. Work, chapter 9 in this volume. 28.  Stanley J. Tambiah, “The Galactic Polity in Southeast Asia,” Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 3, no. 3 (2013 [1973]), pp. 503–534. 29.  Anne Hansen, “Gaps in the World: Harm and Violence in Khmer Buddhist Narrative,” in At the Edge of the Forest, ed. Anne R. Hansen and Judy Ledgerwood (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2004), pp. 47–70, 53–54. 30.  See Martin Stuart-Fox, “Conflicting Conceptions of the State: Siam, France and Vietnam in the Late Nineteenth Century,” Journal of the Siam Society 82, no. 2 (1994): pp. 135–144; also Ian Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse on Territory: Genealogy of the Buddhist Ritual Boundary (sīmā),” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 41, no. 2 (2010): pp. 215–239. 31.  See Chandler, Facing the Cambodian Past, p. 86. 32.  Madeleine Giteau, Le bornage rituel des temples bouddhiques au Cambodge (Paris: École Francaise d’Extrême Orient, 1969), p. 5. 33.  See Marston, Hoeur, and Guthrie, chapter 10 in this volume, for further details. 34.  Michael Wright, “Sacrifice and the Underworld: Death and Fertility in Siamese Myth and Ritual,” Journal of the Siam Society 78, no. 1 (1990): pp. 43–54. 35.  Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” p. 220. 36.  See Marston, Hoeur, and Guthrie, chapter 10 in this volume, for a discussion of the controversy surrounding this stone. 37.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 5. 38.  Cf. Davis, chapter 8 in this volume, for a discussion of the complex ways in which the space enclosed by the sīmā transforms dangerous power. 39.  Didier Bertrand, “A Medium Possession and its Relationship with Cambodian Buddhism: The Grū Pāramī,” in History, Buddhism, and New Religious Movements in Cambodia, ed. John Marston and Elizabeth Guthrie (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2004): pp. 150–169. 40.  Bertrand notes that this Buddhist technical term, originally referring to the ten perfections the Buddha accomplished in order to reach nibbāna, has been reappropriated in Cambodia to refer to spirit forms that are supposed to manifest these Buddhist virtues. 41.  See Kobayashi, chapter 7 in this volume, and Work, chapter 9 in this volume, for further discussion on pāramī. 42.  Anne Y. Guillou, “An Alternative Memory of the Khmer Rouge Genocide: The Dead of the Mass Graves and the Land Guardian Spirits [neak ta],” South East Asia Research 20 no. 2 (2012): pp. 207–226.



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43.  Bertrand, “A Medium Possession,” p. 151. 44.  Wright, “Sacrifice and the Underworld,” pp. 43–54. 45.  See Davis, chapter 8 in this volume, for a discussion of the relationship between violence and morality. 46.  Vathany Say, “ ‘Prachum Benda’ Ancestors’ Day,” http://www.khmerinstitute .org/, 2003 (accessed October 9, 2014). 47.  Thannisaro Bhikkhu, “Tirokudda Kanda: Hungry Shades Outside the Walls,” http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/kn/pv/pv.1.05.than.html, 1994 (accessed October 9, 2014). 48.  Erik W. Davis, Deathpower: Buddhism’s Ritual Imagination in Cambodia (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), pp. 161–165. 49.  Éveline Porée-Maspero, Cérémonies des douze mois: fêtes annuelles cambodgiennes (Paris: Centre de Documentation et de Recherche sur la Civilisation Khmère, 1985). 50.  Bou Saroeun, “An Athletic Offering to the World of the Spirits,” Phnom Penh Post, September 28, 2001. 51.  See, e.g., Jeffrey C. Shirkey, “The Moral Economy of the Pettavatthu: Hungry Ghosts and Theravada Buddhist Cosmology” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2008), pp. 80–81. 52.  Cf. Kobayashi, chapter 7 in this volume. 53.  Women may not become fully ordained nuns in the Theravāda tradition, but many Cambodian women, particularly elderly women, take eight or ten vows and live at the temple. They are known as ṭūn jī. With reference to Theravāda Buddhist textual tradition, women in Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia have been forbidden to undergo full ordination as bhikkhuni since the female order died out more than eight centuries ago. Efforts have been made recently by some to revive Theravāda female monasticism, with limited success in Sri Lanka and Thailand. For the most part, however, women who wish to live as Theravāda Buddhist renunciants follow eight or ten precepts. In Thailand, they are known as mae chi. See David Gosling, “The Changing Role of Thailand’s Lay Nuns (“Mae Chii”),” Southeast Asian Journal of Social Science 26, no. 1 (1998): pp. 121–142. In Myanmar, these women are called thila-shin. See Hiroko Kawanami, “Buddhist Monasticism and Contemporary Trends: From the Viewpoint of Buddhist Women and Buddhist Nuns,” Historia Religionum 7, no. 11 (2015): pp. 78–86. 54.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 14. 55.  These are former monks, who, by virtue of their monastic experience, can lead simple rituals by themselves. They are often involved in liturgies led by monks and may specialize in either weddings or funerals.

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56.  Elizabeth Guthrie, “Outside the Sima,” Udaya Journal of Khmer Studies, no. 2 (2001): pp. 7–18. 57.  Harris, Cambodian Buddhism, p. 67. 58.  Charles Keyes describes how in 1979 a delegation of Theravāda monks from Vietnam were tasked with reordaining seven Cambodian men who had been monks prior to the Khmer Rouge period. The Cambodian lineage was thus formally re-established. The youngest of the seven, the Venerable Tep Vong, was subsequently appointed the most senior monk in the country, the supreme patriarch of the then single monastic order. See Charles Keyes, “Communist Revolution and the Buddhist Past in Cambodia,” in Asian Visions of Authority: Religion and the Modern States of East and Southeast Asia, ed. Charles Keyes, Laura Kendall, and Helen Hardacre (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994), pp. 43–73. John Marston, however, has described how the groundswell of interest in re-establishing Buddhism had led to local communities reordaining monks with the help of local authorities even before the Vietnamese officially restarted the sangha. See John A. Marston, “Reestablishing the Cambodian Monkhood,” in Ethnicity, Borders and the Grassroots Interface with the State: Studies on Southeast Asia in Honor of Charles F. Keyes, ed. John A. Marston (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2014), pp. 169–194. 59.  This is not the case in Thailand or Burma, where monks forgo the right to participate in voting upon ordination. Some of the monks I spoke to about this complained that monks were not consulted on the appropriateness of their inclusion in the electorate. But while there was broad agreement that monks should not be involved directly in political activities, some described voting as a way to fulfill their duty to help promote social justice. 60.  Chea Sotheacheath and James Eckhardt, “Activist Monks Dare to Defy Authorities,” Phnom Penh Post, September 12, 1998. 61.  Pok Sokundara and Beth Moorthy, “Monks Walk a Tightrope between Peace and Politics,” Phnom Penh Post, October 2, 1998. 62.  Saing Soenthrith and David Kihara, “Inaction over Monk’s Killing Worries Observers,” Cambodia Daily, February 28, 2003. 63.  Jessica Frommer, “Wat Threatens pro-SRP Monks,” Phnom Penh Post, October 10, 2003. 64.  Radio Free Asia, “Cambodian Monk with Ties to Opposition Party Found Killed,” http://www.rfa.org/english/news/cambodia/monk-05242013163936 .html, May 24, 2013 (accessed December 29, 2014). 65.  Matthew O’Lemmon, “Merit-Making Activities and the Latent Ideal of the Buddhist Wat in Southwestern Cambodia,” Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs 33 no. 2 (2014): pp. 27–57.



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66.  Cf. Kobayashi, chapter 7 in this volume, who also describes how influential politicians were invited to preside over the ceremony in the cases he observed. In 2002, Guthrie noted that politicians were making lavish donations to temples not only to acquire merit, but also to demonstrate their politico-economic power (Elizabeth Guthrie, “Buddhist Temples and Cambodian Politics,” in People and the 1998 National Elections in Cambodia: Their Voices, Roles and Impact on Democracy, ed. J. L. Vijghen and C. Hughes (Phnom Penh: Experts for Community Research, 2002), pp. 59–73. 67.  In the July 2003 elections, the CPP did not win the required two-thirds majority that is demanded by the constitution to rule, and it was therefore necessary to build a coalition. Following the elections there was a prolonged period of almost one year during which the parties were unwilling to reach a compromise. 68.  Harris, Cambodian Buddhism, p. 65. 69.  Cf. Kobayashi’s description in chapter 7 in this volume of old sīmās that are so powerful that even monks cannot live within their bounds. 70.  The most notable expressions of this have been evictions and land grabbing by well-connected and powerful people in Cambodia, sometimes on behalf of foreign businesspeople. See Simon Springer, “Illegal Evictions? Overwriting Possession and Orality with Law’s Violence in Cambodia,” Journal of Agrarian Change 13, no. 4 (2013): pp. 520–546; also Kent “Conflict Continues.” 71.  Cf. Work, chapter 9 in this volume. 72.  Global Witness, “Country for Sale: How Cambodia’s Elite has Captured the Country’s Extractive Industries,” Global Witness Report, February 5, 2009, https://www.globalwitness.org/en/reports/country-sale/ (accessed December 8, 2016). 73.  Simon Springer, “The Neoliberalization of Security and Violence in Cambodia’s Transition,” in Human Security in East Asia: Challenges for Collaborative Action, ed. Sorpong Peou (London: Routledge, 2009), p. 125. 74.  Simon Springer, “Violence, Democracy, and the Neoliberal ‘Order’: The Contestation of Public Space in Posttransitional Cambodia,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 99, no. 1 (2009): p. 155. 75.  See Alexander L. Hinton, Why Did They Kill? Cambodia in the Shadow of Genocide (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), p. 100. 76.  See Hinton, Why Did They Kill?, p. 109; Sheila Scopis, “Cambodia’s String Economy” (PhD diss., University of Melbourne, 2011). 77.  For a discussion of how IMF and World Bank policy prescriptions are forcing poor countries to “allow their lands, environments, natural resources and populations to feed distant markets and foreign, often trans-national corporations,” see Jenina Joy Chavez Malaluan and Shalmali Guttal, Structural Adjustment in the

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Name of the Poor: The PRSP Experience in the Lao PDR, Cambodia and Vietnam (CUSRI Chulalongkorn University, Bangkok, 2002), http://focusweb.org/publications /Research%20and%20Policy%20papers/2002/PRSP.pdf (accessed December 6, 2014). 78.  Springer, “Violent Accumulation,” p. 617. 79.  Harris, Cambodian Buddhism, p. 50. 80.  Clothilde Le Coz and Daniel Bezant, “Holy Activism,” Southeast Asia Globe, April 4, 2014, http://sea-globe.com/holy-activism-cambodia-loun-sovath -but-buntenh-independent-monks-network-for-social-justice-southeast-asia -globe/ (accessed August 25, 2014). 81.  Civil Rights Defenders, http://www.civilrightsdefenders.org/news /human-rights-defender-luon-sovath-detained/ (accessed August 25, 2014). 82.  Alice Beban and Laura Schoenberger, “Authoritarian Rule Shedding its Populist Skin in Rural Cambodia,” July 18, 2018, https://www.opendemocracy.net /en/authoritarian-rule-shedding-its-populist-skin-in-rural-cambodia/ (last accessed June 21, 2021). 83.  Hannah Beech and Sun Narin, “How a Facebook Disinformation Campaign Forced a Monk to Flee Cambodia,” Irish Times, August 24, 2020, https://www .irishtimes.com/news/world/asia-pacific/how-a-facebook-disinformation-campaign -forced-a-monk-to-flee-cambodia-1.4337813 (last accessed June 21, 2021).

ch a pter 7

Regenerating Ancient Sīmās A Study of Buddhist Places of Worship in Rural Cambodia Satoru Kobayashi

Buddhist practice is an integral part of Cambodian society and its people’s lives. This is evidenced by the omnipresence of Buddhist places of worship in the country. The most popular of these is the wat. Wats can be found anywhere people live, whether in cities or rural areas. First and foremost, wats are spaces for the everyday monastic practice of monks. It is customary for Cambodian people to remove their hats before entering a wat compound, and alcohol cannot be consumed or sold there because of the wat’s special place in the Buddhist religious order. Wats are also used for secular purposes: they become polling stations during elections or meeting places for various organizations. In this sense, a wat in Cambodia not only functions as a monastery, but also as a community center. The first interest of this chapter is to explore the variety of wats in Cambodia, paying particular attention to their generation and regeneration processes. Among previous studies that have analyzed the variety of Buddhist places of worship, the study of Thailand by the French academic Louis Gabaude is especially pertinent. According to his study, there are two reasons why a worship place is constructed in a specific location.1 The first has to do with the needs of the lay community; places of worship are established in response to the desire of the people to have a sangha, a focus of daily acts of merit making, close by, and they are therefore built as part of villages. The second reason has to do with Buddhist miracle stories; they are built in accordance with a special religious awareness of location. In Thailand, for example, if there is a monastery built on a site that, according to Buddhist legend, the Buddha visited during his lifetime. Worship places in this category are sometimes found in remote areas, far removed from any communities. As this chapter will show, the

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process by which wats are created in rural Cambodia shares the basic characteristics of the process that occurred in Thailand. It also, however, illustrates differences that may originate from local history and culture. To study local characteristics of Buddhist culture from a comparative perspective is a classic research approach, but its significance remains relevant today. Comparative study is especially important when studying a common element about which one can find a definition in a sacred text or which is present in (Buddhist) cultural traditions. Sīmā, the focus of this collection, is undoubtedly one such element.2 The Vinaya, which focuses on monastic discipline, stipulates that monks who have renounced this world should practice their religious trainings in places with a sīmā, and it provides detailed instructions on how to do so.3 In Cambodia, the word sīmā indicates a sacred space established inside a vihāra, a building considered an essential component of wats. Each sīmā is established through a specific Buddhist ritual as a general rule. This rite to establish a sīmā is described as “the ceremony of burying sīmā” (pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā) in Khmer.4 The ceremony is performed as the last stage of consecrating the vihāra. It is considered one of the most important among the many Buddhist rituals, and people believe they can earn a significant amount of merit by participating in both the construction of the vihāra and the sīmā ritual. The sīmā space is necessary for the everyday monastic practice of monks, as described in the Tripitaka. As a matter of practice, however, there are variations in the relationship between the sites for Buddhist worship of ordinary people and the sīmā that are believed to exist there. Thus this chapter’s study of the variety and generation of Buddhist places of worship in a rural province in Cambodia will not only illustrate features of the Cambodian people’s practice and perception of Buddhism, but also contribute to improved understanding of the cultural diversity within and among Theravāda Buddhist societies. The second purpose of this chapter is to shed light on the grassroots dynamism of Buddhist practices that secure the resiliency of Buddhism in people’s ordinary lives. In other words, is it possible to make an argument for a fundamental force of Buddhist continuity since ancient times? The case of sīmā in rural Cambodia provides illuminating answers to this broad question. As is well known, all religious practice was forbidden in Cambodia from 1975 to 1979 under the totalitarian rule of the Pol Pot regime.5 The regime, one of the most notorious state powers in twentieth-century world history, sought to build a new society and culture in Cambodian territory, following the swift and total destruction of existing society.6 Buddhism was one of the main targets of destruction: wat buildings were systematically appropriated or destroyed and



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Buddha statues were smashed, buried, or thrown into the water. Monks and novices were forced to disrobe in 1976, marking a stark discontinuity of the Cambodian monkhood with its past. A number of studies analyze the reconstruction of Cambodian Buddhism since the end of the Pol Pot regime. One of the issues discussed with the highest importance is the re-establishment of the monkhood in the country. The ordination of Buddhist monks in theory needs a group of senior monks to perform certain roles in ordination rituals, such as giving precepts. The socialist government established after the fall of the Pol Pot regime therefore invited senior monks from the southern part of Vietnam, where a number of ethnic Khmer people resided, to give precepts at an official ordination ceremony in September 1979. But before this formal ceremony, which marked the official recreation of the lineage of the Cambodian monkhood, other ordination ceremonies were held across the country in the presence of a Buddha statue, not a monk.7 Moreover, the recent study by John Marston uncovered that the Cambodian monkhood the government assisted in “re-establishing” was actually based on transnational features of Buddhist cultures in the Mekong Delta region, which bridged Theravāda and Mahāyāna as well as Khmer and Vietnamese traditions.8 In essence, it was the interwoven historical contacts among Buddhists in the region, not a powerful politico-religious authority pursuing a single legible lineage, that constituted the foundation of the re-establishment of the monkhood in the country after 1979. While this chapter focuses on the “making process” of Buddhist places of worship in Cambodia during the recent decade, it overlaps with previous studies in seeking to better understand the dynamism of the recovery of Cambodian Buddhist practices after their destruction. The chapter will examine the origins of local wats and the conditions of sīmā in one rural province within the local historical and cultural context. Through this, it will study how Cambodian people are constructing a view of Buddhist places of worship and sīmā through daily acts and will illustrate the creativity involved in the process of conceptualizing sīmā at Buddhist wats. While not directly dealing with the post–Pol Pot reconstruction efforts, the chapter focuses on how places of worship, religious practices, and indeed religion itself can be regenerated after devastating destruction.

The Research Area and Its Setting This chapter is based on fieldwork conducted during 2000–2015 in Kampong Thum Province, Cambodia. The geographic territory of Cambodia is

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characterized by the contrast of lowlands and highlands. The majority of the current population, more than fifteen million, makes a living in the lowlands along the Mekong River and Tone Sap Lake. They speak Khmer and are Theravāda Buddhists. Kampong Thum Province is about two hundred kilometers northwest of the capital city of Phnom Penh and about one hundred kilometers east of the Angkor archaeological sites in Siem Reap. It lies on the eastern side of Tone Sap Lake and consists of a lowland area close to the floodplain of the lake and a forest area that stretches toward the north. Although the population living in the province today did not relay many concrete memories of the past, human activity in the area dates back centuries. The Sambour Prei Kuk remains, which are said to have been built in the preAngkorian era between the sixth and eighth centuries, are found in the study area. Archaeological relics such as embossed sandstone slabs and old bricks are scattered throughout the region inside villages, at the edges of villages, or in the forests. All these are reminders of a unique ancient local history, a vague periodization of the past in the local imagination. Narratives of local people trace back about one hundred years of history and illustrate that the province was a frontier for the Khmer population at the beginning of the twentieth century.9 A number of immigrants came from the more densely populated areas of the Mekong Delta in search of agricultural land. A number of villages west of the provincial capital of Kampong Thum were formed by those immigrants around the 1930s. Chinese immigrants reached and started to make a living in the area at that time as well. In interviews, the local elderly described how thick forests surrounded their villages at the beginning of the 1950s and how wild elephants, tigers, and other forest animals were frequently seen. The environment started to change during the 1950s in tandem with the improvement of infrastructure and the expansion of economic activities.10 Truck taxis began to connect local people with the capital city. Local Sino-Khmer traders engaged in the export of local paddy to Phnom Penh as well as to Saigon. A number of wats were constructed during this period in step with socioeconomic development. This all came to a halt when the country plunged into civil war in 1970. People in this area and across the country suffered a total transformation of daily life under the Pol Pot regime in 1975–1979, which caused a huge loss of human life. When I first visited the area at the end of the 1990s, the local society was at the height of reconstruction, which had begun after the election prepared by the United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC) in 1993. In 2013 the population of Kampong Thum’s eight districts amounted to approximately 650,000. I conducted field surveys in four of those districts: Stoeng Saen district, the provincial administrative and economic center;



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Kampong Svay district, a lowland rice-growing area; Prasat Ballangk district, which has a large open forest area; and Prasat Sambour district, which includes both open forest and the floodplain of the Saen River. The four districts are linked to each other and form an integral part of rural Cambodia, on which this chapter focuses. The area stretches about fifty kilometers from east to west and from north to south. About half of the provincial population lives in the 267 villages of these four districts. There were eighty-five wats in the four districts in 2009, or one wat in every three villages. The Cambodian constitution, established in 1993, declares Buddhism as the state religion. The Cambodian government therefore supports Buddhist activities of the population in various ways. The Ministry of Cults and Religion takes primary responsibility for this and discloses to the public annual statistical data of wats and monks in the country. According to the ministry, in 2005 there were 4,145 wats in the country. This number increased to 4,466 in 2010 and 4,819 in 2015.11 These statistics show an incremental yet continuous increase in the number of wats in the country as a recent trend.12 Kampong Thum Province reflects this overall trend: the province had 213 wats in 2005, 225 in 2010, and 262 in 2015. A wat consists of three types of buildings. The central worship hall— known as braḥ vihāra (a.w. vihear in Khmer)—contains the sīmā. A vihāra is reserved for special rituals; it is not used for everyday monastic practice. For the majority of wats in Cambodia, the existence of a sīmā is indicated by stones outside of the vihāra. People call these stones “slẏk sīmā” (meaning a “leaf of sīmā”).13 A wat also contains the sālā chân (a.w. sāl chhan), where people offer daily meals to monks and ordinary rituals are performed. Finally, there is the kuṭi, the building where monks live. These three types of buildings, the vihāra, sālā chân, and kuṭi, can be found in all wats, although their sizes may vary. Many wats have additional structures, such as a gathering hall and Buddha statues. Pagodas are rarely seen in ordinary wats in the country, but shrines of guardian spirits are frequently found in the compound of wats.

Understanding How Worship Places Are Generated From the perspective of the ministry, the creation of a wat starts with a permit application. Local people first contact provincial officials through local authorities such as a village chief or commune council members. They then collaboratively prepare the necessary documents, including a land use plan and blueprints for the buildings, and submit these to the ministry. Finally, the ministry deliberates on the merits of the application and decides whether to

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grant or reject permission to build. Ministry officials repeatedly said that they are willing to accept requests from peripheral provinces that have few wats. They also emphasized, however, that the existence of a stable local community is key, and they therefore seldom approve requests from an area that already has large numbers of wats or is sparsely populated.14 Explanations from the ministry about the application procedure, however, are largely unhelpful for understanding the generation process of wats in Cambodia. In order to do that, we must look at the religious activities of local people before they proceed to, or irrespective of, a permit application. Indeed, local people sometimes use the word wat to refer to a worship place regardless of whether such a place has been designated as such by the ministry. As a matter of practice, multiple Buddhist places of worship function almost the same as wats, but without official designation. The most representative example of this is the āsram.15 Meaning “hermitage” in Sanskrit, an āsram in contemporary Cambodia is used as a retreat in a forest, for observance of precepts, and for holding ceremonies.16 The ministry has recorded the number of āsrams in the provinces since 2003 as part of its annual survey of wats in the country.17 Ministry officials explained that āsrams are places for lay people who need a quiet space to conduct religious activities such as meditation. Interestingly, they emphasized that the difference between a wat and an āsram is that the latter does not have a vihāra and a sīmā, making it impossible for monks to reside there for any length of time, especially during Buddhist Lent. There are some āsrams in the country, however, where monks and novices live throughout the year. In short, explanations about the differences among Buddhist places of worship in Cambodia are based on prevailing notions, not strict definitions. People may discuss the differences between wats and āsrams as if there are common definitions of each, but any such assumption needs to be properly examined against actual practice. A number of anthropological studies explore local characteristics of religious culture by focusing on the discrepancy between theory and practice. But due to persistent ambiguity between official designation and everyday practice, and even within institutional explanations, it is impossible to apply this method when studying Buddhist places of worship in Cambodia. Therefore, as indicated above, this chapter examines ethnographic information and data collected through field surveys for the purpose of exploring the variation in places of worship and their generation processes.

Reconstructing Vihāra and Establishing a Sīmā Through Ritual From the end of the 1990s to the 2000s, there was a surge in the reconstruction of wat buildings that had been destroyed during the Pol Pot period in rural



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Cambodia.18 The primary drivers of wat reconstruction at that time were projects funded by locals practicing daily acts of faith. Since the stabilization of social conditions after 1993, people’s lives have been directly connected to the market economy, which has caused a diversification of economic activities and rapid socioeconomic change. In the midst of such change, rural people accumulated sufficient resources to donate money toward the reconstruction of their community wats. Some traditional Buddhist events were also supported by various networks of Buddhist followers living outside the community. On such occasions, wealthy people from the city or abroad would visit the rural wats, participate in rituals alongside the locals, and end up donating far greater amounts of money or construction materials than the locals ever could. Thanks to money donated by Khmers living overseas (who had left Cambodia during the 1970s and 1980s as refugees and returned to visit their home towns and villages), some of the reconstructed vihāra in rural wats are comparable in size to vihāra in urban wats. I conducted a survey of thirty-nine wats in Kampong Svay and Stoeung Saen districts in Kampong Thum Province during March and April 2000.19 By the beginning of the 1990s, the province had become notorious as a site of fierce fighting between the government and the Khmer Rouge; I therefore requested district officials of the Ministry of Cults and Religion to accompany me during the survey. The villages and wats were not isolated but were difficult to approach due to bad road conditions.20 While surveying the current conditions of each wat, I also collected historical narratives and various information related to the current condition of local communities. What I learned first was that the reconstruction of Buddhist activities in the area resumed spontaneously, immediately after the fall of the Pol Pot regime.21 People cleaned former wat compounds, re-enshrined surviving Buddha statues, and began performing Buddhist rituals again. In such rituals, elderly men filled in for and performed the role of monks. They were typically men who had previously been ordained or had been former head monks of local wats. These men had married after returning to secular life but continued to play an important role in local religious events. These “surrogate monks” indicate pragmatic attempts to bridge the gap between monks and lay persons, a gap that in principle is unbridgeable. Such acts are not in accordance with the tenets of the religion, but they were socially accepted given the circumstances at the time. The survey also uncovered that most vihāras of local wats were destroyed during the Pol Pot period, and by 1979 only their foundations were left. Among thirty-five wats that had been constructed before the war, a mere

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eleven had vihāras in a usable condition when the Pol Pot regime ended.22 Local people explained, however, that a sīmā continued to exist even if the vihāra had been destroyed. This was such a common understanding that they continued to perform Buddhist rituals at building sites even where only the foundation remained. In fact, the Vinaya explains that once a sacred ground is established by the sangha, its sacred power remains even after the sangha is long gone, and indeed in perpetuity, unless a removal ceremony is performed.23 Thus it is correct both in terms of practice and teaching that even in buildings which have been physically destroyed, the invisible sīmā is left intact and, therefore, can be used again. It became clear soon after the end of the regime that the local people had a strong desire to rebuild the vihāras in their wats regardless of their condition.24 By the 1990s, eleven wats that were left with nothing but demolished old vihāras in 1979 had completed the construction of new ones. Several additional wats were in the process of rebuilding vihāras when I visited the area in the beginning of the 2000s. In general, the construction of vihāras is proceeding in step with the socioeconomic development of the area. The Buddhist ritual for installing sīmās, “the ceremony of burying sīmā” or pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā, had been performed in the final stage of reconstruction in all the rebuilt vihāras. Although the sacred ground that had been in use in the pre–Pol Pot era was still considered to be valid, locals conducted a ceremony to “re-establish” it as such in order to gain merit and collect donations for the wat. As the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā is one of the biggest opportunities for Cambodian adherents of Buddhism to gain merit, many people gather for the ceremony. Attendees often include people who have moved to the city or are influential politicians.25 All of them make substantial monetary contributions to the wat in question.26 A vihāra is a symbol of pride for those who take a fundamental role in its construction. The construction of a vihāra in a rural wat, however, is a longterm process that usually spans several years, not least because the vihāra is expected to be the most beautiful and ornate building in a wat in Cambodia today. Seeking assistance from outside sources is necessary; therefore, in many cases, craftworkers and painters from outside the local area are hired for long periods of time. In remote areas, a small wooden hut is used temporarily as a vihāra until construction of the proper vihāra is completed.27 Most wats organize large-scale ceremonies to mark each process of construction before inauguration, such as the completion of a wall or roof, for the purpose of collecting monetary contributions from various participants. Loans from moneylenders were used to start building vihāras in nearly all cases in the research



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area. For these wats, the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā has become a perfect opportunity to repay debts. The pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā at Wat Bosveng, Prasat Ballangk district, Kampong Thum Province, illustrates a typical case. I observed the first day of the three-day ceremony at the end of March 2000 with local officials. The wat is approximately twenty-five kilometers north of the provincial capital. In 1993, local people who wanted a wat close to their homes sent an application to the ministry; because the nearest wat was several kilometers away, it was accepted with ease. When I arrived, I first learned that the vihāra was still in the process of construction. Actually, the building was bare cement with no painting or roof tiles. The officials explained that the wat decided to organize the ceremony for the purpose of collecting money to continue the construction, which was common for remote wats in the area. Participants from diverse backgrounds attended the ceremony, with the ultimate goal of gaining merit.28 Seven tent-houses with roofs of plastic sheeting were set up by the Buddhists of seven wats in the same district and neighboring districts.29 Nine round stones that were about the size of a human head were placed where the vihāra was to be constructed. People called these stones ṛs sīmā or “sīmā roots.” Next, nine holes, each about one meter deep, were dug at eight points on the ground outside of the vihāra building and at the center of the building before starting rituals. Then, each ṛs sīmā was wrapped in a white cloth, suspended by rope from a stick and placed horizontally over the hole. When the stone was lowered into the hole, the ceremony was set to begin. The people assembled at the wat visited the vihāra on the eve of the final day of the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā to toss various items along with prayers into the holes dug outside and inside the building. It is said that doing so will make the prayer, or wish, come true. The items are related to the prayer, so for example someone who wishes to become rich would toss in some money and someone wishing to be smart would toss in a pen or a notebook. Although the practice is no longer common, I have heard that people used to intentionally cut their fingers so that they could drip blood into the hole, in order to strengthen their bodies.30 At midnight before the final day of the ceremony, monks performed a ritual to purify the space. First, a group of monks assembled inside the fenced-off vihāra, and then lined up along one side of the fence. As they chanted in Pāli in unison to purify the space, they moved forward, one step at a time. This proceeded solemnly until the chanting monks covered the entire area of the fencedoff space.31 Lay followers observed the ceremony from outside the fence.

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Figure 7.1.  At the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā. Courtesy Satoru Kobayashi.

On the final day of the ceremony, just after the consecration of space by chantings, the atmosphere transforms and is filled with secular desires. In Cambodia today, the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony is an occasion for the local community to show its ties with sponsors from outside the community.32 At this stage, a specially invited guest, often an influential politician, is led to the hole at the center of the vihāra to lead the ceremony.33 The Kampong Thom



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provincial governor, who belongs to the Cambodian People’s Party, was invited in this case. The governor sat by the hole and, as instructed by the layman facilitating the ceremony, used a wooden rod to hit a machete positioned above the rope to cut it off. The representatives of local wats performed the same ritual simultaneously with the other eight stones, and all the ṛs sīmā were dropped into the holes. Immediately following this, the people began fighting over the white cloth covering the ṛs sīmā and the ropes attached to it. The local people explained that as the cloth has magical power, attendees scrambled to collect pieces of it not only for themselves, but for their families and friends as well. The pieces of cloth can be used as a charm as they are, but most people typically ask a practitioner of magic to draw traditional spells or geometric patterns (yantra, a.w. yantra˚) on the cloth to consolidate its power. The rituals ended at noon of the third day by offering a midday meal to the monks. As seen in this case, holding the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony fulfills multiple purposes. Merit making was the fundamental incentive for all participants of various backgrounds. Collecting donations was highly anticipated by the organizer, who had to pay debts and continue the construction. The ceremony also provided an occasion for political networking for the local authority. In addition to these motivations, one religious goal was also certain: the ceremony’s rituals completely altered the space in question and created a sacred space.34 When the sacred ground is established, the inherent nature of a wat as a place of the sangha’s everyday monastic practice becomes complete. Furthermore, the presence of Cambodian people at sīmā rituals shows that each participant, through his or her actions, attaches a local religious meaning to the sacred space. For example, people toss various items into the holes dug for the ṛs sīmā as they make a wish. This is a custom connected to the performance of the Buddhist ritual to establish a sacred, religiously ordered space.35 Studies focusing on sīmā in areas other than Cambodia have also described Buddhist rituals for establishing a sacred space, which are integral to local religious traditions.36 But the Cambodian people’s belief that the white cloth and ropes attached to the ṛs sīmā carry magical power is worth noting. This power is referred to as pāramī (a.w. baromey) by Cambodian people. The word is defined as “completeness,” “ideal,” or “perfection.”37 Originating from Pāli, the concept can be traced to the elite culture of the Indic civilization. People use this word, however, as an indication of a local religious concept in reference to a kind of divine quality or power.38 It designates an unspecialized power. Cambodian people often use the expression gurū/grū

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pāramī (grū of pāramī, grū meaning the teacher or variation of a supernatural being) to refer to a spirit medium with supreme power, leaders of millenarian movements, or the force of an invisible supernatural power, itself called grū. Another related expression is pāramī braḥ (a.w. baromey preah), which means “pāramī of the braḥ,” which translates as sacred or Buddha and refers to the power of the Buddha himself. Although much examination remains necessary for a full understanding of pāramī, it is essential to consider that Buddha does not exclusively determine its source. It is rooted in many spirits and practices in local cultures, which the people understand in relation to Buddhism today, as well. This concept will be examined later because of its importance to Cambodian people’s unique perception on religious specialty for a place of worship. After I witnessed the generation process of a sīmā at the ritual of Wat Bosveng, I had supposed that all wats, in the historical process of their development as a Buddhist place of worship, had conducted the same or a similar ritual. I therefore asked relevant questions at all thirty-nine wats in the research area to confirm this, but the difficulty of studying the historical situation of the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony quickly became clear. That is, although no one argued against the idea that the sacred ground is essential for monks to be able to lead an ascetic life according to the Vinaya, I found no one in many wats who could remember any historical information about their own wat, such as the year it was founded or when and how the sacred boundary was established. Almost no documents chronicling the wat history existed in the research area, especially those wats that existed prior to the 1940s.39 The fundamental reason for why a wat was established in a given location was long forgotten, making it impossible for me to confirm its generation process based on the testimonies of elders.40 The local people of Wat Chanserey (one of the thirty-nine wats surveyed) presented a unique narrative of their wat’s history. The wat is on the bank of the Saen River, which flows southward after originating in the border region with Thailand and bisects Kampong Thom Province.41 I visited the wat for the first time in April 2000. According to interviews conducted with elderly locals at the time, the wat was established in 1959, which is relatively recently. When the wat was being consecrated, people buried a sandstone slab, which was found where the wat presently stands. The vihāra was built right above the buried slab, and my sources stated that no pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony was performed. During my visit in 2000, I could not notice anything particularly different between Wat Chanserey and other wats I had seen in terms of the buildings and the grounds. Monks resided there and conducted rituals that required a sacred ground. I was aware of the uniqueness of Wat Chanserey’s



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story at that time but did not pay much attention. When I think back, though, I now realize that one of the local characteristics of sīmā, which I describe in the next section, was already present there.

Regenerating Ancient Sīmās About ten years after my first research trip, I had the chance to conduct a survey of Buddhist places of worship in the same province. It covered not only the two districts I had visited during 2000–2001, but also two neighboring districts that I surveyed for first time. Specifically, I tried to visit all the wats and āsrams that were registered by the ministry in the four districts. I conducted interviews with monks and lay people at these wats during the Buddhist Lent seasons of 2009, 2010, and 2011. The first survey in 2009 uncovered two interesting findings. The first was a change in the historical recognition of wats by local people. Actually, chief monks and lay persons I had interviewed ten years previously had disappeared from their wats in most of the cases. The destruction from the Pol Pot period that was so evident in the early 2000s was barely noticeable; many wats had finished reconstruction of buildings. Moreover, I was surprised when some of the locals started to narrate the history of each wat in detail. As noted, previously the common response to historical questions was to simply say that a wat had existed “since a long time ago.” In more than ten cases in 2009, however, local people confidently identified in which year their wat was established; in each case this was much earlier than the beginning of the twentieth century. I learned later that new administrative procedures of the ministry helped induce this change.42 In 2008, the ministry ordered provincial- and district-level officials to submit a profile of all wats, including their histories. Responding to this demand gave local people a chance to create a history. In short, by the end of the 2000s, the invention of historical traditions had become the norm in the area.43 Second, and most important, was that I identified more wats in which the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā had never been performed. Specifically, in three of the eighty-five places I visited during 2009, a place of worship had been established without performing the ceremony to mark a sacred ground. These were Wat Chanserey, noted in the former section, and two āsrams in the most remote area of Prasat Sambour district. Āsram Phnom Balieng, one of the two, is a particularly illustrative example. The āsram stands atop a lonely hill that rises above the floodplain of the Saen River. Piles of bricks broken into pieces or overgrown by huge tree roots were spotted near the hilltop, as well as embossed

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sandstone blocks similar to those found in ruins of Angkor Wat and stone slabs with ancient Khmer inscriptions. Local monks and lay persons explained that some religious activities had been conducted there on and off for the past eighty years, but that no monks had resided there continuously. In 1994 some laywomen started to live there. Following that, one monk stayed from 1998 to 2007. The place was approved by the ministry as an āsram in 2001. When I visited there in 2009, one monk, one novice, and several lay persons were practicing daily acts there.44 They explained that a sīmā has existed in the location since ancient times and, therefore, they have been practicing daily acts of Buddhist faith without having to create a sacred ground by themselves. The other āsram in question, Āsram Anlong Kong, is in the border area between a floodplain and a forest several kilometers north of Āsram Phnom Balieng. Interestingly, it shares the same generation story as Āsram Phnom Balieng; that is, the discovery of ancient artifacts was considered an omen and the place of worship was (re)created. A local man over seventy years old explained that he initiated the establishment of the āsram, and it was approved by the ministry in 1998. Monks and novices have been living there since then, and annual Buddhist festivals such as Kathina ceremony are conducted every year. He explained that the local people had recognized the special nature of the place since the 1960s, because every once in a while some remains of sandstone, bones, and small gold Buddha statues were found there. Although it became clear through the interview that at the time of the research, the āsram did not have much support from villagers who lived in its vicinity, groups of Buddhists from Phnom Penh and some other provinces made donations to construct buildings at the place.45 The local elder declared that the ceremony to establish a sīmā was not necessary because the place was already endowed with an ancient one. The association between archaeological artifacts and the perception of ancient sīmās was further clarified by a different case discovered the following year. Two āsrams were newly approved during 2009–2010. One of the two, Āsram Teuk Ap Daung Phdav, indicated the same pattern as Āsram Anlong Kong.46 The āsram is situated in an open forest more than three kilometers away from the nearest village. Locals had long known of the existence of archaeological remains in the forest, but no attempt had been made to build a place of worship. That changed in April 2010, when a local monk, after returning from a long pilgrimage across Cambodia that reached as far as Thailand, proposed establishing a place of worship there. The local elders and community leaders agreed and were granted permission from the ministry to construct a place of worship. When I first visited the site in August of 2010,



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Figure 7.2. Archaeological remains of an ancient sīmā found in a forest. Courtesy Satoru Kobayashi.

many people were working on clearing the land, and the building was not yet completed. The locals and monks explained that there was no need to perform a pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā to establish a place of worship, because archaeological remains were found on that particular site in the middle of the forest. According to the locals, the existence of the remains was in and of itself evidence of the existence of an ancient sīmā. These examples identified in the research area represent a unique practice with respect to sacred grounds. Interestingly, the common explanation given for establishment of these places of worship—that a sacred ground had already been bestowed in ancient times—was based on the discovery of archaeological remains. In Cambodia, Angkorian or pre-Angkorian sites can often be found on top of low hills and in lowlands. Since Cambodian people today regard the glory of Angkor Wat as the center of the national culture’s historical narrative, it is probable that some locals would imagine ancestors who enjoyed the religious civilization transferred from India.47 In addition to the imagined historical connection, however, one must not underestimate the way local people conceptualize sacredness, which is inherent to a specific place. Simply put, in those locations, historical imagination not only connects ancestral Buddhists with the present-day practitioners, but it also creates a contiguous religious power in the form of pāramī. As I have stated previously, the ways Cambodian people describe the religious concept of pāramī are quite diverse.48 The meanings attached to the word ranges from “the Buddha” and “leaders of millenarian movements” to “powers possessed by invisible supernatural beings.” Among the various definitions of pāramī that I collected during my field research, one posits that the power and nature referred to as pāramī is created through human activities. As explained by a male elder, pāramī is

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inherent in a wat, “because many monks have continuously chanted sutras for years and resided here. It is natural that such a place has a special nature.” To elaborate the religious landscape concerning pāramī from a much broader perspective is helpful to deepen the understanding of the association between historical imagination and local conceptions of power.49 Specifically, two places of worship that provincial ministry officials did not recognize, either as a wat or an āsram, are interesting to note here. One was a nonapproved āsram I found in Prasat Ballangk district in 2010. It was a hut in an open field away from main roads not far from nearby villages. Because of the lack of monks and a village-based organization, the provincial officials did not recognize it as a Buddhist place of worship. But several lay people gathered at the hut to chant Buddhist sutras and meditate; they treated the place as an āsram. According to one woman over forty years old who owned the field, she and her companions respected the place because of its specialness. She said she had suffered a mental difficulty since she was very young and had traveled all over the country searching for a cure. In the end, she found that the site in the vicinity of her home village was endowed with a special pāramī. According to her, an ancient artificial pond on the site was constructed in the Pre-Angkorian period; because it had been used for religious rituals, the place has been full of pāramī from then until now. The second place of worship was just called “the place of pāramī” (kanlaeṅ pāramī) by local people. It is on the bank of Saen River near the provincial capital. When I visited there for the first time, three large buildings in the shape of ships were under construction. No monks had been residing at the place for a long time, but annual Buddhist festivals were conducted by inviting monks from wats in surrounding villages. Interestingly, local people noted several special factors that contributed to why the place was acknowledged as sacred. First, in 1982, shortly after the end of the Pol Pot regime, one charismatic monk named Kaet Vay, who they believed had successfully kept the Buddhist precepts of a monk throughout the Pol Pot period, constructed a hut at the place.50 Subsequently, twelve lay people bought the land and established an association with the mission of promoting religious peace in the world through good management of the place. They described the uniqueness of the place in geomantic terms, explaining that it was “the center of Cambodian territory” and “is on the head of an invisible dragon (nāga) lying on earth.” They also said that after the charismatic monk passed away in the early 1990s, since around 2004 a group of people in Phnom Penh, including some high government officials, came to know the place through “nissay of pāramī” (the fate of pāramī), and the construction of the buildings was started with



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their support.51 One man there, aged about thirty, worked as a medium of the spirit of the charismatic monk. Finally, when I asked why no monks were living there, they emphasized that because the pāramī of the sīmā was too strong, normal monks could not live there. Considering these cases, it is evident that a continuum between a place of pāramī and a wat as well as between the wats was established through the discovery of ancient sīmās and worship places outside of the officially recognized wats and sīmās. In the end, it is important to note that the ethnographic condition in the research area does not lead to a straightforward conclusion about the permanent nature of particular local worship places. Rather, the religiosity of places can be altered depending on how they are seen by the people who use them. As mentioned, in some cases local people came to narrate wat histories that were newly invented in the 2000s. Moreover, people have multiple religious, socioeconomic, and political motivations for organizing the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony. A number of wats had completed the reconstruction of the vihāra. Locals usually conduct a pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā for commemorating its completion as well as to collect substantial monetary contributions. Theoretically, the performance of a pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā signifies the establishment of a new sacred ground through ritual. Yet after the ceremony, it is likely that the fundamental reason why the wat was originally founded will fade from memory over time. This is evident in the case of Wat Chanserey, where I observed a vihāra without a ceremony in 2000. The wat simply built a new vihāra on top of the old one in the compound. Seeing this in 2010 impressed upon me the locals’ understanding of the nature of the wat’s sacred ground and how a wat may be “regenerated” in the future.

Conclusion Nothing is permanent in this world. The investigation of Buddhist places of worship in one area of Cambodia over one decade reminds me of this truth. In 2015, the number of wats in the research area listed by the ministry had increased to ninety-one. One of the four places established after the survey in 2011 followed the pattern of regenerating ancient sīmās. In addition, a number of wats became the site of religious practices that had never been conducted there before. The increase in the number of wats that borrow the charismatic provenance of the monk Kaet Vay is another interesting phenomenon in the area. A hint of growth in meditation practice among local Buddhists also deserves attention.52 Furthermore, I was surprised by news of the sudden demolition of the vihāra in Wat Kampong Thum, the central wat in the province where the

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provincial chief monk resides.53 It is said among the locals that the current provincial chief monk, who enjoys the strong patronage of the government, was motivated to leave a grander legacy since the old vihāra was in need of repair. In sum, the ethnographic information shown in this chapter reveals that various desires of people are projected on a sīmā: the wish to have a sangha close by, the pride of building an enviable vihāra, the desire to network with influential persons, and the aspiration to establish personal honor. In this sense, a sīmā is not a simple representation of common Buddhist tradition. Cambodian people in the research area possess local knowledge of sīmā that is in itself integral to their daily cultural practice. Those I met during field research pointed to exposed archaeological remains in reference to the religious concept of pāramī. The phenomenon of regenerating ancient sīmās is based on a historical imagining of the local people that links the ancient Buddhist practices of the people they consider ancestors in a particular place with the local concept of power. This is similar to places of worship whose locations are determined by Buddhist miracle stories in Thailand and other regions in the world. Interestingly, in addition to places of residence used by the sangha, Cambodian people have also built shrines to the tutelary spirits called qanak tā in Khmer in other locations where archaeological remains have been found. When asked why, locals explain that “pāramī is there.” The existence of worship places found outside of the official wats also indicates that the religious concept of pāramī connects a specific place with past human activities and a sense of “the ancient” that may be essential to sacredness. The generation of a worship place without the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony depends on a mix of factors. To have material remains and concrete narratives concerning the ancient past is a prerequisite for the generation of a place without the ceremony. The practical consideration of the villagers that recognizes any extra efforts to be excessive and unnecessary to produce a new place of worship must be the fundamental reason for not having the ceremony. Little expectation of support from the outside was commonly seen at the early stage of constructions in all cases. This does not mean, however, that the conscious avoidance of administrative control and political entanglement that a pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony necessitates was the reason for not having the ceremony. It could be a factor for understanding the generation process of temporal religious places, but not for the officially recognized wats and āsrams. Indeed, the intentional exclusion of politics is seldom seen in those places. The generation process of a place of worship is therefore a complex phenomenon with multiple historical layers. The existence of ancient artifacts and the realization of historical imagining alone are not enough to elucidate how



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and why a place of worship is generated. The historical origins of the remains are relegated to an abstract time designated as ancient; contemporary believers only have a vague image of the people who created them and therefore attach little significance to them.54 I observed many cases in which archaeological remains were kept within the compound of a wat but were left neglected. Actually, I often observed people using an ancient “yoni” to sharpen their iron tools. Instead, multiple factors, such as the ideology of merit making, socioeconomic conditions, the willingness for networking with outsiders, and the consciousness of a sense of community must also be taken into consideration when analyzing the phenomenon. Furthermore, it must be remembered that the history of each place is continually invented and renewed. Therefore, the pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ceremony itself does not cause amnesia, but rather provides a context for reshaping the identity and the history of a place. Cases involving the regenerating of ancient sīmās attest to how Cambodian people have bridged the past and present and restored continuity through creative historical imagination. It is this creative imagination, which is rooted in a religious worldview not limited to Buddhist orthodoxy, that serves as a bridge connecting the past to the present through local narratives, enabling continuity to be restored. It therefore must be noticed as a fundamental force for propelling forward the reconstruction of Buddhist places of worship in rural Cambodia since 1979. I posit from this that it was individual resources such as personal knowledge and experience within a local culture, combined with the universal human ability to create narratives connecting the past and the present, that played the most fundamental role in the rebirth of Buddhism after its demise during the Pol Pot era. Even in cases of extreme totalitarian rule where no monks are left and places of worship have been utterly destroyed, there remain countless catalysts that can prompt people’s imagination and the re-emergence of religious practice. The case in Cambodia demonstrates the potential for people to generate activities anew by connecting the past to the present through narratives built from the debris. The specific and universal aspects of such reconnection must be examined in greater depth by comparing the restoration of religions in other parts of the world and in different time frames.

Notes 1.  Louis Gabaude, “A New Phenomenon in Thai Monasteries: The StupaMuseum,” in The Buddhist Monastery: A Cross-Cultural Survey, ed. Pierre Pichard and François Lagirardeed (Paris: École française d’Extrême-orient, 2003), pp. 169–186.

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2.  For the basic rules of sīmā in the texts, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Rules for the Sīmā Regulation in the Vinaya and its Commentaries and their Application in Thailand,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 20, no. 2 (1997): pp. 141–153. 3.  My understanding of Vinaya is based on the works of Japanese scholars such as Akira Hirakawa, Ritsuzō no kenkyū I 律蔵の研究 I, vol. 9 of Hirakawa Akira chosaku shū 平川彰著作集 (Tokyo: Shunjūsha 春秋社, 1999). Please see Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby, chapter 1 in this book, for the association between rules of monk’s ascetic life and sīmā in Vinaya Pitaka. 4.  Alexandra Kent calls this ritual “the stone-planting ceremony” in chapter 6, and Erik Davis calls it “the sīmā establishing ritual (puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā)” in chapter 8. 5.  E.g., Ian Harris, Cambodian Buddhism: History and Practice (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2005); Ian Harris, Buddhism Under Pol Pot (Phnom Penh: Documentation Center of Cambodia, 2007). 6.  Ben Kiernan, The Pol Pot Regime: Race, Power, and Genocide in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge, 1975–79 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1996). 7.  Charles F. Keyes, “Communist Revolution and the Buddhist Past in Cambodia,” in Asian Visions of Authority: Religion and the Modern States of East and Southeast Asia, ed. Charles Keyes, Laura Kendall, and Helen Hardacre (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994), pp. 43–73; Hayashi Yukio, “Buddhism behind Official Organizations: Notes on Theravada Buddhist Practice in Comparative Perspective,” in Inter-Ethnic Relations in the Making of Mainland Southeast Asia and Southwestern China, ed. Hayashi Yukio and Aroonrut Wichienkeeo (Bangkok: Amarin Printing and Publishing Public Company Limited, 2002), pp. 198–230. 8.  John Marston, “Reestablishing the Cambodian Monkhood,” in Ethnicity, Borders, and the Grassroots Interface with the State: Studies on Southeast Asia in Honor of Charles F. Keyes, ed. John Marston (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Press, 2014), pp. 169–194. 9.  Over the period of regional habitation, lowland cultures have expanded and contracted, such that places of earlier settlement, like Sambour Prei Kuk, could become, centuries later, a “frontier.” Some local elders referred to the invasion and forced emigration of captives in the area by Siam in the post-Angkor era to explain the gap between earlier settlement and the situation in the beginning of the twentieth century. 10.  The rural condition in the 1940s was insecure due to a lack of effective governance. It became better after Cambodia attained independence from the French in 1953.



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11.  This is the total number of wats of both Maha Nikay (the monastic order that maintains the practice of Cambodian Buddhism) and Thammayut Nikay (the order imported from Thailand in the nineteenth century). 12.  The number of monks in the country, however, began decreasing in 2004 and continued to trend downward until 2012, since which time the number of monks has again begun to increase. See Kobayashi Satoru and Takahashi Miwa, “A Study of Attributes and Mobility of Monks and Novices in Contemporary Cambodia,” in Mapping Buddhist Cultures among Theravadins in Time and Space, ed. Kobayashi Satoru et al. (Phnom Penh: Center for Integrated Area Studies, Kyoto University, 2017), pp. 49–66. 13.  Thai people call those stones baisema (sīmā leaves) that coincides with the Khmer meaning (see Murphy, chapter 2 in this book). 14.  Ministry officials interviewed in the 2000s said that the creation of a wat must satisfy two requirements. First, it must not be within three to five kilometers from the nearest wat. Second, at least 150 local families must regularly participate in the wat. 15.  The other representative example is what is known as a sala chhotean in Khmer. The word originally means six sorts of places for giving a charity to beggars. See Sou Ketya, Hean Sokhom, and Hun Thirith, The Ordination Ceremony of Buddhist Monks in Cambodia: Past and Present (Phnom Penh: Center for Advanced Studies, 2005). This is a hut, but there is no vihāra or sīmā in a sala chhotean. Monks do not reside there, but local people use it for gatherings on Buddhist holy days and for annual religious festivals. Although not currently designated as one, it could become a wat if local people wish. 16.  Sou Ketya, Sokhom, and Thirith, The Ordination Ceremony, p. 33. 17.  Officials from the ministry explained that the creation of an āsram also requires preliminary review by the ministry, although they did not disclose the details of review procedures to the public. 18.  Kobayashi Satoru, “Reconstructing Buddhist Temple Buildings: An Analysis of Village Buddhism after the Era of Turmoil,” in People of Virtue: Reconfiguring Religion, Power and Moral Order in Cambodia Today, ed. Alexandra Kent and David Chandler (Copenhagen: NIAS Press, 2008), pp. 169–194. 19.  The purpose of this survey was to collect general information of the area and to determine a site where I could conduct live-in fieldwork to study the post1979 reconstruction of people’s livelihoods. 20.  There was no paved road in the area at the time so that the travel in the area by motorbikes took plenty of time. 21.  Kobayashi Satoru, “An Ethnographic Study on the Reconstruction of Buddhist Practice in Two Cambodian Temples: With the Special Reference to

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Buddhist Samay and Boran,” Tonanajia Kenkyu (Southeast Asia Studies) 42, no. 4 (2005): pp. 489–518. 22.  There was only one wat in which both a vihāra and a sāla chhan survived through the rule of the regime. 23.  The endurance of sīmā is evidenced in the discussion referring to the removal of sīmā in Vinaya. See T. W. Rhys Davids and Hermann Oldenberg, trans., Vinaya Texts: Part I. The Pātimokkha. The Mahāvagga, I–IV, The Sacred Books of the East, vol. XIII (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1968; originally published 1881), pp. 249–258. See Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby, chapter 1 in this book, for the basic consideration on the endurance of sīmā. 24.  Specifically, three of eleven wats had reconstructed their vihāras by April 2000 even though the former vihāras had survived the Pol Pot period and were in usable condition in 1979. 25.  E.g., Alexandra Kent, “Purchasing Power and Pagodas: The Sīma Monastic Boundary and Consumer Politics in Cambodia,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 38, no. 2 (2007): pp. 335–354. 26.  A part of the monetary contributions would be a return of political allegiance. See Alexandra Kent, chapter 6 in this book, for how local communities in rural Cambodia in recent years did use the ceremony for creating political relations with influential figures. 27.  The people in the research area use alternative terms for some of the buildings and material items described. They often call a temporary building that serves the same function as a vihāra by the Khmer word “salom.” A ritually established sacred boundary around a salom is not called a sīmā, but rather a “korl.” Locals explained that the ritual process of establishing a korl is almost the same as for a sīmā, but conducted in a smaller fashion. Unlike a sīmā, which frequently has above-ground markers indicating the location of the below-ground sīmā nimitta, local people do not prepare above-ground markers for korl boundaries, which seems to be part of the understanding of korl boundaries as relatively temporary. 28.  A group of Thai Buddhists reached the wat on the first day. They heard about the ceremony when traveling from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh and decided to join it. 29.  The seven wats were invited to hold rituals at a certain hole among eight holes surrounding the vihāra building throughout the ceremony. According to the local people, they were selected because of their high reputation and potential to make monetary contributions toward the wat. 30.  A traditional saying is that an eternal bond will be granted to a couple that cuts a finger of each and then drops blood into a hole together. 31.  Dr. Petra Kieffer-Pülz comments that this must be the removal procedure, which is carried through before a new sīmā is determined. The space inside the



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vihāra in this case was 190 square meters. The details were not clear, but local people allocated four monks for each one square meter. In the end, sixty monks were selected and conducted the chanting from 2:30 to 5:00 a.m. In the case of a large vihāra, it may take a considerable amount of time for the entire space to be purified. 32.  See Kent, chapter 6 in this volume. 33.  Erik Davis, in chapter 8 in this book, elaborates on the place of indakhīla and its symbolic significance in Khmer religious imagination. 34.  An analysis of this spatial alteration in Cambodian wats from the perspective of Buddhist studies is presented by Erik W. Davis, Deathpower: Buddhism’s Ritual Imagination in Cambodia (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016), pp. 115–135. See also Alexandra Kent, chapter 6, and Erik Davis, chapter 8, in this book for the analysis of symbolic creation of a religious space. 35.  Kent, in chapter 6 in this volume, also discusses these material sacrifices. 36.  One study suggests that in neighboring Thailand, human sacrifice was most likely performed in rituals for establishing a sacred ground. See Michael Wright, “Sacrifice and the Underworld: Death and Fertility in Siamese Myth and Ritual,” Journal of Siam Society 78, no. 1 (1990): pp. 43–54. See also Erik Davis, chapter 8 in this book, for the association between Cambodian religious imagination on sacrifice and sīmā space. 37.  Robert K. Headley, Cambodian-English Dictionary (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1977), s.v. 38.  Didier Bertrand related that “In the popular reappropriation of the word in Cambodia, pāramī are believed to constitute a benevolent form of power.” Didier Bertrand, “A Medium Possession and its Relationship with Cambodian Buddhism: The Grū Pāramī,” in History, Buddhism, and New Religious Movements in Cambodia, ed. John Marston and Elizabeth Guthrie (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2004), p. 151. 39.  As far as I know, this is common for rural wats in other regions of the country as well. 40.  Researchers who understand the local history could examine the historical documents stored at the National Archive of Cambodia. But the comprehensive collections—such as Cambodian official gazettes and the decrees of previous governments—often provide contemporary general information that reflects topdown decisions; these however may not be much help in understanding the original reason for creating the places of worship. 41.  After passing through a slightly sloped area near its source, the river reaches a lowland at a point approximately twenty kilometers north of the Kampong Thom provincial capital, where it creates vast floodplains along both of its banks during the rainy season.

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42.  Generally speaking, the administration procedures of the Cambodian government became much stricter during the 2000s. The emergence of a new generation of trained officials is one reason for this change. 43.  For a broader examination of the invention of tradition, see Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992, reprint edition). 44.  Interestingly, the monk said he had traveled to Thailand many times to conduct trainings, including meditations. 45.  The man collected traditional herbal medicines from the forest and sold them to customers outside the village. His livelihood therefore provided him a link to outsiders that assisted his efforts to collect donations. 46.  The other newly approved āsram during 2009–2010 was Āsram Smaonh, which was developed from a pre-existing meeting hall in the village. In short, the place was created to fulfill the local people’s wish to have a sangha close to their homes. 47.  It is highly likely that the mindset of the locals, who consider the builders of the ancient ruins to be their ancestors, stems from the narrative of the Cambodian culture under French colonial rule in the context of which Angkor Civilization Studies was developed; see Penny Edwards, Cambodge: The Cultivation of a Nation 1860–1945 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007). In addition to this, a few local intellectuals told me in the interviews that these builders were forced out of the area by the military forces of Siam in the post-Angkor period. 48.  Understanding of the concept of pāramī in Khmer could be deepened by a comparative analysis with the religious concept in other countries such as Thailand. I have not been able to analyze this thoroughly, but it is possible that the connection of this concept with the nature of a place is not common among Thai speakers. For a more in-depth discussion on the importance of the location of pāramī in Khmer culture, see Anne Y. Guillou, “Khmer Potent Places: Pāramī and the Localization of Buddhism and Monarchy in Cambodia,” Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 18, no. 5 (2017): pp. 421–443, https://doi.org/10.1080 /14442213.2017.1375553. 49.  It must be noted that Cambodian wats do not eliminate supernatural power from their space, as evidenced by a shrine of supernatural beings in eightyfive of eighty-seven wat compounds I visited in 2010. The most popular name of those beings is “baksar wat,” or guardian. 50.  The name of Ven. Kaet Vay was seen in the list of Cambodian monks who ordained at the official ceremony held by the socialist government in September 1979; see Marston, “Reestablishing the Cambodian Monkhood,” pp. 169–194. The monk was the most senior among them, so he at first accepted the role of the precept giver, but he resigned due to the inconvenience of traveling from



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Kampong Thum to the capital, according to the locals. The wat of his residence, Wat Lpeak, keeps the monk’s body, and the people gathered at the wat narrated charismatic stories about the monk when I visited, one of which was the story that the monk had kept precepts throughout the Pol Pot period. 51.  The ornamentation of the main building in the shape of ships is full of suggestive hints for understanding the features of the place. The front wall of the first floor inside the building is the painting of a Buddha image under a linden. The back wall of the same floor is covered with relief engraving of “samudra manthan” borrowed from Angkor Wat. The bow of the second floor is occupied by several fat statues of Chinese religious masters. 52.  In the research area, meditation practice was said to be more popular by the end of the 1960s than today. The association between the diversification of religious practice and varieties of places of worship remains to be the subject of future study. In northeast Thailand, people established the exclusive place for ascetic training, the so-called forest wat (wat pa), which did not serve as a venue for traditional Buddhist festivals and ceremonies in the 1980s, when the local livelihoods got deeply involved in socioeconomic modernization and development (see, for example, Yukio Hayashi, Practical Buddhism among the Thai-Lao: Religion in the Making of a Region (Kyoto, Japan: Kyoto University Press, 2003), chap. 6). This type of diversification is not apparent in village-level Buddhism in Cambodia today but could be in the future. 53.  A dispute occurred after a former student of the Royal University of Fine Arts in Cambodia posted an accusation on Facebook charging that the sudden destruction of an old vihāra in Wat Kampong Thum was due to the ignorance of the historical value of the building and the inside painting as a symbol of the national heritage of Buddhist art in the country. The provincial office of the Ministry of Cults and Religion summoned the former student and demanded that the post be deleted. This case is interesting because it shows the renewal of a vihāra and sīmā based on a mundane motivation. 54.  Many studies of the Angkorian remains in Cambodia have been conducted, but information based on archaeological investigation such as the scientifically determined ages of relics is not common knowledge for rural Cambodian people. That is to say, the perspective that comes from situating archaeological remains and relics on a linear timeline based on scientific analysis is not commonly held.

ch a pter 8

Sīmās as Assemblages of Territorial Imagination in Cambodia Erik W. Davis

A sīmā, a Pāli word meaning “boundary,” and in this chapter specifically a khaṇḍa-sīmā, “a [monastic] boundary for a part [of a Buddhist community],” is required in order to create and demarcate the space necessary to perform vital legal acts (sanghakamma), most importantly that of ordination. In most Cambodian Buddhist monasteries, the creation of a new khaṇḍa-sīmā is placed around a temple building called a vihāra.1 In these cases, without a properly created khaṇḍa-sīmā, no new monks may be properly ordained, and there will be no way to reproduce the sangha. Without a sangha, Buddhism, imagined as the triple gem of buddha, dhamma, and sangha, will similarly cease to exist. In this way at least, sīmās are truly a foundation of the sangha. The sīmā rituals I describe in this chapter install a sīmā around the vihāra building in the monastery complex.2 In today’s practice, “vihāra” in a Cambodian monastery almost universally refers to a two-story building that combines two buildings previously found separately: a vihāra and an uposatha hall. The vihāra portion of the building is usually the downstairs portion, where the laity are welcomed on morality days (tṅai sīla) to take the five lay precepts. The upstairs of the building tends to be more frequently used in the ways older uposatha halls were employed. Regardless, this new stacked construction means that the khaṇḍa-sīmā is now installed around the entire building, regardless of floor or function. Drawing on my ethnographic fieldwork in Cambodia as well as historical scholarship on stones and territoriality in Southeast Asia, in this chapter I argue that the contemporary Cambodian ritual establishing a sīmā, in Khmer “pidhī puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā,” powerfully incorporates older imaginaries and stone-based practices that focus on territoriality, morality, and sovereignty. 202



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Pidhī puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā means the “meritorious ritual of lowering the boundary,” and imagines binding a sovereign—a violent and potentially malevolent spirit—and putting that being into the service of Buddhism.3 This capture of a violent spiritual power in the contemporary Buddhist ritual demands interpretation. Transforming older, stone-based forms of marking territoriality (and the diverse ways in which those territories themselves were imagined) and including them in the Buddhist ritual created a relatively novel ritual assemblage capable of conflating political and Buddhist identities and values, or alternately capable of critiquing and attempting to limit political violence, even while the ritual itself places sacrificial violence symbolically at the center of a Buddhist temple. The violence of sovereignty and territoriality is of course most closely associated with political leadership, and in Cambodian history, most frequently with the figure of the king.4 In this chapter, I identify different historical practices and imaginations about territorial marking and control. The contemporary puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ritual in Cambodia appears as an assemblage of multiple practices and imaginations, the putting together of which imbues the ritual with a particular set of significances and resonances that go beyond the Pāli textual prescriptions for sīmā and which are mirrored in the stories people tell today about this ritual. Such stories today frequently invoke human sacrifices intended to empower large building projects. Sacrificial violence seems out of place in a Buddhist temple, and this chapter attempts to make sense of this juxtaposition. Much of the significance of this ritual was explained to me by participants and attendees as having to do with the needs of Buddhism, but also specifically with practices of spirit management and sacrifice, which they explicitly identified as non-Buddhist. In Cambodia, non-Buddhism is most frequently designated by the term brāhmaññ-sāsanā.5 I translate this as “Brahmanism” and as “non-Buddhist” throughout, but I hasten to clarify that it does not mean “Brahmanism” in a way that would be recognizable from Indian texts or history, for example. In widespread Cambodian usage, and as used here, “Brahmanism” refers to all sorts of religious ideas and practices that are not imagined to be in accord with Buddhism.6 As is true across the religious cultures of South and Southeast Asia, large building projects have been an important way in which kings built and responded to social patronage networks in Cambodia during multiple historical periods, including the present. In a recent anthropological study of kingship and sovereignty, David Graeber notes that connections between kingly tombs and immorality, and royal building programs, are regular features of

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cultures where kings attempt to break the bonds that constrain their sovereignty.7 Sovereignty is difficult to define in a way that satisfies universal definitional needs and today usually includes many legal definitions and assumptions about the nation-state, but it generally referred to the rights of kings to do what they wish without being constrained by rules: “Kings will, if they have any possibility of doing so, insist that they stand outside the legal or moral order and that no rules apply to them. Sovereign power is the power to refuse all limits and do whatever one likes. On the other [hand], they often tend to lead lives so circumscribed, so ringed about by custom and ceremony, that they can barely do anything at all.”8 As I demonstrate in the following, the history and the imagination about sīmā rituals in Cambodia seem to conform to this tension between the expression of the exceptional power of the king and the presence of practice that constrains this same power. The great tomb-palaces of Angkorian kings resemble the tension described between the ambitions of kings, the limits of the days of their lives, and the people against whom sovereignty is waged as a project. Graeber writes of the relationship between kingly ambitions for expanded sovereignty and the people as a “constitutive war” between the people and their king, in which the king attempts to expand his sovereignty—his total freedom to engage in any acts he wishes, including acts of violence and murder—and the people attempt to constrain his sovereignty with ritual hedges and taboos. Graeber argues that the relationship between kings and their subjects is often a relationship in which a battle for control over the king’s sovereignty takes place in ritual and religious forms of control over the king’s behavior, especially in his right to take the lives of others. He also points out that it is a peculiar characteristic of the sovereign person that they alone have the capacity to institute rules, values, and morals, being the only person who is truly free from being constrained by them.9 In Cambodia, outside of the notions promoted by textual orthodoxy, the installation of a sīmā often includes imaginations and imagery of foundation sacrifice, in which a human being—frequently imagined today as a pregnant woman, but possibly historically a stone substitute for a king—is sacrificed and installed in a building to protect it. This ritual creates a central physical location in Buddhist temple architecture and removes the bounded area from the sovereign’s direct control, granting the control over this demarcated territory to the sangha.

Appeasing Spirits Before today’s puṇya paṇcuḥ sīmā ritual proper begins, a minor ritual occurs that highlights the distinction between Buddhism and the non-Buddhist spirits.



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This minor ritual is called the Kruṅ Vālī (a.w. Bālī; b/v alternation is common in Khmer), sharing the name with the king nāga invoked and addressed as the “master of the water and the land.” A nāga is a large, intelligent, powerful, and morally ambiguous serpent associated with water.10 It was this king nāga who ceded territory to the mythical Indian prince ancestor of the Khmer people (in one myth), who underlies the entire territory of Cambodia (in another), and who was bested by the Buddha, who tricked him into ceding his territory (in yet a third).11 Before the puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ritual may begin, performers first obtain permission to use the site from the explicitly non-Buddhist spirit master of the land, in a ceremony that makes offerings to this spirit. The community is represented primarily by lay ācārya (“teacher”), usually older learned men who have previously been ordained as monks and thus know how to do particular rituals and who remember chants. The spirit addressed is Kruṅ Vālī himself, imagined as a king nāga underlying the land and waters, enlivening both via his own energies. Cambodians portray Kruṅ Vālī, and nāgas in general, as autochthonous creatures existing prior to the Buddha’s teachings. Kruṅ Vālī is defined in Chuon Nath’s dictionary as an underground serpent, or nāga, who “supports the earth and . . . is invoked at the beginning of the construction of a building.”12 The Kruṅ Vālī ritual is described as having two types. The first type is that which “comes to us from the ancient Khmer, which is worship of the gods who have placed themselves under the Buddha.” The second type consists of five versions which are themselves Buddhist: the “All the Petas [Hungry Ghosts]” Vālī; “Establishing” Vālī; “Relatives” Vālī; “King” Vālī; and the “God” Valī. 13 In the Establishing or Relatives Vālī rituals, the rituals are done in preparation for more important Buddhist rituals. This follows the regular way in which liturgies combine such things in Cambodian Buddhism: the ritualization of spirits and gods comes first, followed by the central Buddhist rituals themselves. The Kruṅ Vālī ritual performed before a sīmā installation in this classification then appears as a type of Buddhist ritual that is both preparatory and propitiatory. It acknowledges a spirit whose autochthonous sovereignty over the territory has already been subordinated to the Buddha and who must be dealt with prior to the major aim of the ritual: in our case, to establish a sīmā. Giteau and Éveline Porée-Maspero’s accounts of the Kruṅ Vālī ritual both emphasize parts of the ritual that take place far earlier and that attempt to properly identify the position of the powerful nāga underneath the building site, and orient the site relative to this position.14 Note that this ritual presents the Buddha sangha, despite its moral preeminence in Cambodian culture, as requiring permission from the spiritual “master of water and land” in order to build a new sanctuary, just as one would

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similarly request permission to build a home. After offering many ritual gifts that cannot be offered to a Buddha or members of his sangha, such as liquor, raw and cooked pigs’ heads, etc., Kruṅ Vālī’s acquiescence is assumed. Fascinatingly, there is an imagined similarity between kings, monks, and nāgas: while most beings stay in the domains to which they are assigned, either in the domestic/civic domain or in the domain of wilderness and wild beings, these three beings typically are seen as exceptionally traversing these boundaries between the wild and the domestic. Kings frequently travel to the forests to return with forest product wealth or slaves from the forests, monks are supposed to be unafraid of the wild and the spirits contained within it, and nāgas are paradigmatically wild beings that in many cases have been domesticated by the power of the Buddha.

The Pun.ya Pañcuh. Sīmā Ritual: A Summary The puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ritual is the most popular of the occasional Buddhist rituals in Cambodian Buddhism. The puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā, or “meritorious lowering of the boundary [stones],” is the name of the installation of sīmā stones around the vihāra, which in Cambodia is popularly considered the culminating act that creates the boundary itself. This ritual is understood to ritually enact the transfer of the territory from the king to the sangha, identify the sangha as the institution in control of the temple, and establish the space as a properly instituted place for the performance of such central monastic acts as ordination and the recitation and enforcement of the monastic rules. As emphasized in other chapters of this book, without the installation of a proper sīmā, formal acts of the sangha are considered invalid. This is especially and most famously true of ordinations. The Siamese king Mongkut (Rāma IV, 1804–1868) considered his own initial ordination illegitimate after discovering what he considered misplaced sīmā markers. His reordination in the reform Dhammayuttika sect of Theravāda Buddhism is famously connected to this question of sīmā legitimacy, as is a split in the Sri Lankan Siyam Nikāya.15 Today the modern state and its representatives most commonly stand in for the role of the king and his representatives. Sīmā ceremonies are conducted with representatives of the state present and are the ritualization of an elaborate gift from the king-state to the sangha, a gift of land free from interference, a crucial part of the production of new members of the sangha. Four types of material objects, apart from the temple itself, are central to the way this ritual is imagined and performed. The first are the sīmā stones, which will be buried around the foundation of the building (ṛs, or “root” stones).



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These are distinct from the second type, which are stele-shaped stones placed on the ground above the buried stones (slẏk, or “leaf” stones). The third type is a stone buried during the puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā but which is explicitly excluded from that category by monastic experts and ritual specialists. This buried stone is called the indakhīla stone, which usually resembles the buried sīmā stones despite being larger than them.16 Indakhīlā means “Indra’s Stake” and, as we will see, is associated with boundaries and thresholds. The final type of object is a “raw,” or untwined thread called ampoḥ. This thread is used to tie the sīmā stones to the poles from which they are suspended. People often attend puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ceremonies primarily to collect this thread, which is used in Cambodia for a wide range of protective purposes, from binding corpses in funerals to binding wrists in blessings, among other ritual occasions.17 In all cases where ampoḥ is used, it binds something—usually explicitly a spirit of some type— into an object, whether a living person or a material object. When a new vihāra is built, an ampoḥ thread connects each of the pits over which the sīmā stones that will be buried are hung, and then is often tied around the entire building in a boundary, which then hangs in the air, suspended as a sort of cotton halo around the building. This boundary is further connected to eight huts or tents around the perimeter of the temple, which house the stones that are to be buried as sīmā markers.18 Eight of these stones will be buried in pits dug around the sanctuary. The indakhīla stone will be buried into a central pit, which will be discussed in greater detail later.19 These stones are occasionally inscribed and are often wrapped in expensive fabrics (Cambodian silk hūl fabric being the most common in my experience). Until the conclusion of the ritual, however, the stones continue to hang over the pits from large wooden planks or branches, bound and suspended by the ampoḥ. Prior to the ritual itself, lay people frequently engage in minor sacrificial behavior, from which they explicitly expect a return: blood from pricked fingers, money, and makeup are commonly deposited in the sīmā stone pits. These will return as health, happiness, wealth, and beauty, and the efficacy of these sacrifices is based on the power gathered and bound into the building itself, just as the efficacy of a gift to the sangha depends on the sangha’s status and virtue, in their role as “fields of merit.”20 After the Kruṅ Vālī ritual is completed, the sīmā stones are paraded around the building and eventually into the vihāra, where they are replaced above the pits, ready to be dropped. Usually only the buried “root” stones (ṛs) are paraded; the “leaf” stones (slẏk) are occasionally but not always paraded along with them. At the conclusion of the ceremony, a representative of the king—nowadays most commonly a minor political official or businessman and, in all the

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Figure 8.1.  Cambodian politician Sok An (holding cudgel) and his retinue prepare to cut the ampoḥ thread and drop the central burial sīmā stone. ­Courtesy Erik W. Davis.

cases I have personally witnessed, a man—takes a large machete and a cudgel to the central sīmā stone, suspended over the central pit.21 Placing the blade on the ampoḥ thread holding the stone, he then takes the cudgel and hammers it against the blade, severing the ampoḥ and freeing the stone. At the same time, his assistants sever the threads suspending the other eight stones. Immediately after the stones drop, the temple’s inauguration is complete, and a near-melee often breaks out as throngs compete for as much of the ampoḥ as they can lay their hands on. Monks engage in the grabbing as well, though are typically more restrained than their lay counterparts.22

Unpacking Stone Traditions in Southeast Asia The use of stones to mark territorial boundaries is not limited to the present, to Buddhism, or to Southeast Asia. The specific manners of marking, however, and theories about these practices, are significant in understanding present-day practices that use stones in these ways, such as the most common



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forms of sīmā (i.e., khaṇḍa-sīmā) marking in Southeast Asian Buddhist temples. I will briefly review these “stone traditions” of Southeast Asia and their historiographical impulses, highlighting the themes and evidence that link them to the practices of sīmā installation in Buddhist temples today. Much of my work here is heavily marked by the influence of Ashley Thompson’s book Engendering the Buddhist State.23 In particular, I posit a historical transition, analogous to the one described by Thompson as the transition from liṅga to liṅga-yoni ensemble, in which the violent power of the sovereign is both recognized but also captured for the purposes of the sangha through the use of the sīmā ceremonies, including those for the indakhīla stone. To help readers see this hypothesis, attention needs to be given to explorations of historical stone traditions related to religion in the region. First and most ancient is the argument, originated by Paul Mus and with proponents today, that the ancient and indigenous religion of “monsoon Asia” centered on “a local divinity which is amorphous, and represented by a gross object (i.e., a rock), a personal intermediary, and a specific collectivity that acquires its right to the land by means of this intermediary, through which it enters into communion with the impalpable chthonic Proteus in a living form.”24 For Mus, this “indigenous ancestor-rock . . . concerned territorial, communal, and sovereign definition” and was the local model on which the liṅga—a phallic stone object with its origins in India—was then introduced to local imaginations and continued some of its core significance in establishing territorial power and sovereignty.25 The liṅga in Southeast Asian history is strongly linked to royal practices of territorial marking and the assertion of sovereignty in that territory. It enters into royal territorial practices early on in Cambodia and is linked to some of the most important inscriptions and terms in the study of ancient Cambodian polities. Thompson posits that the emergence of liṅga tradition may have started in the first century BCE, and notes the dedication of the “inaugural liṅga of the Cham at My Son” in the fifth century, in what is today Vietnam.26 In the polities of Southeast Asia that adopted Sanskrit and other influences from India, the liṅga tradition became one of the most significant and wellknown practices defining territorial sovereignty. Indeed, “In Mus’s reading, the liṅga was not the ultimate source of creation but instead an heir to the indigenous ancestor-rock. . . . Both cults concerned territorial, communal, and sovereign definition.”27 As one of her key examples, Thompson examines one of the most important inscriptions in ancient Khmer studies, the Sdok Kak Thom inscription from the eleventh century in what is today Thailand. The Sdok Kak Thom inscription is on a large stele, and refers to the much-debated

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devarāja/kamrateṅ jagat ta rāja, “a divinity and/or ritual associated with the institution of Angkorian royal power and territorial definition.”28 This inscription was created on the occasion of the “consecration of a liṅga offered by the reigning king of the flourishing Angkorian empire, Udayādityavarman II, to a court priest named Sadāśiva. The consecration of the liṅga, along with associated land and other offerings, was commemorated and in part effected by the installation and/or the inscription of the stele within the Sdok Kak Thom temple complex.”29 In every case, Thompson writes, “When a land grant is made, a sculpture—almost always a liṅga—is erected.”30 This territorial use of liṅgas began to transform during Cambodia’s Middle Period (the early fifteenth century to 1863) alongside the transformations in Khmer culture during and after the decline of the Angkorian kingdoms and the rise of Theravāda Buddhism.31 This liṅga form of sovereign territoriality was understood to be clearly an act of a sovereign and was imagined to radiate out from a central location, that of the liṅga itself. The extent of its ability to radiate was not determined, but it was based on the qualities and practices of the sovereign. Therefore, the limits of territorial sovereignty depended on the charisma of the ruler, rather than being fixed. Thompson notes that the liṅga cult treats the liṅga as a substitute for the king and his power.32 Additionally, the devarāja/kamrateṅ jagat ta rāja, noted above, “represents the logic of substitution as the very institution of the state.”33 In the Cambodian Middle Period, one transformation of the liṅga resulted in what Thompson refers to as the liṅga-yoni ensemble, which retained its power as a “prop for establishing territorial sovereignty.”34 The liṅga tradition, which linked territory and sovereignty to rituals that emplaced special stones and considered them animated substitutes for the state, was transformed with the decline of the Angkorian empire and the displacement of Śaivism by Theravāda Buddhism in that same period. Thompson describes the transformation of liṅga rituals in this period into popular vernacular practices that involve a liṅga paired with a yoni, the feminine, womb-symbolizing image.35 The word liṅga is replaced by the word aṅga, “part,” a term that in Old Khmer designated “body,” as well as being classifier nouns for royalty and monks.36 These practices provide a model for the production of some sīmā in the contemporary Cambodian imagination, ranging from the wellstudied hov braliṅ (“calling of the souls”) healing ritual and childbirth practices to supposed practices of sorcery and witchcraft.37 The use of stone markers in the Buddhist marking of monastic sīmās delimit a clearly bounded space, in contrast to the earlier Cambodian use of liṅga practice with its fluctuating and radiating boundaries of control from the



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center. Contemporary Cambodian sīmā rituals, however, continue to include a stone placed at the center of the bounded area. This stone is the indakhīla stone. Cambodian Buddhist experts have themselves considered the coincidence of these two types of territorial stone marking as noteworthy. This includes the deceased national patriarch, modernist reformer Venerable Chuon Nath (1883–1969).38 Chuon Nath’s entry on the indakhīla in his dictionary of the Khmer language (the first and still most widely used Khmer dictionary) identifies it first as a marker of types of state territory, acknowledging the connection with continuity of territorial usage as discussed above. The definition then proceeds to identify it as the central stone buried in Buddhist temples to create a khaṇḍa-sīmā, but it explicitly notes its lack of justification in the Vinaya and excludes it from inclusion in the category of sīmā nimitta.39 In other words, despite being present in the vast majority of khaṇḍa-sīmā installations in Cambodia, despite having a pre-eminence of place in the rituals that establish these rituals, and despite bearing an obvious similarity to the eight buried sīmā stones that border the space and mark the sīmā, the indakhīla is not considered by Chuon Nath as a part of the sīmā itself. I suggest that the inclusion of the indakhīla stone continues to represent the territorial practices of the liṅga but resignifies them by their capture within the determined sīmā boundary. The eight buried sīmā stones are easily classified as a type of pāsāṇa nimitta—stone markers—permitted by the Vinaya regulations.40 The central stone, however, is marked out as different from the other buried stones. It is typically noticeably larger than the other buried stones.41 It also takes the premier position among the stones (it precedes all other stones in the parading of the stones around the vihāra, for instance), and it is ritually dropped into its central pit by the actions of the largest donor, who in Cambodia is very often a representative of the state or, more specifically, of a political party. This central stone has an important name that helps clarify what it is doing in this ritual and architectural space: indakhīla. There is no reference in the Vinaya to an indakhīla meaning a buried stone.42 As mentioned above, indakhīla continue to be raised and venerated as city pillars in parts of northern Thailand, and their role in village spaces is contiguous with the Cambodian practice of having a central pillar or stone mark the center of a village. CPD notes definitions that associate the indakhīla with boundaries and thresholds and with notions of immobility and hindrances, but not with centers.43 As noted previously, the word indakhīla literally translates as “Indra’s stake.” Indra is of course the king of the gods in Buddhist and Hindu texts, and, given Buddhism’s typical attitude toward gods, is both respected and subordinated to the power of the Buddha simultaneously. The

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Figure 8.2. An unwrapped indakhīla stone with a basrelief image of nāṅ dharaṇī. In this case, the indakhīla stone is distinctly liṅgashaped. Courtesy Erik W. Davis.

“staking” imagery of an indakhīla is associated with the driving of a raised threshold into the ground, as for instance when a wooden or stone post is staked into the ground, on either side of which the city gates are closed and to which they are then latched.44 In that example, the indakhīla provides stability and security to the enclosed space by materially empowering the boundary. Calling city pillars and village centers indakhīla clearly moves the object from the border to the center, but retains a notion of empowerment to which we will return. These non-Buddhist, village-center-style indakhīla and the Angkorian liṅga seem to have nearly identical functions and purposes, and I suggest that the indakhīla stone at the center of the Buddhist khaṇḍa-sīmā in Southeast Asia may be a reimagining of the liṅga in a Buddhist ensemble, which puts that type of power to work in a novel manner.45 If there is a continuity between liṅga and indakhīla, two distinct practices of territorial marking have been put into a new relationship. The territorial



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power of stones marking centers are, as we have seen, thought to radiate outward from the center (the material substitute for the king), resulting in fluctuating and unstable boundaries that many historians of Southeast Asian polities have characterized as part of the states of the region. Thompson writes that for the models on which these early Southeast Asia polities instituted themselves, “ ‘borders’ are conceived as projections of the center. . . . This is to say that the ‘borders’ are not borders per se but are rather an effect of the center.”46 In contrast, the eight buried sīmā stones explicitly demarcate and surround a space. There is no “radiating” of territorial power outward from the enclosed sīmā boundary. Instead, the eight buried sīmā nimitta stones enclose this central stone, containing that spirit and putting it to the uses of the sangha. The indakhīla’s radiating sovereign power no longer fluctuates unevenly but is fully enclosed; it is captured, for the purposes of the sangha, in a way analogous to how the Buddha or powerful monks or rituals tame and transform malevolent beings for the protection of people or the religion. If we understand that these central stones were substitutes for royal power themselves, that were then themselves also creative and generative, as described by Thompson, then there is the body of a sovereign captured at the heart of Buddhist temples. This novel assemblage of multiple forms of territorial marking into a single practice also has mythological referents. In her study of the pidhī puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā, Giteau notes an explanatory Khmer myth that takes part in this understanding, claiming that when Indra learned that the Buddha permitted the creation of sīmā, he demanded the privilege of serving as the boundary points themselves; instead, the Buddha appointed him to serve as the sāsana (a Buddhist word for things we commonly call Buddhism) by remaining at the center of the temple.47

Sacrifice In my attendance at multiple puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā rituals, I was always offered another authorization for the stones in general, and especially the central indakhīla stone, which was that young women were sacrificed in ancient times to empower ancient buildings. This brings us to the necessary discussion of sacrifice, including human sacrifice, which is almost always a part of the lay discussion of the sīmā-establishing rituals in Cambodia. At puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ceremonies, some of the most frequent stories encountered imagine ancient human sacrifices intended to empower and spiritually protect a sanctuary.48 The association of puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā rituals with

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human sacrifice is nearly universal in the Cambodian imagination.49 Monks and ācārya typically downplay these stories, but they are ubiquitous among the average attendee, who usually ascribes it to a period in “ancient times,” before “we Khmer” became “Buddhists.” Foundation sacrifice, the practice of burying valuable objects within a building for the purposes of sanctification and protection of the building, is a trope found in many places in the world, including Cambodia.50 In modern-day Cambodia, the most frequent sacrifices are made by individual attendees who offer objects of minor or symbolic value. In interviews with attendees about the sacrifices, however, the most common story they tell is of unspecified ancient times when the ceremony included a human sacrifice as the central component. That human being is usually described as a pregnant woman, and her murder creates a particularly horrifying spirit, a being called a brāy (a.w. preay), a powerful malign female spirit created when a woman dies pregnant or in childbirth.51 The super potency of a pregnant woman as sacrificial object is clearly connected to her fertile status, and such a sacrifice may benefit from a “two for the price of one” sort of logic. Brāy are the most dangerous spirits of all, bloodsucking spirits usually imagined as flying heads trailing their guts as they fly through the air; they make terrifying spirits, and thus good protectors of temples, if they can be domesticated by the moral power of the Buddha and sangha. In this widespread explanation of the origins of the sīmā ritual, the Buddhist monks then capture and bind this vicious spirit into the base of the pedestal holding the main Buddha image. Bound into a determined space explicitly underneath the Buddha, and subordinate to his power and authority, this spirit then becomes a source of spiritual protection for the temple. Non-Buddhist Cambodian ritual practices frequently bind spirits into inanimate objects, which then become ongoing sites of value and activity. This is imagined to be true of every Khmer house, for example. During the rituals that inaugurate a home, a minor spirit called the nāng pdaḥ, or the young lady of the house, is bound into the central post of the building. Just as female spirits are bound into the central pillars of Khmer homes and treated with respect and care as guardians of the home, so specially empowered Buddhist temples, especially those referred to as having pāramī (“perfection”) or being from the premodern period (purāṇa), are thought to have used similar rites to forcibly endow temples with a protective spirit, which was bound into the pedestal of the temple’s central Buddha image. Such spirits are “liberated” from a body and bound into a building’s columns. In this process, the “brāy changes from an eminently malevolent spirit into a guardian of correct Buddhist cult. . . . One of her names means the ‘brāy residing in the pedestal.’ ”52



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In the Cambodian imagination, the installation of a brāy in a Buddhist temple through human sacrifice, with resonances of ancient kingship, is at the center of the creation of powerful Buddhist temples. Sacrifice and the taking of human life inevitably form part of the practice of kingship or statecraft, and Buddhist monks should not be participating in either ritual sacrifice or the taking of life. People I interviewed, including monks and lay people, confidently assured me that human sacrifice was a thing that ancient Khmer kings did, and that foundation sacrifice was frequent and widespread. Some limited historical record for human sacrifice in Cambodia and the region exists, but it is problematic in several ways, including but not limited to the orientalist and colonialist ways in which that trope has been deployed.53 The wider Southeast Asian region has similar and contested stories about ancient human sacrifice coupled with a thin and similarly contested archaeological record.54 In contrast, a core Buddhist value, as elicited from an examination of both texts and rituals, is that of giving.55 A puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ritual is the culmination of many donations to the sangha—donations of land, money, material, and labor—and it also provides an ongoing site for future donations. Most of the jātaka tales of the future Buddha’s past lives involve sometimes quite heroic acts of generosity, and it is through the generosity of the laity to the sangha that merit can be made. Giving also appears as a moral theme in the enormously popular jātaka tale of King Vessantara. In this story, the future Buddha is born as a prince best known for his generosity and gift giving, a perfection of moral values prior to enlightenment. As a result of his vow to give away anything asked of him, he becomes a truly terrible king: he gives away his magical, rain-producing elephant, the royal treasury, and eventually all the members of his family. Good kings find it difficult to be good people; there’s a contradiction between moral virtue and the actions that Buddhism and Buddhist society imagine are required of kings in order to support society.56 Kings execute their vision of justice precisely through violence, including executions themselves.57 The imagination of a Cambodian past in which human sacrifice was a frequent ritual and a royal act seem to be fantasies of a violent past, associated with the sovereign imagination. I have heard many stories of ancient human sacrifice and violence from Khmers that end with descriptions of how Buddhism taught them to be moral. Sometimes the five precepts of the laity, including the precept against killing, are recited. As is usual in such moralizing or civilizing narratives, alongside the dominant rejection of violence I have heard a second message in counterpoint: our history includes this capacity for violence;

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it could come back. It is this counterpoint that seems to serve the nationalist imagination.58 Whatever the actual historical practices relating to human sacrifice were, the narrative presupposing it is widespread in Cambodia, and the integration of royal and monastic repertoires and symbolisms in the puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ritual are recognized by contemporary academics and Cambodian monastic authorities alike. Despite this integration, the binding of a sīmā around the vihāra “effectively exorcises the immediate influence of the king’s power but paradoxically retains the presence of the monarchy as a symbol of protection. As such it very effectively demonstrates an enduring and antagonistic symbiosis between secular and sacred power.”59 As Harris notes, there is a bit of a paradox here, where the king’s sacrificial violence and authority appears secreted at the very center of a building whose use opposes such values. Part of the key to understanding this ritual is that while the ritual may “exorcise” the immediate influence of the king, it does so through a sort of “reverse exorcism,” the capture and binding of a malevolent spirit at the heart of the temple. The binding of a spirit into a Buddhist vihāra and the installation of its boundary stones is necessary to institute it as a place to create merit. In the example of the sīmā ceremony discussed above, the ritual imagination of a sacrificed pregnant woman bound into the pedestal of a Buddha statue empowers and vitalizes a new temple and removes the land from consumption by the king. Having gathered the vital spirits and bound them into place, the final step is the alienation of that which has been bound. A temple with buried sīmā stones is alienated from agricultural production and hence from royal consumption. Kings, black magicians, and the malevolent dead are prevented from entering a Buddhist temple magically endowed with such a sīmā, either through magical protections (pāramī) or from fear of losing their own, differently sourced, magical power.60 Monks and kings found their status on their differing relationships to death: kings deal death in the execution of justice, and monks embody the potential conquest of death and ritually enact its mastery. These relations are performed in the sīmā ritual, but they also have geographical mapping and associations. One of the most common associations with death in Cambodia is the wilderness, wild and empty places. This is significantly true in both the texts of ancient Buddhism and in historical and contemporary Cambodia. Indeed, the Buddha is himself identified as a type of cakkavattī, a word referring to a world-conquering king, extended for the historical Buddha to also mean—in a definition that implicitly critiques kingship—a sage who teaches



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a path that enlightens the entire world.61 The category of cakkavattī represents an assemblage of physical power and moral power that is articulated as simultaneously opposed and complementary. The king is imagined as one who rules the territory he can carve out, through weapons that deal death and arts of state, of the territories of competitors and the wilderness. The monk in contrast is imagined as one who walks fearlessly and unarmed through the same wild and foreign territories.

Conclusions: Assembling Territorial Models The early model of royal territorial control, which captures vitality from the wild and fluctuates out from the center, appears partly continued in the active ritualization and imagination of royal and monastic sovereignty in the sīmā ritual, specifically in the presence of the indakhīla stone and the image of the brāy under the pedestal. But this continuity has been placed in a new frame, in which the death-dealing and fluctuating sovereignty of the king has been itself captured within the determined and marked boundaries of a Buddhist sīmā and the sangha that presides over it. There are doubles here: rocks that stand in for beings (the liṅga and the indakhīla), as well as a doubled set of stone markers (the sīmā stones in their root and leaf versions). Some of these rocks become generative and animated in the demarcating of territorial power. In the doubling of rocks for beings, we can identify the metaphorization and substitution of the institution of the king/state itself. The modern Cambodia sīmā can be seen as an assemblage of royal and monastic power, both oriented toward death and territory, but opposed to each other. If we include the power and sovereignty of Kruṅ Vālī, then there are three types of power involved, in which the assemblage of royal and monastic powers is contextualized within the sovereignty of the “master of water and land.” The authorization of the king through his connection to the wilderness appears early in Indian Buddhist literature, where it seems to compare the forces of the wild with the forces of fertility in agriculture. The connection of sīmā rituals to agriculture, similarly, appears in reports of Buddhist ritual, such as in the Mahāvaṃsa, the great chronicle of Sinhalese kings, which records that “in the second century B.C. King Devanampiya Tissa ploughed a furrow around the Mahā Vihāra and that furrow became its sīmā.”62 Responsible for agricultural fertility, the king cedes control and power over monastic land symbolically in the rite of burying the sīmā stones. The sīmā ritual thus assists in articulating and ordering the world along lines of different engagements between Buddhist authority and the claims of kings

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and spirits. It accomplishes articulation by integrating the distinguished categories into each other, symbolically, ritually, and morally. There is no easy division: the indakhīlā is routinely interpreted as a substitute for a sacrificed corpse or a substitute for the king and is buried in the foundation of these Buddhist buildings. This assemblage of royal versus monastic power exists within an even larger broader context, that of the great nāga Kruṅ Vālī. His mythic priority is recalled by the preparatory and propitiatory ritual named after that great nāga. In stories, even that nāga’s authority has already been settled by the Buddha’s prior action. There seems to be a moebius strip of authority, where different layers of Buddhist authority consistently incorporate and entangle other types of authority, or at least represent themselves as doing so. It is instructive to place this chapter’s discussion about domains of power, violence, and sovereignty as evidenced in Cambodian sīmā rituals in conversation with theoretical observations on these topics. In a discussion of Bataille’s notion of sovereignty, Achille Mbembe characterizes that notion as “the refusal to accept the limits that the fear of death would have the subject respect.” The sovereign world, Bataille argues, “is the world in which the limit of death is done away with.”63 Sovereignty without the risk of death, of confronting it as if death were “there only to be negated, never for anything but that,”64 is not sovereignty at all. The king’s sovereignty is the power over life, in that it can turn life into death. The monk’s sovereignty exceeds that of the king’s, since through their ability to overcome death, they can control the creation of sites of ongoing value, which is most frequently performed in ritual acts as gestures of, or invocations of imagery of, binding into place.65 “One could summarize in the above terms what Michel Foucault meant by biopower: that domain of life over which power has taken control.”66 Conversely, what I intend by “deathpower” is that domain of death over which power has taken control. The king can create death, but has no power over the dead. The Buddhist monk respects no such limits and thus embodies a more perfect type of power. The king must seek his sovereignty through gifts given to him by the sovereigns of the wild world, and he must ritualize their supremacy, such as in the Kruṅ Vālī ritual. But the Buddhist sangha, which incarnates the supreme authority over the spirits of the world subordinated by the Buddha himself, has authority even over the spirits to which the king is subordinate. This opposition of the values of violence and nonviolence in the sīmā ceremony is mirrored by the coincidence of multiple Buddhist and Brahmanist spirits in the imagination and performance of the ritual. The values and spirits combine in the sīmā ceremony to transfer the authority of the ritual space of



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the sanctuary to the sangha, but they combine in such a way as to bind the ghosts of sacrificial victims within the heart of temple space. The act of sacrifice—or execution—communicates something like the following: I am murdering a person in cold blood, and no one stops me. I do not know this person and bear no personal animus. This is to fulfill the demands of something greater even than my own person, who is its agent. My power over life and the expression of violence is complete, for you do not raise your hands against me or complain, but instead applaud and prostrate yourselves before me, and even the guarantors of moral behavior have sanctified this act by preparing the victim.67 This would be the voice of the unconstrained sovereign, whose exceptional access to violence identifies him as such and places him outside the normal bounds of social morality. But of course, such unconstrained affirmation of a sovereign’s violence is rarely so baldly expressed, and then justified in terms of particular roles played in society by the authority of the state, or of emergency contexts in which normal rules must not apply. In contrast to the binaristic distinctions between Buddhism and Brahmanism, or the value of violence versus the value of giving in the ritual imaginary connected to the sīmā ceremony, I suggest perhaps my analyses of the sīmā ceremony capture this ceremony at a particular moment in its role as a mediator of the conflict between society and the violence of the sovereign.68 Legitimization of sovereign violence and position still appears to be a part of the effect of the ritual, especially as I have seen it performed. But perhaps the constraint of violence, ceding of sovereignty to the sangha from the king, and the aligning of the king with the brāy at the level of ritual performance should be emphasized more strongly and seen as attempts to both criticize, implicate, and build a set of morals and values that contrasts with those promoted by the king. In the sīmā ceremony, the values of violence and of giving are performed nearly simultaneously. This is because the sīmā ceremony enacts the primary gift of the support of the sangha, from the king, as well as the sovereign spirits of the soil. Since kingly sovereignty and monastic authority espouse distinct and competing values, the transfer from one domain of control to another is ritualized by the types of sovereign values each actor espouses; in so doing, these opposed values are seen to support each other as two sides of a single complete sovereignty, over both life and death. In a complementary fashion, this ritual legitimizes the association between sovereignty and violence in the Cambodian imagination. As Bourdieu perceived,

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The ritualization which officializes the transgression, making it a regulated and public act, performed before all, collectively shouldered and approved, albeit performed by one individual, is, in itself, a denial, the most powerful one of all, because it has the backing of the whole group. Belief, which is always collective, is consolidated and legitimated by becoming public and official, asserting and flaunting itself instead of remaining hidden, as illegitimate ritual (in other words, dominated ritual, such as female magic) does, thereby recognizing legitimacy, and its own illegitimacy (like the thief, according to Weber). In the case in question, where the aim is to sanction a transgression, the group authorizes itself to do what it does through the work of officialization, which consists in collectivizing the practice by making it public, delegated and synchronized.69 Leaving the discussion at the level of abstract transgression contains risks that the particular nature of the king’s metaphorical violence will be abstracted away, and the imagination of a pregnant woman buried in the foundations of a sacred building will be edited of its horror. In his discussion of the role of ritual in both creating and constraining sovereign power, Graeber notes that the particular nature of violent transgression is directly associated with the ability to institute and preserve a moral order at all: [T]he idiom of war between king and people draws on and is expressive of an even deeper structural reality—the ability to step outside the moral order so as to partake of the kind of power capable of creating such an order is always by definition an act of violence, and can only be maintained as such. Transgression is not in itself necessarily a violent act. The kind of transgression that becomes the basis for a power of command over others necessarily must be. It is a form of compulsion that lies behind any possible accountability. This is also the deep truth about the modern state whose disturbing implications Schmitt ([1922] 2005)—the German jurist credited with creating the legal basis for the Nazi concentration camps—was perhaps the first to work out in a systematic fashion.70 This is not to argue that the sīmā ritual is a ritual that simply and unambiguously legitimizes, sanctifies, and upholds the violence of the king while simultaneously denying that the sangha is implicated. Those things happen, but I believe we can also see an attempt to constrain the king’s sovereignty



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and power, denigrate it morally, and insist that kingly sovereignty is, as I argue above, dependent in a way that the sangha’s moral power is not. My argument has relied largely on my own observations of sīmā ceremonies, the existing scholarly literature about Cambodian sīmā ceremonies, the existing evidence regarding the role of the king in alienating temple land to the sangha, the presence of violent sacrificial imagery in that ritual, and the implantation of kingly violence at the very heart of the temple. The sīmā ceremony is partly about the transformation of one type of space—royal land where the values of violence and kingly authority prevail—into another type of space—monastic land where the values of giving and monastic authority prevail. We can present this imagistically as a series of concentric circles, in which the sangha occupies the central space, inside of an encompassing circle occupied by the king. The king, in turn, is enclosed by a circle occupied by the powers of nature, embodied by the nāga, which is finally enclosed within the outermost circle, that of the Buddha. Each circle contains the other, bound by mythic acts or ritual performance. Power appears, in this way, intercalated and inseparable, such that monastic authority and possession of the land is ritually represented as dependent upon the violence exercised by the king, which is itself dependent on the powers of nature, which must in turn offer final obeisance to the power and authority of the Buddha himself, who is incarnated by the sangha. If there is a conflict over values within the sīmā ceremony, it appears literally buried with the sīmā stones themselves. The ceremony can be interpreted as a ritual of legitimation or as a ritualized contest over the extremity of the possibilities of sovereign violence. Considered as an assemblage moving through history, it can also be interpreted as a moment in an ongoing conflict between the sangha representing itself as a moral institution of the people against the violent power of sovereignty, with legitimation and critique combined in the performance.

Notes As always, none of this would have been possible for me without my partner Leah Bowe, who passed away as this volume was completing. I am grateful to my coeditor Jason A. Carbine for his suggestions and thoughts on this chapter, which represents a departure in important ways from my earlier analyses of puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā. This chapter is partially adapted from “Building Deathpower and Rituals of Sovereignty,” originally published in Deathpower, by Erik W. Davis. Copyright © 2016 Columbia University Press. Used by permission of Columbia University Press.

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1.  The topic of khaṇḍa-sīmā is addressed or referenced in other chapters of this volume. See discussions in Chirapravati and Sheravanichkul, chapter 4 in this volume, and Irwin, chapter 5 in this volume. 2.  These were always merely called sīmā in Khmer and not khaṇḍa-sīmā. The word sīmā in Khmer today most frequently refers to this monastic boundary. There are, however, important vernacular uses of “sīmā” in Cambodia, frequently having to do with the management of malevolent spirits; see Trudy Jacobsen, Lost Goddesses: The Denial of Female Power in Cambodian History (Copenhagen S., Denmark: NIAS Press, 2008), pp. 139–148. Davis, Deathpower, deals with this spirit-binding image throughout. 3.  “Pidhī” in Khmer means “ritual” or “formula”; “puṇya” in Pāli means “merit.” “Pañcuḥ” means “to cause to drop down.” Hereafter, I refer to the ritual as the puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ritual. Jason A. Carbine (personal communication) notes that South and Southeast Asian Buddhist texts and practices provide many examples of the taming and transformation of potentially malevolent beings for the sake of protection or other usage for human ends. The literature on Sri Lankan exorcism rituals provides case material in point. See, for example, Bruce Kapferer, A Celebration of Demons: Exorcism and the Aesthetics of Healing in Sri Lanka, 2nd ed. (Providence: Berg Publishers, 1991); Jason A. Carbine, “Yaktovil: The Role of the Buddha and Dhamma,” in The Life of Buddhism, ed. Frank E. Reynolds and Jason A. Carbine (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), pp. 162–176. For a comparative discussion of Hindu and Buddhist sources, see Gail Hinich Sutherland, The Disguises of the Demon: The Development of the Yaksa in Hinduism and Buddhism, SUNY Series in Hindu Studies (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992). 4.  Several chapters in this volume examine the historical intersection of kings and sīmā rituals with more specificity than I do here; see the chapters in this volume by Chirapravati and Sheravanichkul (chapter 4), Irwin (chapter 5), Kent (chapter 6), and Carbine (chapter 11). 5.  Sāsanā (Pāli sāsana) is a rich category with major implications for understanding religious culture in South and Southeast Asia. A partial listing is given in Jason A. Carbine, “Book Review” (of Alicia Turner, Saving Buddhism: The Impermanence of Religion in Colonial Burma), History of Religions 56, no. 4 (2017): p. 451. 6.  This contrapuntal logical by which “Buddhism makes ‘Brahmanism’ ” is the topic of Davis, Deathpower, chap. 8. 7.  David Graeber, “Notes on the Politics of Divine Kingship: Or, Elements for an Archaeology of Sovereignty,” in On Kings, David Graeber and Marshall Sahlins (Chicago: HAU Books, 2017), p. 421, http://oapen.org/search?identifier= 643262.



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8.  Graeber, “Notes on the Politics of Divine Kingship,” p. 377. 9.  Graeber, “Notes on the Politics of Divine Kingship,” p. 399. 10.  Nāgas figure across Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain mythologies and practices, with different roles depending on contexts. Here I focus on the Cambodian expressions. 11.  One well-known story of the origin of the Khmer involves an Indian brahman named Kaundiññā who marries the daughter of a nāga king and creates the first Khmer state of Funan. See recently Rüdiger Gaudes, “Kauṇḍinya, Preah Thaong, and the ‘Nāgī Somā’: Some Aspects of a Cambodian Legend,” Asian Folklore Studies 52, no. 2 (1993): pp. 333–358, https://doi.org/10.2307/1178160. This story and the others are reviewed in Eveline Porée-Maspero, Étude sur les rites agraires des cambodgiens (Paris: Mouton & Co., 1962), pp. 5–6. Kruṅ Vālī deserves extensive examination, and interested readers are referred to Éveline Porée-Maspero, “Kroṅ pāli et rites de la maison: vi. Kroṅ pāli, práḥ phum, práḥ thorni et la mnāṅ phtăḥ,” Anthropos 56, no. 5–6 (1961): pp. 883–929. 12.  Ven. Chuon Nath, Vacanānukrama khmaer (Phnom Penh: Buddhist Institute, 1966), s.v. 13.  Ñāṇ Bhuen and Mam Chai, Laṃ ān daṃniam khmaera purāṇa [Handbook of ancient Khmer traditions] (Phnom Penh: Buddhist Institute, 2002), pp. 6–9. 14.  Madeleine Giteau, Le bornage rituel des temples bouddhiques au Cambodge (Paris: École Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1969); Barend Jan Terwiel, Monks and Magic: Revisiting a Classic Study of Religious Ceremonies in Thailand, 4th rev. ed. (Copenhagen: Nordic Institute of Asian Studies Press, 2012), pp. 161–164. Porée-Maspero’s piece contains the most detailed investigation of the rite of which I am aware, though it focuses on the domestic house. See PoréeMaspero, “Kroṅ pāli et rites de la maison,” pp. 883–929. 15.  This story opens Irwin’s chapter 5 in this book. 16.  The most common word used to describe this stone in Khmer is sīmā-kila, or Indakila, both with variant spellings of the word “khīla.” Chuon Nath’s Khmer dictionary identifies both as derived from “indakhīla.” 17.  Giteau refers to this as sīmāntarikā, “the interval between sīmā [stones],” but I only ever heard this referred to as ampoḥ. Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 45. See also Kent, chapter 6 in this volume, who refers to this as khsae, or “string,” and Kobayashi, chapter 7 in this volume, who refers to it as “rope.” 18.  The indakhīlā stone is sometimes set aside in preparations and dealt with separately, and sometimes dealt with in roughly the same fashion as the other buried stones. There seems to be a fair bit of variability in this regard. 19.  The importance of these stones has captured people’s imaginations in multiple ways. Murphy, chapter 2 in this volume, examines this history; Work,

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chapter 9, gives a powerful example of how spirits in contemporary Cambodia can be experienced in relationship to stones. Giteau discusses the associations each directional stone has with different deities and spirits; Giteau, Le bornage rituel, pp. 16–18. See Marston, Chhuon, and Guthrie, chapter 10 in this volume, for a discussion of indakhīla in Cambodia. 20.  This is a much-discussed point in Buddhist studies. 21.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, pp. 48–49. 22.  There are a few additional ceremonies to conduct, but these take place without nearly as much audience interest. Ritual uses of threads for protection and boundary making appear in various places throughout South and Southeast Asia. Cf., for example, those in some Sri Lankan healing rituals, distilled in Carbine, “Yaktovil.” 23.  Ashley Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State: Territory, Sovereignty and Sexual Difference in the Inventions of Angkor, Routledge Critical Studies in Buddhism (London: Routledge/Taylor & Francis Group, 2016). 24.  Paul Mus, India Seen from the East: Indian and Indigenous Cults in Champa, trans. I. W. Mabbet (Clayton, Vic., Australia: Monash University Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, 1933 [1975]), p. 21, cited in Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, 78. For contemporary Cambodian scholarship that continues key aspects of Mus’ orientation, see Ang Choulean, People and Earth (Phnom Penh: Reyum Gallery, 2000); Ang Choulean, “The Place of Animism within Popular Buddhism in Cambodia: The Example of the Monastery,” Asian Folklore Studies 47 (1988): pp. 35–41. 25.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, pp. 72, 95. Mus’ provocation in 1933 was to view “India from the East” of India, that is, from Southeast Asia, rather than to accept the widespread stereotype that Indian civilization spread to the fallow and “empty” space of Southeast Asia. Thompson’s book is in some ways a response to Sheldon Pollock’s recent engagement with the idea of “indianization” under the rubric of the “Sanskrit Cosmopolis.” See Sheldon I. Pollock, The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: Sanskrit, Culture, and Power in Premodern India (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). The practices Mus examines are often understood to continue in Cambodia in village traditions of establishing a “village navel” (phchit bhūmi), usually by planting a stake or wooden pillar in the village center. These may also connect to the city pillar traditions of northern Thailand, which often use the word indakhīla (Th. inthakhin) to refer to their similar “city pillar practice.” See, for instance, the recent study of the cult of the Chiang Mai city pillar by Kazuo Fukuura, “A Ritual Community: The Religious Practices of Spirit Mediums Who Worship the Spirit of the Chiang Mai City Pillar,” Sojourn: Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia 26, no. 1 (2011): pp. 105–127.



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26.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, pp. 92, 98. 27.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 72. 28.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, pp. 25–26; on the topic of the Sok Kak Thom inscription in general, see George Cœdès and P. Dupont, “Les stèles de sdŏk kăk thoṃ, phnoṃ sandak et práḥ vihār,” Bulletin de l’École Française d’Extrême-Orient 43 (1943): pp. 56–154; and Adhir Chakravarti, The Sdok Kak Thom Inscription. 1. A Study in Indo-Khmèr Civilization (Calcutta: Sanskrit College, 1978). 29.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 24. 30.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 35. 31.  The notion of civilizational “collapse” at Angkor has been heavily revised by archaeologists and historians. The space continued to be occupied and used, and it shows evidence of “reorganization of Angkor Wat’s enclosure space” during the sixteenth century onward. See Alison K. Carter et al., “Temple Occupation and the Tempo of Collapse at Angkor Wat, Cambodia,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 116, no. 25 (2019): pp. 12226–12231, https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1821879116. 32.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 46. 33.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 55. 34.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 152. 35.  Thompson argues that it is in fact antirepresentational; Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 79. 36.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 147. 37.  Jacobsen, Lost Goddesses, pp. 139–142; Lim Kannitha, “Babil” (undergraduate thesis, Royal University of Fine Arts, Phnom Penh, 2007); Ashley Thompson, Calling the Souls: A Cambodian Ritual Text (Phnom Penh: Reyum Publishing, 2005); Ashley Thompson, The Calling of the Souls: A Study of the Khmer Ritual Hau Bralin (Clayton, Vic., Australia: Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, 1996). 38.  Chuon Nath has been the subject of excellent recent scholarship. See especially Anne Ruth Hansen, How to Behave: Buddhism and Modernity in Colonial Cambodia, 1860–1931 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007); Penny Edwards, Cambodge: The Cultivation of a Nation 1860–1945 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007), chap. 7. 39.  Chuon Nath, Vacanānukrama Khmaer, s.v.; this is also discussed briefly in the translation by Marston, Chhuon, and Guthrie in chapter 10 in this book. 40.  These are discussed in various chapters in this book. See also Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 8. 41.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 12.

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42.  The word “indakhīlā” does appear in a few circumstances in the Vinaya, primarily with the meaning “threshold.” It is specifically translated this way in I. B. Horner, trans., The Book of the Discipline (Vinaya-Piṭaka), vol. I (Suttavibhaṅga), with an appendix of translations of previously untranslated passages by Petra Kieffer-Pülz (Bristol: Pali Text Society, 2014; first published 1938), p. 74, which is a translation of Hermann Oldenberg, The Suttavibhaṅga, First Part (Pârâjika, Saṃghâdisesa, Aniyata, Nissaggiya) (London: Pali Text Society, 1993), p. 46. See also Oldenberg, The Suttavibhaṅga, p. 160, where indakhīla is given as the name of a threshold of a bedroom. Despite having a consistency of meanings associated with “threshold,” there is a wide diversity of types of thresholds to which the term is applied in Pāli and Sanskrit. Thanks to Jason Carbine for his suggestions and conversation on this topic. 43.  See for example CPD. 44.  Traditional Khmer houses are built on stilts, and the threshold, or top of the stairs, remains one of the most important ritual locations for domestic practices, though these are not called indakhīla. 45.  In his essay on sīmā and territory, Harris also explicitly links the indakhīla to royal authority; see his entire discussion of the indakhīla at Ian Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse on Territory: Genealogy of the Buddhist Ritual Boundary (Sīmā),” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 41, no. 2 (2010): pp. 220–223. 46.  Thompson, Engendering the Buddhist State, p. 84. 47.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, pp. 4–5. 48.  Kent, chapter 6 this volume, also remarks on the apparently spontaneous and well-understood connection of these practices to the notion of sacrifice in general, but also to imaginations of human sacrifice in particular. 49.  Mus argues that the connection between human sacrifice, spiritually empowered stones, and territory pre-exists any “Indianization” and is aimed at the “divinization of the energies of the soil.” Mus, India Seen from the East, pp. 11, 12. 50.  Jacqueline Simpson and Steve Roud, “Foundation Sacrifice,” in Dictionary of English Folklore (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 51.  Ang Choulean, Les êtres surnaturels dans la religion populaire khmère (Paris: Cedorek, 1986), p. 38. 52.  Choulean, “The Place of Animism within Popular Buddhism in Cambodia,” p. 38. The idea of a building sacrifice that includes a pregnant woman exists for other constructions as well. In an account of the damming of the Aur Dambang River in Battambang Province, Taucch discusses the burial of a pregnant woman as a sacrifice; see Tauch Chhuong, Battambang During the Time of the Lord Governor, trans. Carol Anne Mortland (Honolulu: East-West Center, 1994), pp. 24–28.



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53.  Ian Harris collects most of the relevant academic citations for historical human sacrifice in mainland Southeast Asia in a footnote: Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” pp. 235–236, note 120. For a review of a historical human sacrifice, see David P. Chandler, “Royally-Sponsored Human Sacrifices in Nineteenth-Century Cambodia,” in Facing the Cambodian Past: Selected Essays 1971–1994 (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Press, 1996), pp. 199–236. 54.  Jordaan and Wessing review regional Southeast Asian archaeological evidence that concludes in favor of some limited examples of human foundation sacrifice, and they offer a theory to explain it, in Robert Wessing and Roy E. Jordaan, “Death at the Building Site: Construction Sacrifice in Southeast Asia,” History of Religions 37, no. 2 (1997): p. 118, p. 119, note 95, 96; and Roy E. Jordaan and Robert Wessing, “Human Sacrifice at Prambanan,” Bijdragen Tot de Taal-, Land- En Volkenkunde 152, no. 1 (1996): pp. 45–73. Michael Wright discusses sacrificial origins for the Southeast Asian sīmā rite itself in Michael Wright, “Sacrifice and the Underworld: Death and Fertility in Siamese Myth and Ritual,” Journal of the Siam Society 78, no. 1 (1990): pp. 43–54. For some of the difficulty in establishing distinctions between execution and sacrifice when the state takes lives, see Dwight Conquergood, “Lethal Theatre: Performance, Punishment, and the Death Penalty,” Theatre Journal 54, no. 3 (2002): pp. 339–367. 55.  James R. Egge, Religious Giving and the Invention of Karma in Theravāda Buddhism (Richmond, UK: Curzon Press, 2002); Maria Heim, Theories of the Gift in South Asia: Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain Reflections on Dāna (New York: Routledge, 2004). 56.  The Vessantara Jātaka has received important recent attention. See Steven Collins, Readings of the Vessantara Jātaka, Columbia Readings of Buddhist Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016); Katherine Ann Bowie, Of Beggars and Buddhas: The Politics of Humor in the Vessantara Jataka in Thailand (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2017); Patrick Jory, “The Vessantara Jataka, Barami, and the Bodhisatta-Kings: The Origin and Spread of a Thai Concept of Power,” Crossroads: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 16, no. 2 (2002): pp. 36–78. 57.  Steven Collins, Nirvana and Other Buddhist Felicities. Utopias of the Pali Imaginaire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 500–501. This is part of an extensive model developed by Steven Collins which he terms “Dhamma I” and “Dhamma II,” following a suggestion by Jeff Shirkey; see Collins, Nirvana, pp. 419–423. 58.  Assemblages that include violence can express themselves in multiple ways. The current moment in Myanmar includes the embrace of nationalistic violence by factions of the Buddhist sangha.

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59.  Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” p. 223; Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Sīmāvicāraṇa: A Pali Letter on Monastic Boundaries by King Rāma IV of Siam (Bangkok: Fragile Palm Leaves Foundation, 2011). 60.  Davis, Deathpower, pp. 17–18. 61.  This concept and the tension between kings and monks is dealt with at length by Stanley J. Tambiah, World Conqueror and World Renouncer: A Study of Buddhism and Polity in Thailand against a Historical Background (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976). The Buddha’s common rhetorical technique of redefining existing terms to critique the original meanings is discussed in Richard F. Gombrich, What the Buddha Thought, Oxford Centre for Buddhist Studies Monographs (London: Equinox Publications, 2009), p. 7. 62.  Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” p. 223. 63.  Achille Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” Public Culture 15, no. 1 (2003): p. 16. 64.  Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” p. 15. 65.  This is argued at length in Davis, Deathpower, throughout chaps. 2–4. 66.  Mbembe, “Necropolitics,” p. 12. 67.  In this chapter I have been influenced by the work of Giorgio Agamben, whose definition of the sovereign is “he who decides upon the state of exception”; see Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1995); also Conquergood, “Lethal Theatre.” 68.  This is inspired especially by Graeber, “Notes on the Politics of Divine Kingship.” 69.  Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1990), p. 238. 70.  Graeber, “Notes on the Politics of Divine Kingship,” p. 399.

ch a pter 9

Stones of Spirits and Kings Negotiating Land Grabs in Contemporary Cambodia Courtney Work

In this chapter, I use a public act of successful resistance against territorial encroachment to frame a discussion of how sīmā stele stones from an ancient ritual came to be involved in that struggle.1 To do this, I recount the historical and contemporary presence of spirits, stones, and humans that inhabit the mountains and the built environments at the Temple of the Seven Angels on Phnom Gok. This habitation is both material and immaterial: stones, spirits, humans, and their objects act alongside and along with each other. Material objects of the present connect with those of the past, objects fashioned by humans draw power from objects fashioned by other means, and political acts of territorial appropriation in the present are confronted by related appropriations from the past. Spirits, stones, and artifacts have power and act in the world. Humans also have power and can purposefully engage with other powerful objects and entities. In the following pages, I will introduce a place where a massive stone made a cave and the water flowed beside it on Phnom Gok. At that place, the monk suggests, people recognized the nonhuman owner of the land. Sīmā stones were planted there by religious specialists, probably Buddhist monks, with whatever ceremony was appropriate at the time, likely involving invocations for the ancient land entities, Buddhist rites, and perhaps a sacrifice,2 as part of legitimizing a territorial claim. Here I attribute agency to the material and immaterial actors of the story, as Erik Davis puts it, “what are to most of us, certainly, ambiguously conscious beings,”3 in a way that coincides with local descriptions of both their consciousness and their capacity for creating material effects in the world. This may seem jarring to some. It is intentionally so. By doing this, I enter an expanding conversation that challenges the mute and inert character of

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material objects,4 that confronts the impossibility of other-than-human intention,5 and that intervenes into the colonizing practices of naming and archaeology.6 I do not enter this conversation to engage with its many points of theoretical contention, which seem to say more about the scholars than the events they try to capture. I have argued7 that the human classificatory systems that spin cosmologies out of the very real energies that flow from water, soil, and rock are useful in practice, but distracting in theory. Classifications are nothing more than imaginary fields placed around independent forces to make them intelligible or useful at particular historical moments for particular purposes. Like the idea that the Buddha surrounds the elemental forces of water and land, taming and conquering death, as if we can have life without death. Having life without death is a powerful story that is deeply implicated in our current ecocide, but it goes beyond the scope of this chapter. For my purposes, it is the events, objects, and processes, rather than the theories spun out about them, that are important. By entering this conversation, I ultimately argue for the possibility of an altered ecology of mind for the human animal, in which it is not only possible, but desirable, to live in a world in which all the elements of our environment are alive with independent intention. I am not making any truth claims here. The idea that there is a kind of truth, with a capital T, that humans could be aware of and understand to its deepest core is, I suggest, hubris of the most dangerous kind. Nonetheless, we do know some things, and as we ask more questions we learn more things. It cannot be disputed that the energy latent in water, soil, rock, indeed all of “nature,” is independent of humans. Importantly, however, my energy as a human is not independent of the energy of either the water or the land. This is what my friends in Cambodia put forward regularly, and it is why they cultivate social relationships with mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī, the master/owner of the water and the land. In this essay, I take for granted that there are forces in the world that human animals neither create, nor fully control, nor fully understand. This is a scientific position that is concerned with energy and physics.8 I also take for granted that humans do attempt to control and put the planet’s energies to productive use. A hydroelectric dam is a good example of this, as is a shaman’s healing dance. The work of classifying and naming the energy bound by a dam or a shaman is a political act that opens some and closes other kinds of narratives about what is happening. Naming directs the thoughts and actions of a given community of language users toward navigating historically particular circumstances in particular ways.9 Depending on whether we call a nonhuman,



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invisible actor a demon, for example, or a supernatural entity, it becomes palpably different things in the community. It is either a malevolent force or a force of great power but questionable reality, existing outside of what is considered natural. Both of these names emerged at particular historical moments, among a particular group of people, who were navigating their own sociopolitical environment in Europe, but neither are appropriate to describe what was explained to me in Cambodia. Naming of all stripes carries with it the foreclosure of particular types of interpretations. Challenging those names for nonhuman agents and the kinds of worlds the names create folds directly into challenging other names that may not be representative of contemporary physical reality. What we label “development,” for example, is looking more and more like destruction. Similarly, the ritual act of planting sīmā stones at a site of locally recognized power, described variously across this volume, is part of a long historical process through which the productive power of the land, the labor, and the offerings of local people are bound into the service of agricultural production, kingly wars, building projects, and the upkeep of learned priests.10 Davis’ chapter in this volume (chapter 8) speaks to this layered land grab, and Kobayashi’s chapter (chapter 7) highlights the acknowledged power of the land that ancient ruins signify. The main challenge in making interventions into classificatory systems is that they butt up against already established systems, only to establish different imaginary fields with which to describe and contain things. In the case of academic studies of religion written from a European perspective about non-European places, people, and practices, which this volume is, it is traditional to use a European system of classification and values. It has long been noted that some of the basic ideas of that system are profoundly at odds with what the studied people say about the worlds they live in, but they are notoriously difficult to change.11 I do two things in this chapter to intervene into the sticky quagmire of truth claims that naming entails. First, I jettison the idea of the “supernatural” as a thing, or a classification of things, that could possibly exist. This term emerged in fifteenth-century Europe amid debates around science, nature, merchants, capital, property, and the independent rule of kings. It is not an acknowledged possibility by any of my colleagues in the Cambodian countryside, and its use changes the kind of world that people describe. Venerable Diam, the Buddhist monk in this story, suggests that “the inner road (plhav knung, discussed below) is not available to everyone, but it is dhamma, which is nature (dhamma, ṭael jā dhammajāti). You can’t see it, but

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it is right here with us.” At the same time, for the woman who was possessed by the nonhuman owner of the water and the land, that entity is inextricable from the mountain and the forest in a real-world way. The mountain and forest are to varying degrees always vectors of power. To address this power-laden, world-making problem of naming, I use a different name that might be recognizable to the people whose stories I describe here and that might begin to resignify the impossibility of the supernatural. Toward that end, I use “chthonic energies” to refer to the very real energies that flow from water, soil, and rock and get captured in projects of human classification, power, and resource use. This term acknowledges local understandings of power and takes account of its often place-based character. I also use the names that people in this historical moment use to describe various manifestations of that energy, lok tā, lok yāy (honored grandfather, grandmother), ‛ʹanak tā (ancient ones), mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī (master/owner of the water and the land), manuss moel min ghoen (people we cannot see). Today, the land under the rock where palpable chthonic energy was supposedly bound by ambitious monks remains in the kingdom. Contemporary rulers now send bulldozers to clear the forest and plant cassava for biofuel production in order to avert climate change,12 caused in part by converting forests into industrial agriculture plantations. What I present here is, I suggest, the backstory of development, and reading development backwards entails respecting, occupying, and grappling with a reality in which the rock, the ancient one, and the ancient site, can be alive in ways that are independent of, unfamiliar to, and yet available to human interaction and deployment. Yāy Deb, the personified manifestation of chthonic energies that emanate through the natural rock formation and are referred to generically as the owner of the water and the land (mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī), is at once benevolent and dangerous. As a social actor in the lives of local residents, this entity deals in both life and death. The owner of the water and the land, as is implied in the name, provides the elemental needs for all living things.13 Relationships with it are indispensable and are understood in the register of generosity and respect. Human death can be punishment for an infraction against the owner of the water and the land, or it can be a caregiving act of respect for the generous abundance of life provided, sometimes both.14 Davis (chapter 8 in this volume) elegantly describes how the ceremony establishing the sīmā boundary marks a split, in which the power over life remains with the king, and the monk claims the power over death and moral control of the amoral chthonic forces. My own explorations of this multilayered land grab focus on how the chthonic energy from which all power comes remains always at the center of



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both kingly and monastic ritualizations.15 And how this is a force to be grappled with that remains salient for people living close to environmental and chthonic rhythms and for those engaged in projects of political power. Venerable Diam suggests that a concentration of chthonic energy has always emanated from the place where the stone juts out from Gok Mountain, and this energy entered contemporary history when Yāy Deb forced young men down from their bulldozers. The sīmā stones, placed on Phnom Gok in an ancient ritual of monastic influence and Khmer (or Siamese) sovereignty, mark a power-laden event from the past that creates myth and memory and is deployed toward political action in the present. This chapter describes how the stones of the monks bind the nonhuman owner of the land to Buddhism through an ancient ritual that carves out a Buddhist space on land where the king already claimed sovereignty over chthonic entities. Davis (chapter 8 in this volume) suggests the monks are attempting to bind the king’s power into some imagined version of morality. At the dynamic juncture of power, the monks bind both the king and the capricious life-and-death-wielding forces of the owner of the water and the land, at once fearless of death and at the service of the king. There is more to excavate here. For now, I proceed to discuss how this act of sīmā demarcation frames the space in which the contemporary monk gathers significant objects connecting Yāy Deb to the ancient kings, as well as to Buddhisms of the past and the present. The conversion of forest into industrial plantations ignited the ancient one, who stopped the bulldozers in the present. It also sparked the collaborations of the monk with the NGO, who respectively performed tree ordination ceremonies and attempted world heritage initiatives to stake claims to the land. This chapter excavates the multiple layers of power that inhabited the Cambodian present during one moment of encounter: The violent appropriation of land by an industrial plantation in an era of intense land conversion toward global market production, commonly referred to as “development.” For this exercise, I ground my study in history and explore the “processes behind”16 immaterial presence and the activation of material objects that folded stones and power into Cambodia’s contemporary land disputes. I suggest that such an intervention is important at this historical moment, at the end of empire and the beginning of a new planetary epoch. Peasants and highlanders across Southeast Asia17 ask permission of the immaterial owner of the water and the land before claiming fields to clear; the sīmā stones are the monastic version of that process, embedded in and legitimizing the king’s earlier claims. It is possible that our current epoch is witness to the chthonic sovereign of the land revoking permission for further violent

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appropriations. To explore this possibility, I briefly outline the story of resistance, and then quickly turn to introduce the mountain stones and the spirit and discuss their entanglement with sīmā stones and the deep history of binding and claiming resources and territory. Then I will tell the stories of the monk who came to build the temple, and the NGO that helped reclaim the forest. I suggest that the powerful boundary of the sīmā, ritually linked to the chthonic energies in the stone, has been involved in multiple territorial claims across a long history at this location. The first was to claim the site and its resources for the ancient realm; the most recent was to claim the site for the Buddhist temple, withholding the forest’s bounty from the market.

Land Grabs and Resistance In July 2012 provincial government officials in Cambodia’s Pursat Province presided over a tree-planting ceremony at the Temple of Seven Angels. Depending on who does the telling, this story has two distinct narratives: State officials say the provincial government gave five hectares of land to the temple and planted five thousand trees on it to show the state’s generosity, good governance, and forest stewardship. Ven. Diam, Mr. Chen, and local villagers say the Pheapimex Corporation illegitimately appropriated the land, which was returned to temple ownership after the ancient one of the mountain caused the company distress. Yāy Deb appeared in 2009, when Pheapimex’ bulldozers came to clear plantation land in front of the Buddhist temple. After the holy day service, templegoers walked past the bulldozers, and one woman, not a professional medium but an ordinary plantation worker, suddenly convulsed and staggered on the road. She was involuntarily possessed by Yāy Deb, the ancient one. Temple-goers and company workers looked on as the convulsions stopped and the woman stood tall and walked toward the machines. “Stop!” the ancient one shouted, holding up the woman’s hand. “Stop now!!” She continued walking toward the machines. The men working the machines stopped. “You must stop taking down the trees,” the Yāy Deb said. “This is our home. This mountain has been our home since ancient times; if you cut the trees we cannot stay.” The woman then slumped to the ground and the workers slowly climbed down from their machines, unwilling to continue their assigned task. It took two weeks for the company to find workers willing to continue clearing. “People were afraid of lok yāy after that,” the woman’s husband said, and “no one would come clear for the company.”18 This unplanned possession disrupted company activities and marked the beginning of a campaign to reclaim the temple’s land. The Buddhist monk,



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Ven. Diam, was the human face of this campaign, in conjunction with Yāy Deb, to whom people attributed a series of calamities in the plantation. In discussions, people described the ancient one’s claim to the land: “Yāy was here first and protects this mountain . . . protected the kings before . . . protects us and brings the rain so we can eat.”19 The ancient one is embedded in the deep history of this place as one face of the immaterial owner of the water and the land. Yāy Deb is often referred to as lok yāy, which is a generic, familial term for the owner of the water and the land,20 and Yāy Deb is known to have intimate connections to the royal families.21 There is a long history that connects ‛ʹanak tā to the legitimation of territorial claims made by the king in ancient Cambodia and other parts of Southeast Asia.22 There is also a long and twisted history through which ‛ʹanak tā becomes the nāga king, Kruṅ Vālī, another name by which the owner of the land is known,23 and alternatively the earth goddess,24 the former of Indic lineage and the latter from Southeast Asia, both entangled in Buddhist stories and in ceremonies to consecrate the sīmā boundaries. New research in the rural areas explicitly connects ‛ʹanak tā to the larger entity mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī.25 “Mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī is in everything and we can ask for protection and help from many places . . . not all are big and powerful like lok tā [the village ancient one], but they are all connected and are all mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī.”26 In the rituals I have been part of and the discussions I have had, the nāga king and the earth goddess are described as particular manifestations of mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī. The chthonic energies present in the rock control the territory and influence relationships between plantation workers, local villagers, and Buddhist monks, as well as provincial officials, Pheapimex company representatives, and the head of the local NGO, Green Vision. Whether through respect and fear of the ancient one as the rightful owner of the land or through an understanding of the importance of winning political support through palliatives for the people, all recognized Yāy Deb’s legitimacy. Eventually, interventions by lok yāy, the monk, and the NGO succeeded in persuading provincial authorities to return five hectares of land to the temple and plant five thousand saplings in the lowlands that spread below the mountain.

The Stones At this site, the energetic qualities of the rocks, mountains, and trees hold stories that tell of chthonic forces, kings, and mystics. Barbara Bender speaks of landscapes as “polysemic.” They are not static, not “artefact,” but are things “in process of construction and reconstruction.”27 She suggests that “although

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there is a ‘real’ world ‘out there,’ we can only access it through our concepts, words, and metaphors: our stories.”28 Yāy Deb is a metaphor for the energy that is present on Phnom Gok as the large rock overhang that creates a deep protected cave-like space, inhabited by bats and the altar space arranged by Ven. Diam. Just below this overhang is a circle of sīmā stones ensconced by ancient monks and attended by the king (or representative) to mark sacred Buddhist space within the territory of the king. It is likely the sīmā is from Cambodia’s middle period (1431–1863), but the era was marked by constant war and scant documentation. The ruins of many ancient sites dot the mountain and the surrounding area but have yet to be placed into recorded history. At this site, the two types of stone sit together, spirit stone above embedded in the cliff and sīmā stones in a flat clearing below, in a way that spatially fuses the monks, the ancient kings, and the owner of the water and the land in this location. In a further act of spatial annexation, the contemporary monk, Ven. Diam, arranged a Buddhist altar under the rock overhang. There he placed Buddha statues and other powerful artifacts fashioned by the ancient inhabitants of this mountain that he found scattered around the mountain. The stones generate palpable power in the material world, power that S. Brent Plate suggests “help hold certain spaces as sacred, literally and figuratively weighing them down,”29 and they are key players in the contemporary story I tell. These stones were players in other, earlier territorial claims and attest to the notion of placeholding invoked by Plate, but I suggest that the weight he invokes does more than hold. It creates a little dimple, an energetic alteration to the landscape that mocks the oppositions we humans create between time and space30 and draws “objects” (like bodies) to it. The holding is not simply awaiting discovery, it entices engagement. In Cambodia dramatic stones regularly entice engagement and are considered powerful places,31 and as such they will have a small hut with offerings for the ancient ones. Importantly, in these huts that entity is often represented by stone.32 Particular stones, suggests nature artist Andy Goldsworthy, “proffer some radiating anime, some soul and intention, witnessing to the past in this time and in this place.”33 In an ethnography from Indonesia, Monica Janowski records local people’s engagements with stone, who describe naturally occurring stone outcroppings as places frequented by their ancestors in the time of “linking with power”; stones in this context are understood to be “petrified power.”34 They are the flowing force of the world, solidified. The human eye and human experience can mistake stones as things solid and unmoving, but rocks do move. They can be bent in the heat and pressure of seismic shifts, and also tossed far afield. This overhanging stone is a migrant, from how far

Figure 9.1. Place of chthonic energy (top) and sīmā stones in the clearing below it (left). Courtesy Courtney Work.

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is difficult to tell, but its position in the landscape suggests upheaval. By discounting the trajectory and energetic presence of stones we reduce all of history, the entirety of “the past,” to human memory and experience.35 By thinking with a dichotomy of static stone and active human we may privilege the witnessing over the active presence. It is through imperceptible locative events that Hugh Raffles suggests that the stone can “empty the world of time,”36 an emptiness that marks space both within and beyond the stories of kings, monks, and captains of industry. By thinking of the stone as an object, or any other part of a constructed nature as an object, we can mistake its behavior as “(matter of) fact and not as the expression of fully agentive . . . contingent, relationships.”37 Latour argues that power is the consequence of A’s abilities to bring B into its program of action.38 This is the act of kingly appropriation of chthonic power that lays the ground into which the sīmā stones demarcate Buddhist space. And the stone outcropping on Phnom Gok that gathered kings and monks allows us space to think about power and agency in ways that can accommodate a spontaneous possession that disrupted plantation deforestation. In Ecuador, “earth-beings” are conjured into the political sphere,39 and I suggest that the “living bedrock”40 of Phnom Gok was similarly called into the global politics of Cambodia’s economic intensification. The idea that stones and their landscapes are not just the spaces in which human histories take place, but are constitutive of those histories, is at once radical and commonplace, depending on one’s standpoint.41 Sandra Harding describes how a standpoint analysis can consider data from the standpoint of discredited entities like women or the “folk deities” invoked by Davis42 to describe the world from their vantage point. In this case, from the standpoint of the stone, or the water, the “folk deities” of academics become what Barbara Bender describes as the “living bedrock” of the entire project.43 On a still-inhabited moor of Great Britain, Bender describes stones that surround the archaeological site and remain connected to the modern inhabitants of the moor as powerful interlocutors. Empowered through “the work of the ancestral beings,” the stones connect the people and animals, and they require “attentiveness and nurture” through constant interplay, a “cosmological reiteration that worked . . . across the landscape.”44 For rural locals in Cambodia (and other parts of the world) the idea is commonplace; for urban dwellers of civilized spaces the idea is quite radical, although it is becoming less so. Tim Ingold suggests that the environment is a “domain of entanglement,”45 and on Phnom Gok the mountain, stones, trees, monks, and bulldozers have all been entangled into the stories of Yāy Deb, kingship, territory, morality,



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and extraction.46 One could (and many do) tell the story of local resistance and governmental land return without mentioning the anima of Phnom Gok, but I suggest there may be a bigger story to tell about stones and the ongoing construction of empire. Stones sit heavily in the landscape and from the eons before the advent of what we call civilization they influenced the spatial arrangements of human dwelling; they are also the weight around which the civilized human constructs history.

The Spirit Cambodia is host to a wide variety of socially active immaterial entities47 that range from recent ancestors to teachers we cannot see who instruct in the technologies of healing, music, and the arts,48 dangerous human spirits of bad deaths, and wandering ghosts.49 Of all these, the most powerful (and most variously manifest) is the “anak tā. “Anak tā are potent, localized, energetic manifestations of the mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī, literally, the owner of the water and the land that is “in everything” and available “from many places.” This entity is often described as a protective ancestor that controls the territory and is the arbiter of justice within it.50 Not all are anthropomorphized, however, and not all are known. The forest is full of unknown “anak tā51 and they can be wild and dangerous entities but can also be amenable to human habitation if properly propitiated. They become the lord of the villages or regions and by extension are subsumed by the powers of state, the royal palace, and the king.52 They are multiple in space, a collective, but located in fixed spaces—rocks especially, but also trees and ponds53—and they are also mobile and travel through both space and time on circulating currents of energy, pāramī, ignited by the perfections of the Buddha.54 Acknowledged and cultivated in the Cambodian social sphere since before the first kings of Angkor ritually claimed territory from them,55 they hold the stories of powerful places and ancestors, of kings and priests. Through these braided and deep connections with the immaterial owner of the land and the array of local human hierarchies, Yāy Deb presents the “tangible traces of the continuing exploitation and socialization of the forest by man.”56 In this way, they at once legitimize territorial claims through history and empower new claimants to the land. Yāy Deb, the named manifestation of chthonic power in this story, is a noted protector of the king in Siem Reap but is present in many other locations. There is little research into Yāy Deb, but she is well known across the country. In my own travels through Pursat, Kampong Chhnang, and Kampong Speu, I have been introduced to Yāy Deb in numerous locations, always in the

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‛ʹanak tā hut (sometimes referred to as the devatā, or angel hut) at powerful places in the mountains. Her statue was first discovered in a temple set atop pre-Angkorean ruins south of the Western Baray of the Angkor complex. Her image is nearly identical to the Leper King (Yāy Deb has no fangs), and she is thought to be contemporaneous with this “founder of Angkor,” who was inflicted with leprosy.57 The Leper King could be King Jayavarman VII (late twelfth to early thirteenth century), but may also represent the god of death.58 Yāy Deb is prominently seated in Siem Reap across from the king’s residence, where she is worshiped by many including the current royal family. She is considered by some to be the feminine counterpart to the Leper King, but she is powerful in her own right.59 At Phnom Gok, Yāy Deb is not explicitly connected to the Leper King, but she is the strongest of the “seven angels” that inhabit the mountain, and according to Ven. Diam has “protected Angkor since ancient times.”60 Locating precise histories for Yāy Deb, divining origin stories and determining royal affiliation, may mistake history for power. The stories we tell about stones and spirits are, as Bender suggests, the way we “access” a “real” world “out there.” Yāy Deb is the stone and a powerful force that emanates from Phnom Gok, which legitimized, through establishing a sīmā boundary, both the Buddhist monastic tradition as well as the territorial claim of a powerful but unknown king from the turbulent, post-Angkorean era. The spirits are more than just the stories that attend them, and Bob Orsi, speaking from a Euro-Christian perspective, pointedly places spirits in the world; they are “real in experience and practice . . . , in the circumstances of people’s lives and histories, and in the stories people tell about them.”61 Religion for Orsi does not help people understand how and why things come to be the way they are. Religion, and the spirits that attend it, are part of lived experience. This resonates with perspectives from Southeast Asia, and Richard O’Connor also contends it is not about explanation; these entities create a space of belonging.62 Religion is a material and social engagement with an interstitial space “between heaven and earth.”63 Some Cambodians talk about their engagements with invisible entities and with Buddhism in terms of belonging and of social relationships situated in the landscape64 and passing through generations.65 The ancient ones in Cambodia are present with us on earth; nonetheless they mark a threshold beyond human, material existence. What I am trying to draw out is how spirits and/or religion “becomes as real as guns and stones and bread, and then how the real in turn acts as an agent for itself in history.”66 The entity I describe acts as an agent for itself that enters the story, acting upon human bodies and altering the movements of human history.67



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Yāy Deb called the monk to this place and was a party to the territorial claims made by Buddhist monks and Khmer kings of the past, which I will discuss further below, and she also harangued the bulldozer drivers and thus laid claim to the territory. Spirits are known for harassing and poking potential interlocutors until they engage.68 They are also known to be available as sources of power for those humans that have the courage and stamina to engage them. These entities are called upon, and must be grappled with, by the weak and the powerful alike.69 This contention entails attentiveness and the “active presupposition that the animating powers of life . . . are available to the body’s many senses because they inhabit the physical world in specific and complex ways.”70 In Cambodia the physical world is understood to animate the many “people we cannot see.” Yāy Deb is one of those people and is part of a network of such powerful people with whom both villagers and provincial governors contend. Bruno Latour suggests that an entity is “interesting, deep, profound, worthwhile” only within a network, “when it resonates with others, is effected, moved, put into motion by new entities whose differences are registered in new and unexpected ways.”71 According to local sources72 and regional comparisons,73 these entities hail people and are called upon by them; they are at once a constant presence and an ephemeral appearance. Although attention to this presence diminishes with each year of continued forest destruction and extraction, most Cambodians walk through the forest with care and regular acknowledgment of nonhuman potential. “Why not say that in religion what counts are the beings that make people act, just as every believer has always insisted?” asks Latour.74 I suggest that part of the difficulty with this lies in the stories people tell about their various powerful interlocutors. The past and the present are mythologized, and the stories that ignite noncorporeal agents were, as de Certeau suggests, “narrativized into a symbolic order, leaving the truth of things in suspension and virtually secret.” The academic stories of the present, by contrast, “speak in the name of the facts” and are busily producing “a referential reality.”75 The continued material presence of ‛ʹanak tā in the Cambodian landscape and in Cambodian bodies is networked into the story of the ancient kings in two ways that are salient for this examination. The first is as guardians of territory, the second is as arbiters of justice, both of which are materially represented with ‛ʹanak tā statues and stories for each Cambodian province and in front of the courts of law. The violent appropriation of territory and justice by the ancient kings is obscured through this materialization and is further softened through binding the power of the king within the sīmā boundary.76

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Chthonic power remains physically present in the justice system, and the role of chthonic entities as guardians of the territory is absorbed into the functions of the king, and even more fully into the boundaries of the modern state, which simply plows over any unproductive forest within the territory in favor of plantation agriculture. This exposes a difficult bit of contested reality in the contemporary imagination: Are the forest and the river the grand product of chthonic energies, teeming with life, or are they unproductive waste waiting for industrial agriculture? Schneider suggests that “the problem is not with the totalizing capacity of ontologies, rather with their slipperiness.”77 I contend that imagined realities are both and, as David Morgan suggests, “people do what they want to believe and they make belief in the things they do.”78 With this view, we can attend, as Talal Asad advises, to the processes by which meanings are constructed and in this way direct our attention to the projects of power and domination enacted through the narrative framing of particular powerful material sites.79

The Sīmā The sīmā is a boundary. The word is attested in early Pāli sources, and as the chapters in this volume describe, it came to be associated with the boundary used to mark explicitly Buddhist space within larger fields of power and authority. The vinaya (Buddhist laws) state that stones are one medium with which a sīmā boundary can be delimited. On mainland Southeast Asia, the stone is the primary vehicle used for sīmā boundary marking and is associated with the earliest autochthonous traditions. This also applies to European, South American, and African traditions, and also with the territorial claims of both Chinese and Brahmanic rulers.80 Sīmā stones (often called leaves (slẏk)) are used to mark sacred Buddhist boundaries above ground, but marking the center of the boundary with indakhīla, introduced below, or a buried stone, sīmā-khīla, seem to be distinct to mainland Southeast Asian Buddhist traditions and have no known canonical precedent.81 In mainland Southeast Asia, the earliest known use of sīmā stones as an iconographically recognizable tool with which to demarcate sacred Buddhist boundaries are found in northern Thailand and date from the seventh to twelfth centuries from the early Dvaravati period of Theravāda Buddhism.82 While sīmā in Thailand are explicitly connected to Theravāda Buddhist tradition, in Cambodia there is evidence of sīmā stones at non-Buddhist temples dating from around the tenth century,83 with iconography more akin to



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stele stones,84 which are often used to mark the territorial claims of the king and depicting images of the earth goddess Nāng Dharaṇī.85 Sīmā are also found at Phnom Kulen north of the Angkor complex, but with distinctly Buddhist markings in the Dvaravati style.86 The sīmā stones under the mountain stone at Phnom Gok participate in a long history of territorial claim practices, from the practices of pre-Angkorian people to the practices of the modern state.87 The first intersection I call attention to is that between the stele and the sīmā, noted to be morphologically similar before the fourteenth century.88 Giteau suggests that sīmā leaves are a form of stele,89 and on these steles, kings recorded their explicit contract for territory from the locally recognized chthonic owners of the land,90 whom Mabbett suggests were part of technologically sophisticated socially organized societies that predated Indic influence.91 In at least one instance these inscriptions tell of contracts for territorial occupation in which the king promises to build temples and continue the flow of offerings to the named nonhuman territorial sovereign.92 Paul Mus presents the depth of that relationship between conquering kings and stone spirits, suggesting that the power of stones need not go beyond the “portentous idea of their presence” into anthropomorphized personalities.93 Rather, these stones constitute both the productive “energies of the soil” and the center of a territory,94 which Mus connects to local soil deities and the presence, legends, and immortalization in stone of subsequent conquering Indic kings who then inhabit territorial claims.95 The names of these entities etched in stone are also recited in invocations that describe the extent of the kingdom from different eras of Cambodian history.96 The spirit is the owner of territory and through the use of stones, from liṅga to sīmā, the king, with his priestly counterparts both Brahman and Buddhist, represents his connection to that chthonic power and confirms his claim to territory. In a rich exploration of historical conceptions of boundaries in Cambodia, Ian Harris evaluates the sīmā boundaries that are explicitly the stones that consecrate the sacred perimeter of the Buddhist temple. Harris argues that the now ubiquitous planting of sīmā stones represents a “double cult” that combines Buddhist recitations and Brahmanic “propitiation of divinities of soil and of the cardinal directions.”97 Whether the sīmā demonstrates a premodern concern with precisely demarcated political borders, as Harris suggests, is contested and not relevant to my argument.98 Nonetheless, Harris notes a number of salient features of the sīmā boundary that connect it to the marking and protecting of territorial claims. Sīmā stones were used in Chiang Mai to

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surround entire cities, especially after bandits from Western nations arrived in Southeast Asia,99 and the sīmā was an integral part of the mandala polity distinctive to Southeast Asia, in which a strong center radiates power and influence outward and is weak at its peripheral boundaries.100 The mandala was a tool that appropriated wilderness for human civilization, and Groslier records that the king was expected to make regular pilgrimages to satellite temples dedicated to earth deities so that he might draw their power back to the capital.101 Finally, there is an explicit connection between the layout of the mandala polity and the layout of the sīmā boundary stones through which righteous Buddhist kings, via the monks that legitimate their rule, claimed mastery over chthonic energies.102 There are other aspects of the modern sīmā boundary discussed by Harris and examined in depth by Erik Davis in which the owner of the water and the land, named Kruṅ Vālī in this instance, is propitiated in advance of any ritual annexing land for any purpose.103 The ceremony of the sīmā boundary in the modern era is a particular kind of alienation of land, in which the land is claimed with explicit reference to the ancient one that owns it but is protected from the king, who claims rights to quite literally “eat” his kingdom.104 In an almost inverse relationship to previous usage, the sīmā marks land that cannot be appropriated by the king.105 This is an important aspect of the sīmā boundary, and important here because at the site of this study the sīmā was part of an older tradition that marked territory explicitly for the king, and in the contemporary era was used to make that space unavailable for state consumption. Webb Keane also notes how “material forms . . . as objects that endure across time . . . [can] acquire features unrelated to the intentions of previous users or the inferences to which they have given rise in the past.”106 The visible stones on Phnom Gok are marked by rectangular obelisks with pointed tops, less than one meter in height. They are set in a circle of pairs with one set at each of the cardinal and pari-cardinal points and one triangular stone set deep into the ground, protruding five centimeters at the center of the circle. The stones I describe are distinctive in their configuration in ways that inform my analysis. First, the area encircled by the stones at Phnom Gok is small, eight meters in diameter, which I suggest is too small for the boundary of a temple structure. I did not test whether it would fit twenty-one bhikkhus (ordained monks) with an arm’s length between them, and conform to the vinaya guidelines outlined by Marston, Chhuon, and Guthrie in chapter 10 in this volume. It would be a tight fit, but it could suggest this sīmā was designated as a meeting spot for isolated monks, as a spot to ordain monks in the hinterlands



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of the empire, or as the Buddhist appropriation of a site of animist power. Or all of the above. There is reason to connect this sīmā to the process of the king’s territorial expansion, and the second distinctive characteristic of this sīmā is the visible presence of the triangular stone protruding from the ground at the center, the indakhīla (Indra’s stake), which is typically not visibly marked in modern Cambodian temples (but is reported in both Laos and Thailand107). Third is the proposed historical era in which these sīmā stones were planted and their location under the powerful mountain stones. Indra’s stake is not obscured here but is represented by a physical stone stake driven into the ground at the center of the stone circle, explicitly connecting the king, Brahmanic practice, and other Angkorean-era sites to this mountain.108 The obelisks are understood to be markers for eight of nine headshaped stones that are buried under them and activated with blood offerings.109 It is unclear, without excavation, whether there are root stones buried at this site. Murphy110 suggests this practice began in the Sukhothai period in what is now Thailand, 1238–1438, which is the expected era of this sīmā boundary. In Cambodia, the indakhīla is not commonly a stake. In fact, Ven. Diam did not know the term indakhīla and called it a sīmā-khīla, which is consistent with Marston, Chhuon, and Guthrie’s findings.111 The sīmā-khīla stone is typically round like the others, only larger and typically not visible. It is buried near the center of the structure immediately under the gaze of the principal Buddha image, and is often unmarked on the surface or sometimes marked with a tile. Harris suggests that the central stone has direct connotations with the king, that the group of stones together are believed to “pin down, or hold fast, a subterranean body,” and that the central stake would mark the navel of that body.112 That this site has a physical stake piercing the navel suggests atypical Cambodian Theravāda sīmā representation, but it is reminiscent of Thai and Lao configurations and also of local practices of founding village spirits, in which wooden stakes are buried deep into the ground at the cardinal points to anchor the ‛ʹanak tā at the site of the village.113 With no archaeological inquiry it is difficult to know when these stones were erected, but the movement of kings across the Cambodian landscape suggests that these sīmā were placed on the mountain after the shift away from Angkor around the fourteenth century. During these scantly recorded years of conflict with Ayutthaya and Vietnam, the seat of power moved south and west of Angkor, and the region of Pursat was a battleground for many years.114 This period left behind little documentary evidence, but it is known for hybrid systems that invoke Brahmanical and Theravāda influence and connect power across history and geography from Angkor, through Lovek/

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Udong, Ayutthaya, and Phnom Penh.115 This historical positioning is conjectural but is suggestive when connected to other data about sīmā stones from the region that follows. There is evidence116 that some of the earliest sīmā rituals took place in existing rock shelters with painting from the Neolithic era, and that sīmā stele stones were used to encircle and bind the space. Murphy suggests that these places were appropriated by Buddhist monks for meditation during the early Dvaravati period in northern Thailand, transforming places of animist practice to sites of Buddhist meditation.117 He also finds evidence that sīmā could have marked a place for ceremony in the open air, which is consistent with the vinayas.118 These interesting facts inform my analysis of the sīmā boundary stones at this site. Following the historical evidence laid out above, I suggest that in an era of war and instability, the ruler consecrated this space where the water flows past the stone grotto—which was already a place of power where local people performed rites—in an explicit use of the tools of Buddhism to capture and harness the power of this site and grab territory for the king. This is consistent with Khmer kingship and its relationship to priests and stones, as I have discussed in other works.119 Doreen Massey suggests that space is imbued with time, and a landscape is the “temporary product of a meeting up of trajectories out of which mobile uncertainty a future . . . has to be negotiated.”120 The collision of trajectories does imbue space with time. For Ven. Diam, the ancient one of the stone was enlisted to protect the territory of the king. Where the river and spirit meet, the power of the landscape was claimed and staked into the territory of the king by the sīmā boundary. Old practices continue to reside in landscapes, in materials, and in bodies, and as such they become embroiled with and appropriated by incoming projects.121 This quality of the landscape to hold histories endures well beyond the stories themselves, which are absorbed into the time-emptying, history-evacuating pace of the tree, the soil, and the stone. Plate suggestively remarks that “stones never become obsolete as social media,”122 and I show how they are called again and again to arbitrate over new negotiations of mobile and continually uncertain human futures.

The Humans The living humans in this story attest to the magnetism of the stones that called the ancient kings, the present monk, and the NGO, Green Vision, to come and engage with the territory of Phnom Gok. We do not know exactly what caused Buddhist monks to activate sīmā stones at this location, but the



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monk came in 2006, following meditation visions received at his home temple in neighboring Kompong Chhnang Province. Green Vision arrived in 2012 after receiving news of Yāy Deb’s disruptions at the archaeological and plantation site. This section will discuss briefly the elements of the call and will draw out the varied techniques of material activation engaged by the mountain and its human interlocutors. Ven. Diam Sukh came to Phnom Gok in Pursat Province in 2006. At that time, he was a well-known healer and spiritual ascetic who spent many hours each day in meditation, traveled the region on healing missions, and attended to patrons who came to seek his care. Over the course of six months in 2006, Ven. Diam received instructions to travel to this particular spot on Phnom Gok. These came in the form of visions of stones: mountain stones and sīmā stones, and in the form of dreams with spoken instructions of where to go. The monk avoided these instructions and ignored the visions for as long as he could, until events at his home temple forced his departure. He arrived at the place of the stone outcropping and sīmā circle on Phnom Gok with three nuns who chose to accompany him, a small stock of food, and tarps and nets for shelter. They stayed on the mountain in meditation for one month and were instructed to travel to seven powerful mountain sites in the country and then return to build a temple. The small troupe followed these instructions and after two months of pilgrimage returned to the mountain. They cleared trees and began building a small hut for sleeping and another for eating and receiving patrons. After two weeks of hard work, the lack of water at the site became acute. The nuns were walking two kilometers each day to collect water, which was barely enough for their daily needs and never enough to perform water blessings for patrons. This need for water found its way into daily prayers; then both the monk and the head nun received a dream that sent them walking up the eastern side of the mountain. When they reached the spot to which the dream directed them, they found a small flow of water coming from between the rocks. A celebration with offerings ensued at the site and within days the small trickle increased to what is now a steady flow of water that feeds the temple, a large bathing pool for blessings, with enough to spare and sell to the plantation that encroaches on their land. The sudden eruption of water on the mountain in the current era is mirrored by the long-dry remains of a water flow that runs from just above the stone outcropping, past the sīmā circle, and down the hill into the small clearing where the temple sits. The flows of water appeared in response to the particular situation and was recognized by Ven. Diam as part of the animating force that includes the spirit and himself. The water is a “third agency” in the exchange, with its own

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unique requirements,123 that is “continually coming into being as we—through our own movement—contribute to its formation.”124 The mountain was not the only agent manipulating material processes toward energetic activations. In addition to clearing space and erecting dwellings, Ven. Diam was busy gathering together the bits of ritually activated debris inhabiting the area around the stones. Local residents knew of this powerful place on the mountain, and while many came over the years to offer incense and ask favors, none uncovered artifacts or moved stones. These are powerful and potentially dangerous items and can only be handled by one with appropriate knowledge and power, as is well-known throughout Southeast Asia. John Marston’s research in Cambodia introduces a holy man named Lok Ta Nem, who was the only person powerful enough to build structures on a particular site.125 Ven. Diam says dreams and visions guide his actions and excavations on the mountain, and they also tell him about great battles fought there. Fields of stone that rise from the forest floor were a negotiation site between factions, and a stone pillar was once the army captain’s tomb. The monk walks over the mountain and reinscribes history in the stone as he collects the material debris of empowered objects, which he assembles at the altar under the overhanging stone. The objects collected by Ven. Diam include a yoni stone, without a linga; a small very worn stone bas relief of the Buddha; a stone piece of temple lintel with leaf reliefs; two deteriorated wooden statues of the Buddha; and other unclear bits of carefully placed stone. Jonathan Z. Smith invokes an “everywhere” of diverse religious formations that occupy the space between the empire and the sacred power of an antistructural periphery “opposed to order . . . and profoundly necessary” for a notion of the sacred.126 Ven. Diam’s work of gathering and ordering complicates the opposition of chaos to empire, as his deliberately organized bits activate in opposition to the contemporary manifestation of empire that is clearing plantation land out of the forest. Nonetheless, this negotiation among free agents of material and immaterial bodies ignites the interstitial zone inhabited by objects detached from their temporal contexts. The sīmā stones and the artifacts gathered by Ven. Diam come from other times but remain available and powerful in the present in what Schneider calls an “ecology of power.”127 Fixation is not only an imperial act, any performance can fix, temporarily, the fluid exchange in contingent material relationships.128 The practice of collecting bits of the past behind the freshly gilded statues of a Buddhist altar is, Ashley Thompson suggests, the work of “conserving debris as debris” in the context of an “excessive overflow” of the “illicit incursion of the dead, the wild” and the “rejected, yet



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recuperated” world of the other.129 What this is doing is, in part, an animation of Buddhist notions of cyclical time in which the past “is actualized in the present,”130 opposed to the “dialectical move toward synthetic resolution.”131 It is also an acknowledged engagement with the deep timelessness of the mountain, which holds all histories in the present moment. Mr. Chan from the NGO Green Vision also attempted to activate the past in the present through his desire to protect forests by fusing them to the artifacts of ancient kings and to the powers of the ancient ones of the land. Chan too was called to this place by the competing claims to territory signaled by Yāy Deb’s disruptions. Chan’s conservation project attempts to activate the power of the ancient stones on both sides of their current field of recognition: the imperial and the magical. He knows that ancient sites command their respect among rural Cambodians as sites of chthonic power and that they also hold a special place in the agendas of the international community as heritage sites. The agenda of Green Vision is to harness the twin forces of the ancient ones and of UNESCO. Archaeologists are beginning to grapple with the powerful significance of ancient sites for the contemporary people who live among them and to discover that the significance of the very material sites of archaeological exploration can often be immaterial.132 Beyond immaterial, intangible significance for many people who live among the ancient outcroppings of their ancestors, these sites are alive and inextricable from daily memories and activities. Making temples, texts, and images into “fine art” effectively produces anesthetized objects, removed from multisensory religious contexts, purged of traces of contact with persons.133 Keiko Miura works on heritage and preservation amid the great temples of Angkor in Siem Reap, Cambodia. While preservation is the core of heritage management and is seen in contrast to threatening destruction and decay, Miura comes to the conclusion that we must free the old conservation approach of “freezing an idealized past for the interest of outsiders” and allow new approaches that will not disrupt its living state.134 Green Vision is sensitive to the living state of heritage sites, and at the Temple of the Seven Angels at the base of Phnom Gok, Chan deployed a number of strategies to activate the power of the spirit and the ancient site in the present. The first thing he did was to call on his old connections with the forest ministry of Pursat Province, whose land dealings in early 2000 caused his resignation. With the ministry officials and other provincial authorities, he discussed his negotiations with UNESCO, showed them the provincial map of possible heritage sites he made with the help of the École Française d’ExtrêmeOrient (EFEO), and convinced them to negotiate with the monk. Chan also

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invoked forest protection strategies that fuse the power of Buddhist monasticism with the spirits of the land: in the spring of 2012, with the help of the Association of Buddhist Monks for the Environment (ABE), Chan and Ven. Diam conducted a tree ordination ceremony that demarcated temple land on the mountain by wrapping the trees along the temple’s boundary with the orange robes of the monk.

Conclusion In this complex ecology of power, trees were invited into human sociality through their ordination, an ancient one forced a way into the body of a plantation worker, powerful rocks called monks into their sphere, and springs of fresh water erupted to flow down the parched mountain. Such ecologies of power are happening all the time, as in the story of economic intensification and new claims to Cambodian territory where the power of law and land classification conspire with international development investment and bulldozing machines to transform the forest into cassava plantations. In this case, the spirit enacted a counterclaim against the plantation: “This is our home.” In his late work Nomos of the Earth, Carl Schmitt suggests that “what one today calls world history in the West and the East is the history of development in the objects, means, and forms of appropriation interpreted as progress.”135 The ancient ruins of Cambodia mark one step in that march of so-called progress. The sīmā stones of Phnom Gok mark an appropriation of both the power of the spirit and the territory it owns in the service of the king,136 and an attempt to bind the power of the king with the moral force of the Buddha.137 Wilderness claimed by the king and land consecrated by the monks transformed ancient powers and appropriated the land of local inhabitants.138 Today, the ancient powers ignored by modern forms of appropriation took back a little of what the bulldozers tried to claim. The chthonic power of Yāy Deb may have been ritually bound and staked into place by the sīmā stones of royal appropriation, but the stream at the site is now dry and that power is pointed toward resisting such acts and the claims to territory made by the modern state. Attempts to banish the idea that material can be animate is bound up in the production and exploitation of so-called dead matter into commodities,139 which directs what kinds of relationships with materiality are possible, provable, and valued.140 Policing the boundaries creating unnatural divisions between the “natural” and an imaginary “supernatural” maintains certain types of engagements, and the things toward which we orient ourselves shape



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our perceptions and our actions toward the environments we inhabit.141 In just ten thousand years we have progressed to the point where our polar ice caps are melting while corporate land grabs clear the remaining forests and poison the remaining water on this once vital planet. The idea that humans are controlling a vast and unconscious “nature” is a fiction, made possible in part by the idea that the priests of a king could, through the technologies of ritual enactment, control the land. This silliness is now hidden by the stones and concrete of cities, where learned people tell stories to each other about their technological prowess. Stories that magically grant them power over all of nature and other people too. The bulldozers clearing the forest at the foot of Phnom Gok are part of that story of human achievement and progress. I suggest that in this era of potential ecological collapse, it may be beneficial to consider the possibility of a vast, vibrant, and sentient universe in which we humans are not masters, but active participants.

Notes 1.  In a previously published study, I describe this story from the perspective of the land grab; in this chapter I explore the backstory. See Alice Beban and Courtney Work, “The Spirits Are Crying: Dispossessing Land and Possessing Bodies in Rural Cambodia,” Antipode 46, no. 3 (2014): pp. 593–610, for the other side of the story. 2.  David P. Chandler, “Royally Sponsored Human Sacrifices in Nineteenth Century Cambodia: The Cult of Nak Ta Me Sa (Mahisasuramardini) at Ba Phnom,” Journal of the Siam Society 62, no. 2 (1974): pp. 207–222; Erik W. Davis, Deathpower: Buddhism’s Ritual Imagination in Cambodia (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016). 3.  Davis, Deathpower, p. 125. 4.  Barbara Bender, “Time and Landscape,” Current Anthropology 43, no. S4 (2002): pp. 103–112; Tim Ingold, The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling & Skill (London: Routledge, 2000); Bruno Latour, We Have Never Been Modern (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993); Justin McDaniel, The Lovelorn Ghost and the Magical Monk: Practicing Buddhism in Modern Thailand (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011); S. B. Plate, A History of Religion in 5 1/2 Objects: Bringing the Spiritual to Its Senses (Boston: Beacon Press, 2014); M. A. Vásquez, More than Belief: A Materialist Theory of Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 5.  Nurit Bird-David, “ ‘Animism’ Revisited: Personhood, Environment, and Relational Epistemology,” Current Anthropology 40 (1999): S67–91; Edwardo

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Viveiros de Castro, “Economic Development and Cosmopolitical Re-Involvement: From Necessity to Sufficiency,” in Contested Ecologies: Dialogues in the South on Nature and Knowledge, ed. Lesley Green (Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2013), pp. 28–42; Eduardo Kohn, How Forests Think: Toward an Anthropology Beyond the Human (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013). 6.  A. Karlström, “Bronze Drums and the Contestations of Indigenous Heritage in Laos,” in Archaeologies of “Us” and “Them”: Debating History, Heritage and Indigeneity, ed. C. Hillerdal, A. Karlström, and C. G. Ojala (London: Routledge, 2017), pp. 175–184; Keiko Miura, “Conservation of a ‘Living Heritage Site’: A Contradiction in Terms? A Case Study of Angkor World Heritage Site,” Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites 7, no. 1 (2005): pp. 3–18. 7.  Courtney Work, “Chthonic Sovereigns? “Neak Ta” in a Cambodian Village,” Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 20, no. 1 (2019): pp. 74–95. 8.  Ilya Prigogine and Isabelle Stengers, Order Out of Chaos: Man’s New Dialogue with Nature (Toronto: Bantam Books, 1984). 9.  For an interesting discussion of the naming politics involved in the creation of magic as opposed to religion, see Marcel Mauss, A General Theory of Magic (London: Routledge and K. Paul, 1972). 10.  Work, “Chthonic Sovereigns?” 11.  In fact, this section of the chapter emerged as a result of objections and discomfort from reviewers. I am grateful for their provocations, and I hope to continue the difficult work of decolonizing academic thought. See also Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Objects (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983). 12.  Carol Hunsberger, Courtney Work, and Roman Herre, “Linking Climate Change Strategies and Land Conflicts in Cambodia: Evidence from the Greater Aural Region,” World Development 108, C (2018): pp. 309–320, https://doi .org/10.1016/j.worlddev.2018.02.008. 13.  See, for example, A. M. Hocart, The Life-Giving Myth, ed. Lord Raglan (New York: Grove Press, 1953); Marshall Sahlins, “The Original Political Society,” in David Graeber and Marshall Sahlins, On Kings (Chicago: Hau Books, 2017), pp. 23–65. 14.  See, for example, Guido Sprenger, “Buddhism and Coffee: The Transformation of Locality and Non-Human Personhood in Southern Laos,” Sojourn: Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia 33, no. 2 (2018): p. 272. https://doi .org/10.1355/sj33–2b. 15.  Work, “Chthonic Sovereigns?”; Courtney Work, “The Persistent Presence of Cambodian Spirits: Contemporary Knowledge Production in Cambodia,” in



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The Handbook of Contemporary Cambodia, ed. Katherine Brickell and Simon Springer (Oxon: Routledge, 2017), pp. 389–398. 16.  Vásquez, More than Belief. 17.  Nicola Tannenbaum and Cornelia Ann Kammerer, eds., Founders’ Cults in Southeast Asia: Ancestors, Polity, and Identity (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2003). 18.  Yāy Chhan and her husband, in their fifties, interview, Kampong Chhnang Province, August 2, 2010. See also Beban and Work, “The Spirits Are Crying.” 19.  Male in his forties, interview, Temple of the Seven Angles, Pursat Province, May 17, 2012. 20.  Lok tā or lok yāy are used for intimate reference, and ‛ʹanak tā is a generic term that refers to the general class of entities. 21.  Chan Sophea Hang, “Stec Gaṃlaṅ ̕and Yāy Deb: Worshiping Kings and Queens in Cambodia Today,” in History, Buddhism, and New Religious Movements in Cambodia, ed. John Marston and Elizabeth Guthrie (Chiang Mai: Silkworm Books, 2004), pp. 113–131. 22.  Alain Forest, “Cambodge: pouvoir de roi et puissance de génie,” in Cultes populaires et sociétés asiatiques: appareils cultuels et appareils de pouvoir, ed. Alain Forest, Yoshiaki Ishizawa, and Léon Vandermeersch (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1991), pp. 185–222; Ang Choulean, “Le sol et l’ancêtre l’amorphe et l’anthropomorphe,” Journal Asiatiqùe 283, no. 1 (1995): pp. 213–235; Paul Mus, India Seen from the East: Indian and Indigenous Cults in Champa, trans. I. W. Mabbett (Clayton, Vic.: Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, 1933 [1975]). 23.  Davis, Deathpower, p. 127. 24.  Elizabeth Guthrie, “A Study of the History and Cult of the Buddhist Earth Deity in Mainland Southeast Asia” (PhD diss., University of Canterbury, 2004), p. 63. 25.  Lisa J. Arensen, “Displacement, Diminishment, and Ongoing Presence: The State of Local Cosmologies in the Aftermath of War,” Asian Ethnology 71, no. 2 (2012): pp. 159–178; Courtney Work, Tides of Empire: Religion, Development, and Environment in Cambodia (New York: Berghahn Books, 2020). 26.  Som, age fifty-six, interview, Kampong Chhnang, 2009. 27.  Barbara Bender, Landscape: Politics and Perspectives (Providence: Berg, 1993), p. 3. 28.  Barbara Bender, Sue Hamilton, and Chris Tilley, with others, Stone Worlds: Narrative and Reflexivity in Landscape Archaeology (Walnut Creek, Calif.: Left Coast Press, 2007), p. 42.

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29.  Plate, A History of Religion, p. 27. 30.  Doreen Massey, “Landscape as a Provocation: Reflections on Moving Mountains,” Journal of Material Culture 11, nos. 1–2 (2006): pp. 33–48. 31.  François Bizot, “La Grotte de la naissance: recherches sur le bouddhisme khmer,” Bulletin De L’École Française D’Extrême-Orient 67, no. 1 (1980): pp. 221–273; Michael Wright, “Sacrifice and the Underworld: Death and Fertility in Siamese Myth and Ritual,” Journal of the Siam Society 78, no. 1 (1990): pp. 43–54. 32.  Ang Choulean, People and Earth (Phnom Penh: Reyum Gallery, 2000). 33.  Quoted in Plate, A History of Religion, p. 38. 34.  Monica Janowski, “The Dynamics of the Cosmic Conversation: Beliefs about Spirits among the Kelabit and Penan of the Upper Baram River, Sarawak,” in Animism in Southeast Asia, ed. Kaj Århem and Guido Sprenger (London: Routledge, 2017), p. 185. 35.  Massey, “Landscape as a Provocation,” p. 42. 36.  Hugh Raffles, “Twenty-Five Years Is a Long Time,” Cultural Anthropology 27, no. 3 (2012): pp. 526–534. 37.  Mario Blaser, “The Threat of the Yrmo: The Political Ontology of a Sustainable Hunting Program,” American Anthropologist 111, no. 1 (2009): pp. 10–20. 38.  Bruno Latour, “The Power of Association,” in Power, Action and Belief, ed. J. Law (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1986), pp. 261–277, cited in Steve Hinchliffe, “Entangled Humans: Specifying Powers and their Spatialities,” in Entanglements of Power: Geographies of Domination/Resistance, ed. J. Sharp, P. Routledge, C. Philo, and R. Paddison (New York: Routledge, 2000). 39.  M. de la Cadena, “Indigenous Cosmopolitics in the Andes: Conceptual Reflections beyond ‘Politics,’ ” Cultural Anthropology 25, no. 2 (2010): p. 336. 40.  Bender et al., Stone Worlds, p. 40. 41.  Sandra Harding, “Rethinking Standpoint Epistemology: What Is ‘Strong Objectivity’?” in Feminism and Science, ed. E. F. Keller (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 49–82. 42.  Davis, chapter 8 in this volume, citing Lowell W. Bloss, “The Buddha and the Nāga: A Study in Buddhist Folk Religiosity,” History of Religions 13, no. 1 (1973): p. 37. 43.  Bender et al., Stone Worlds. 44.  Bender et al., Stone Worlds, p. 31. 45.  Tim Ingold, “Toward an Ecology of Materials,” Annual Review of Anthropology 41 (2012): pp. 427–442. 46.  See also Keith H. Basso, Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language among the Western Apache (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1996); E. A. Povinelli, “Do Rocks Listen? The Cultural Politics of



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Apprehending Australian Aboriginal Labor,” American Anthropologist 97, no. 3 (1995): pp. 505–518. 47.  Ang Choulean, Les êtres surnaturels dans la religion populaire khmère (Paris: Cedorek, 1986); Work, “The Persistent Presence,” pp. 389–398. 48.  Paul Cravath, “The Ritual Origins of the Classical Dance Drama of Cambodia,” Asian Theatre Journal 3, no. 2 (1986): pp. 179–203. 49.  Erik W. Davis, “Imagined Parasites: Flows of Monies and Spirits,” in Cambodia’s Economic Transformation, ed. Caroline Hughes and Kheang Un (Copenhagen: Nias Press, 2011), pp. 310–330; John C. Holt, “Caring for the Dead Ritually in Cambodia,” Southeast Asian Studies 1, no. 1 (2011): pp. 3–75. 50.  Ang, Les êtres surnaturels; Alain Forest, Le culte des génies protecteurs au Cambodge: analyse et traduction d’un corpus de textes sur les neak ta (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1992). 51.  Ang, People and Earth; Work, “Chthonic Sovereigns?” 52.  Ang, “Le sol et l’ancêtre”; Elizabeth Guthrie, “Buddhist Temples and Cambodian Politics,” in People and the 1998 National Elections in Cambodia: Their Voices, Roles and Impact on Democracy, ed. J. L. Vijghen and C. Hughes (Phnom Penh, Cambodia: Experts for Community Research, 2002), pp. 59–73; Hang, “Stec Gaṃlaṅ ̕and Yāy Deb,” pp. 113–131. 53.  Arensen, “Displacement, Diminishment”; Anne Y. Guillou, “Potent Places as Embodied Memory in Cambodia,” Kyoto Review of Southeast Asia 20, (2016), n.p., see https://kyotoreview.org/issue-20/embodied-memory-cambodia/; Matthew O’Lemmon, “Spirit Cults and Buddhist Practice in Kep Province, Cambodia,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 45 no. 1 (2014): pp. 25–49. 54.  Pāramī is multiple as a term and a concept. Defined in Pāli as “completeness” or “perfection,” it was later used in connection with the perfect execution of the ten virtues of the Bodhisatta (generosity, virtue, renunciation, wisdom, effort, patience, truthfulness, determination, loving-kindness, and equanimity), called the ten perfections (dasa pāramiyo). These were mastered by the Buddha, which allowed his release from the cycles of birth and death. François Bizot notes the term’s transformation in Cambodia as it came to describe the power emanating from statues of the Buddha, power that came directly from the guardian spirit of the village over which Buddhist statues are often placed. See François Bizot, Recherches nouvelles sur le Cambodge (Paris: École française d’Extrême-Orient, 1994); Ang Choulean, “La communauté rurale khmère du point de vue du sacré,” Journal Asiatiqùe 278, no. 1–2 (1990): pp. 135–154; see also Work, Tides of Empire; Anne Y. Guillou, “Khmer Potent Places: Pāramī and the Localisation of Buddhism and Monarchy in Cambodia,” Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 18, no. 5 (2017): pp. 421–443, https://doi.org/10.1080/14442213.2017.1375553.

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The power by which ‛ʹanak tā travels across the country is pāramī, and the spirits themselves are also referred to as pāramī. See Didier Bertrand, “The Names and Identities of the ‘Boramey’ Spirits Possessing Cambodian Mediums,” Asian Folklore Studies 60, no. 1 (2001): pp. 31–47; Didier Bertrand, “The Therapeutic Role of Khmer Mediums (kru borameï) in Contemporary Cambodia,” Mental Health, Religion and Culture 8, no. 4 (2005): pp. 309–327. 55.  Ang, Le sol et l’ancêtre; George Cœdès, Inscriptions du Cambodge (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1937). 56.  V. Vapnarsky and O. Le Guen, “The Guardians of Space and History: Understanding Ecological and Historical Relationships of the Contemporary Yucatec Maya to their Landscape,” in Ecology, Power and Religion in Maya Landscapes: 11th European Maya Conference Malmo University, ed. C. Isendahl and B. L. Persson, Acta Mesoamericana, v. 23 (Mexico City: 2011), pp. 191–206. 57.  Heng Monychenda, “In Search of the Dhammika Ruler,” in People of Virtue: Reconfiguring Religion, Power and Moral Order in Cambodia Today, ed. Alexandra Kent and David Chandler (Copenhagen: NIAS Press, 2008), p. 115. 58.  Heng, “In Search of the Dhammika Ruler,” p. 115. 59.  Heng, “In Search of the Dhammika Ruler,” p. 118. There is little scholarship on the feminine divine in Cambodia. For points of departure, see Soumya E. James, “The Symbiosis of Image, Monument and Landscape: A Study of Select Goddess Images at Prasat Kravan, Kbal Spean and Banteay Srei in Cambodia” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 2011); Trudy Jacobsen, Lost Goddesses: The Denial of Female Power in Cambodian History (Copenhagen: NIAS Press), 2008. 60.  Interview, Pursat, June 25, 2014. 61.  Robert Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious Worlds People Make and the Scholars Who Study Them (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2005), p. 18, emphasis added. 62.  Richard A. O’Connor, “Place, Power and People: Southeast Asia’s Temple Tradition,” Arts Asiatique 64 (2009): p. 116. 63.  Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth, p. 118. 64.  Arensen, “Displacement, Diminishment”; Anne Y. Guillou, “The ‘Master of the Land’: Cult Activities Around Pol Pot’s Tomb,” Journal of Genocide Research 20, no. 2 (2018): pp. 275–289, https://doi.org/10.1080/14623528.2018 .1459169. 65.  Erik W. Davis, “Imaginary Conversations with Mothers about Death,” in At the Edge of the Forest: Essays on Cambodia, History, and Narrative in Honor of David Chandler, ed. Anne R. Hansen and Judy Ledgerwood (Ithaca, N.Y.: Southeast Asia Program, Cornell University, 2008), pp. 221–247.



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66.  Robert Orsi, “When 2+2=5: Can We Begin to Think About Unexplained Religious Experiences in Ways that Acknowledge their Existence?” American Scholar (Spring 2007): p. 7. 67.  See also Martha L. Finch, “Rehabilitating Materiality: Bodies, Gods, and Religion,” Religion 42, no. 4 (2012): pp. 625–631. 68.  Heonik Kwon, Ghosts of War in Vietnam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008); K. Wirtz, “Spiritual Agency, Materiality, and Knowledge in Cuba,” in Spirited Things: The Work of “Possession” in Afro-Atlantic Religions, ed. P. C. Johnson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), pp. 99–129. 69.  See also Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth; Wirtz, “Spiritual Agency, Materiality, and Knowledge.” 70.  Laurel Schneider, “When the World Is Alive, Spirit Is Not Dismembered: Philosophical Reflections on the Good Mind,” in Sensational Religion: Sensory Cultures in Material Practice, ed. Sally M. Promey (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2014), p. 443. 71.  Bruno Latour, “How to Talk About the Body? The Normative Dimension of Science Studies,” Body and Society 10, nos. 2–3 (2004): p. 210. 72.  Arensen, “Displacement, Diminishment”; Work, Tides of Empire. 73.  Hayashi Yukio, Practical Buddhism among the Thai-Lao: Religion in the Making of Region (Kyoto: Kyoto University Press, 2003); Richard A. O’Connor, “Founders’ Cults in Regional and Historical Perspective,” in Founders’ Cults in Southeast Asia: Ancestors, Polity, and Identity, ed. Nicola Tannenbaum and Cornelia Ann Kammerer (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Southeast Asia Studies, 2003), pp. 269–311; Nicola Tannenbaum and Cornelia Ann Kammerer, eds., Founders’ Cults in Southeast Asia: Ancestors, Polity, and Identity (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2003). 74.  Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-NetworkTheory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 235. 75.  Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), p. 187. 76.  See Davis, chapter 8 in this volume, for a provocative discussion of this layered sovereignty. 77.  Schneider, “When the World Is Alive,” p. 445. 78.  David Morgan, “The Matter of Belief,” in Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief, ed. David Morgan (Oxon: Routledge, 2010), pp. 11–12. 79.  Talal Asad, “The Construction of Religion as an Anthropological Category,” in A Reader in the Anthropology of Religion, ed. Michael Lambek (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell Publishers, 2002), pp. 114–132. 80.  Mus, India Seen from the East.

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81.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Rules for the Sīmā Regulation in the Vinaya and Its Commentaries and Their Application in Thailand,” Journal of International Association of Buddhist Studies 20, no. 2 (1997): pp. 141–153. 82.  Stephen A. Murphy, “The Buddhist Boundary Markers of Northeast Thailand and Central Laos, 7th–12th centuries CE: Towards an Understanding of the Archaeological, Religious and Artistic Landscape of the Khorat Plateau” (PhD diss., School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 2010), http:// eprints.soas.ac.uk/12204/; See also Murphy, chapter 2 in this volume. 83.  Madeleine Giteau, Le bornage rituel des temples bouddhiques au Cambodge (Paris: École Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1969), p. 106. 84.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 143. 85.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, pp. 11–14. 86.  J. Boulbet and B. Dagens, “Les sites archéologiques de la région du Bhnam Gulen,” Arts Asiatiques XXVII (1973): pp. 1–130. 87.  Wright, “Sacrifice and the Underworld”; Cœdès, Inscriptions du Cambodge; Mus, India Seen from the East; Ian Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse on Territory: Genealogy of the Buddhist Ritual Boundary (Sīmā),” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 41, no. 2 (2010): pp. 215–239. 88.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel; Murphy, “Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 143. 89.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 11. 90.  Giteau, Le bornage ritual, p.143; See, for example, Cœdès’ translation of the stele inscription K.111, Cœdès, Inscriptions du Cambodge, pp. 195–211. 91.  I. W. Mabbett, “The ‘Indianization’ of Southeast Asia: Reflections on the Historical Sources,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 8, no. 2 (1977): pp. 143–161. 92.  Ang, Le sol et l’ancêtre. 93.  Mus, India Seen from the East, p. 20. 94.  Mus, India Seen from the East, p. 10. 95.  Mus, India Seen from the East, pp. 40–41. 96.  David P. Chandler, “Maps for the Ancestors: Sacralized Topography and Echoes of Angkor in Two Cambodian Texts,” Journal of the Siam Society 64, no. 2 (1976): p. 173; see Winichakul Thongchai, Siam Mapped: A History of the GeoBody of a Nation (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1994), pp. 24, 74–75, 83, for how sīmā and spirits attach to territorial kingship in Thailand. 97.  Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” p. 221; also E. Mueggler, “Corpse, Stone, Door, Text,” Journal of Asian Studies 73, no. 1 (2014): pp. 17–41. 98.  Erik Davis, personal communication, April 20, 2017. 99.  Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” p. 224, see also Winichakul, Siam Mapped.



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100.  O. W. Wolters, History, Culture, and Region in Southeast Asian Perspectives (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1982). 101.  Bernard-Philippe Groslier, “For a Geographic History of Cambodia,” Seksa Khmer 8–9 (1985–86): p. 66, cited in Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” p. 223. 102.  Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse”; Forest, “Cambodge: pouvoir de roi.” 103.  Davis, Deathpower. 104.  The term saoy is one of many hierarchical forms of the verb “to eat” in the Khmer language and is reserved for use with kings and heavenly beings. Saoyrājya means to reign over a kingdom, literally “to eat the kingdom.” 105.  Davis, Deathpower. 106.  W. Keane, “The Evidence of the Senses and the Materiality of Religion,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 14, no. 1 (2008a): S124. 107.  See Guthrie, “History and Cult of the Buddhist Earth Deity”; Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse.” 108.  For the myth connecting this practice to Buddhism, see Giteau, Le bornage rituel; Guthrie, “History and Cult of the Buddhist Earth Deity.” 109.  For more on this see Davis, Deathpower. 110.  Murphy, chapter 2 in this volume. 111.  Marston, Chhuon, and Guthrie, chapter 10 in this volume. 112.  Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” p. 223. 113.  Ang Choulean, Brah Ling (Phnom Penh: Reyum, 2004). 114.  Anne Y. Guillou, “An Alternative Memory of the Khmer Rouge Genocide: The Dead of the Mass Graves and the Land Guardian Spirits [neak ta],” South East Asia Research 20, no. 2 (2012): pp. 207–226; Éveline Porée-Maspero, “Traditions orales de pursat et de kampot,” Artibus Asiae 24, no. 4 (1961): pp. 394–398. 115.  David P. Chandler, A History of Cambodia (Chiang Mai: Westview Press, 2008), pp. 90–95; Ashley Thompson, “The Future of Cambodia’s Past: A Messianic Middle-Period Cambodian Royal Cult,” in History, Buddhism, and New Religious Movements in Cambodia, ed. John Marston and Elizabeth Guthrie (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2004), pp. 13–39. 116.  Murphy, “Buddhist Boundary Markers.” 117.  Murphy, “Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 98. 118.  Murphy, “Buddhist Boundary Markers,” p. 122; Nagasena Bhikkhu and Kate Crosby, chapter 1 in this volume; Marston, Hoeur, and Guthrie, chapter 10 in this volume. 119.  Work, “Chthonic Sovereigns?”; Work, “The Persistent Presence.” 120.  Massey, “Landscape as a Provocation,” p. 46.

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121.  See also W. Keane, “Market, Materiality and Moral Metalanguage,” Anthropological Theory 8, no. 1. (2008): pp. 27–42; Terje Østebø, “The Revenge of the Jinns: Spirits, Salafi Reform, and the Continuity in Change in Contemporary Ethiopia,” Contemporary Islam 8, no. 1 (2013): pp. 17–36. 122.  Plate, A History of Religion, p. 36. 123.  John Shotter, “Agentive Spaces, the ‘Background,’ and Other Not Well Articulated Influences in Shaping our Lives,” Journal for the Theory of Social Behavior 43, no. 2 (2013): p. 142. 124.  Ingold, The Perception of the Environment, p. 242. 125.  John Marston, “Desired Ideals: Wat Preah Thammalanka and the Legend of Lok Ta Nen,” in People of Virtue: Reconfiguring Religion, Power and Morality in Cambodia Today, ed. Alexandra Kent and David P. Chandler (Copenhagen: NIAS Press, 2008), pp. 85–108; see also Karlström, “Bronze Drums and the Contestations of Indigenous Heritage in Laos,” in relation to the metal drums of Laos. 126.  Jonathan Z. Smith, Map Is Not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions (Leiden: Brill, 1978), p. 97. 127.  Schneider, “When the World Is Alive,” p. 444. 128.  John Law, “After ANT: Complexity, Naming and Topology,” in Actor Network Theory and After, ed. J. Law and J. Hassard (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999), pp. 1–14. 129.  Ashley Thompson, “Buddhism in Cambodia: Rupture and Continuity,” in Buddhism in World Cultures: Comparative Perspectives, ed. S. Berkwitz (Santa Barbara: ABC/CLIO, 2006), p. 153. 130.  Thompson, “Buddhism in Cambodia,” p. 157. 131.  Thompson, “Buddhism in Cambodia,” p. 152. 132.  Elizabeth S. Chilton, “The Archaeology of Immateriality,” Archaeologies 8, no. 3 (2012): pp. 225–235. 133.  Sally M. Promey, “Religion, Sensation and Materiality: An Introduction,” in Sensational Religion: Sensory Cultures in Material Practice, ed. Sally M. Promey (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2014), pp. 1–21. 134.  Miura, “Conservation of a “Living Heritage Site,” 3; see also Roger Sansi-Roca, “The Hidden Life of Stones: Historicity, Materiality and the Value of Candomble Objects in Bahia,” Journal of Material Culture 10, no. 2 (2005): pp. 139–156. 135.  Carl Schmitt, The Nomos of the Earth: In the International Law of the Jus Publicum Europaeum (New York: Telos Press Publishing, 2006), p. 347, cited in O. U. Ince, “Primitive Accumulation, New Enclosures, and Global Land Grabs: A Theoretical Intervention,” Rural Sociology 79, no. 1 (2013): pp. 104–131.



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136.  Work, “Chthonic Sovereigns?” 137.  Davis, chapter 8 in this volume. 138.  James C. Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2009). 139.  Tomoko Masuzawa, “Troubles with Materiality: The Ghost of Fetishism in the Nineteenth Century,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 42, no. 2 (2000): pp. 242–267. 140.  Peter Pels, “The Modern Fear of Matter: Reflections on the Protestantism of Victorian Science,” Material Religion 4, no. 3 (2008): pp. 264–283. 141.  Ingold, The Perception of the Environment; 2000; Promey, “Religion, Sensation and Materiality,” pp. 1–21.

pa rt I I I

Textual Traditions Creating, Embracing, Defending Boundaries

ch a pter 10

Analysis of Sīmās (Boundaries) John A. Marston, Chhuon Hoeur, and Elizabeth Guthrie

Analysis of Sīmās in Summary (Sīmā Vinicchaya Saṅkhepa), first published in Phnom Penh in 1932, is a Khmer-language booklet summarizing the contents of major Pāli texts and commentaries about the use of sīmās. The booklet is regularly mentioned in scholarly work on Cambodian sīmā traditions, and Giteau, writing in French, provides a detailed recapitulation of its contents.1 The author of the booklet, Samdech Huot Tath (1891–1975), who would eventually become the Mahānikāya (a.w. Mahānikay, Mohanikay) patriarch, is one of the key Cambodian monastic figures of the twentieth century (Samtec (a.w. Samdech) is the royal title he was eventually given). Above and beyond what the text offers us as a summary of canonical writings, and as an example of a well-known text by Huot Tath, the text has been interpreted by scholars as connected to changing attitudes toward Buddhist text and practice in the reformed schools associated with Huot Tath. Perhaps the best way of putting the text into context, and thus the shorter version of it (titled Analysis of Sīmās or Sīmā Vinicchaya) translated in the second part of this chapter, is by talking about Huot Tath and his connection to this reformed movement. Huot Tath, born in Kampong Speu Province near Oudong, was ordained in 1912 at Wat Unnalom in Phnom Penh, the temple administratively at the head of the Mahānikāya Order; here he met the older Samtec Chuon Nath (1883– 1969), with whom he is closely associated.2 Chuon Nath, even more than Huot Tath, has come to take on the character of a Cambodian national icon, symbolizing its sangha and Cambodian Buddhism more generally. As young monks in early twentieth-century colonial Cambodia, they pursued their studies assiduously, taking advantage of new opportunities for study and fully exploring the intellectual movements within the Buddhism of their time. Their

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projects of study were often shared, such as when, early on, they studied Sanskrit from an Indian peanut vendor. In 1922 they would go together to pursue studies in Hanoi at the École Française d’ Extrême-Orient under the supervision of French scholar Louis Finot. Huot Tath wrote about his friendship with the older Chuon Nath in a key work, Kalyāṇamitta rapás’ khñuṃ;3 that is to say, “my kalyāṇamitta,” kalyāṇamitta being a Buddhist term for a friendship built on the principles of Buddhism. Penny Edwards translates the book’s title neatly as “My Soulmate.”4 They are considered representative of the reformed movement in Cambodian Buddhism, which drew on the ideas and momentum of earlier modernization movements in Siam, with some of the same principles that in Siam would result in the creation of the Dhammayuttika (a.w. Dhammayut, Thammayutth) Order. Although the Dhammayut came to Cambodia as well, Chuon Nath and Huot Tath worked within the larger, more popularly based Mahānikāya Order, part of a movement that would sometimes be called the New Mahānikāya. It promoted a Buddhism that was clearly based on Pāli scriptures and called for eliminating practices with a less clear scriptural foundation seen as extraneous or superstitious. In this context they promoted a Buddhism that involved translation and understanding of Pāli and Sanskrit rather than the rote recitation of Buddhist formulas. The movement was likewise associated with the publication of books, often in the national language, instead of a reliance on palm-leaf manuscripts, and on systems of education based on classroom instruction as much as a personal relationship to a teacher. While the controversy played itself out among the monastic elites like Chuon Nath and Huot Tath, the controversies frequently extended to individual Buddhist temples, where there were vehement disputes over points of ritual, the pronunciation of Pāli chants, and the proper use of monastic robes. Initially opposed by the monastic hierarchy, the movement, after gaining the support of King Sisowath, became firmly established as the dominant stance of monastic authority by the mid-1920s. Nevertheless, the tensions between the reformed samaya (a.w. samey) movement and more traditional purāṇa (a.w. boran) would remain a significant division within the Cambodian monkhood up until the Pol Pot period and remains part of the discourse of Cambodian Buddhism at the present time.5 One should note that while the importance of figures like Chuon Nath and Huot Tath is widely acknowledged and praised, there is also a scholarly tradition, identified especially by the work of François Bizot, that valorizes the complex ritual world of nonreformed purāṇa practices that were marginalized or lost as the reformed movement assumed greater importance.6



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Huot Tath’s and Chuon Nath’s careers coincided with the establishment and development of new Buddhist institutions in Cambodia. As Hansen and Edwards show us, the French policy of building up Buddhist institutions was motivated in part by the desire to curb a tendency within Cambodian and Laotian Buddhism to see Bangkok as the center of monastic culture and education by building up comparable institutions within French Indochina. After a brief attempt at creating a Pāli school at Angkor in 1909, the École du Pali (later École supérieur du Pali) created in Phnom Penh in 1914 would prove more durable, and the careers of Huot Tath and Chuon Nath developed in connection with this institution, where they both taught soon after its creation. In 1924, after returning from Hanoi, Huot Tath was appointed professor of Sanskrit at the school; later, in 1930, Chuon Nath would be the director. The National Library was created in 1921 and was involved, early on, in the publication of Buddhist texts, including books by Chuon Nath and Huot Tath and the longer version of the booklet translated here. A Tripitaka Commission was founded in 1929, headed by Lvi Em, at that time the director of the École supérieur de Pali, devoted to creating a complete bilingual edition of the scriptures in Pāli and Khmer; Huot Tath and Chuon Nath were connected with this project over the many years of its existence. They would also be closely associated with the Buddhist Institute, founded in 1930 by French scholar Suzanne Karpelès of the École Française d’Extrême-Orient (EFEO), whom they had come to know during their time in Hanoi. Above and beyond its importance for Cambodian Buddhism, the Buddhist Institute is often described as a seminal institution in the development of Cambodian nationalism, in part because of its connection with the nationalist intellectual Son Ngoc Thanh, an early staff member. Besides its role in promoting the work of the Tripitaka Commission, the Buddhist Institute “was an outgrowth of the revitalized Buddhist education and institutions put into place in the previous decades. Its mission was to respond to the needs of the Pāli Schools, libraries, museums and other programs that had been established to promote and study Theravāda Buddhism.”7 The booklet translated here appeared in 1932—that is, at a time when at least some of the major battles over reformed Buddhism had already been won, but relatively early in Huot Tath’s long career—eleven years after the creation of the National Library (which published it) and only two years after the creation of the Buddhist Institute. It reflected the goals of the institutions Huot Tath was affiliated with and is often interpreted as suggesting his approach to Buddhist practice. Chuon Nath would become the patriarch of the Mahānikāya Order in 1948, a position that gave him great prominence at the time of Cambodian

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independence and throughout the period when Norodom Sihanouk was in power. Huot Tath, who as head of Buddhist education during that period, was regarded as the second-ranking monk in the Mahānikāya Order. He became its supreme patriarch after Chuon Nath’s death in 1969 and would have that position through the turbulent period during which Sihanouk was deposed and the country fell into war. From the beginning of his career, Huot Tath was closely associated with the text of the Buddhist scriptures most focused on monastic discipline and procedure: the Vinaya. Hansen points out: “In Huot Tath’s terms, the Vinaya, with its commentary, was like a seed, and ‘having once begun to read it . . ., it took root in our hearts and minds (citta) and began to grow.’ ”8 After a series of sermons on the Vinaya in 1912 generated controversy, a group of monks began study groups focused on the Vinaya, among them Huot Tath. Early in his career, in 1918, Huot Tath wrote a book on the monastic regulations for novices, Sāmaṇera-vinaya. (Because he anticipated controversy, he asked Chuon Nath and another reformist monk, Uṃ-Sūr, to add their names as coauthors of the book.) It was published with the intervention of French authorities despite opposition by monastic authorities loyal to the purāṇa traditions, a major turning point in the history of the reformed movement. The question of the sīmā is also very much a concern of Vinaya, and the booklet translated here is very much in the tradition of Vinaya studies associated with Huot Tath. The booklet makes explicit reference to the fact that it draws on the Mahāvagga, one of the books of the Vinaya. It also draws on commentaries: the Mahāvagga-aṭṭhakathā and the Parivāra- aṭṭhakathā.9 It is very much keeping with everything we know about Huot Tath and Chuon Nath and what they represented that this booklet aims to present a version of sīmā practice as found in the Pāli scriptures. It begins with a description of a sermon by the Buddha on Vulture’s Peak that is the primary scriptural source for the concept of sīmā. The rest of the booklet, drawing on the commentaries, outlines ways of categorizing sīmā and the proper practices as they relate to different categories; the text primarily involves the explication of different Pāli terms as they apply to this categorization. We don’t know how the booklet was originally used. The emphasis on explication of Pāli words has some similarity to the practice of “lifting words” Justin McDaniel describes in the use of Thai and Lao manuscripts for teaching and sermons, suggesting that the text may have originally been used in semioral traditions of teaching or preaching, even though the reformed tradition associated with Huot Tath and Chuon Nath was noted for emphasizing written text over oral traditions.10 Among the contents of the longer version of the



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pamphlet, not translated here, are what seem to be study questions (e.g., “How many kinds of sīmā are there?” “The smallest possible nimitta of stone would have what size?”), suggesting its pedagogical use. The booklet does not tell us anything about actual Khmer practice at the time it was written. It also does not in any way explicitly prescribe contemporary Cambodian usage. Its publication is an indication, nevertheless, of the fact that Huot Tath and his group were concerned with the issue of sīmās at this time, and the tendency of scholars to assume that it figured in attempts to promote reform in sīmā practice is probably well taken. Perhaps the most salient point to make about the booklet is that it exclusively concerns monastic practice; there is nothing to indicate that the elaborate lay practices associated with sīmā ceremonies are necessary or desirable.11 Giteau is much concerned with the fact that the booklet makes no reference to the traditional practice of devotion to the devatā (celestial deities) at the different cardinal and subcardinal directions marked by the sīmās. Le sīmā-vinicchaya saṅkhepa [that is, the longer version of the short booklet translated here12] a été rédigé antérierment mais s’il rappelle des passages du Vinaya et des Aṭṭhakathā relatifs à l’origine et à la delimitation des sīmā et s’il cite quelques textes bouddhiques pronuncés à cette occasion, il ne nous expose aucun rite et passe complètement sous silence le culte des devatā.13 [The sīmā-vinicchaya saṅkhepa [that is, the longer version of the short booklet translated here] was written previously but although it recalls passages from the Vinaya and Aṭṭhakathā relating to the origin and delimitation of the sīmā, and although it quotes some Buddhist texts pronounced on the occasion of the ceremony, it does not explain any ritual to us and completely ignores the devatā cult.] Giteau, whose field research on sīmās dates to the 1960s, thirty years after the publication of the booklet, makes it clear that there were both traditional and reformed sīmā practices in Cambodia, and there was some tendency to eliminate what was considered “non-Buddhist practices.”14 Les cérémonies qui se déroulent pendant une pose de sīmā relèvent en général, d’un doublé culte. Certaines cérémonies sont bouddhiques; elles consistent à réciter des textes, à rappeler comment, le Buddha permit de délimiter une sīmā dans les monastères, à commémorer

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certains épisodes de la vie du Buddha et des jātaka lors de la consécration de nouvelles images du Bienheureux, enfin à faire des offrandes au Buddha ou à ses religieux. Les autres cérémonies s’adressent aux divinités des points cardinaux et du sol. Elles consistent en prières et en offrandes, surtout des offrandes de nourritures. Le culte rendu à ces divinités, les devatā, peut revêtir plus ou moins d’importance. Il peut même quelquefois être supprimé, alors que les cérémonies bouddhiques sont indispensables et peuvent, éventuellement, être seules célébrées.15 [The ritual activities that take place during a sīmā ceremony can be said to reflect a double religious focus. Some activities are Buddhist; they consist in reciting texts, in remembering the ways the Buddha enabled the delimitation of a sīmā in the monasteries, in commemorating certain episodes in the life of the Buddha and the Jātaka, the consecration of new images of the Blessed One, and finally in making offerings to the Buddha or the monks. The other ritual activities are addressed to the divinities of the cardinal direction points and of the earth. They consist of prayers and offerings, especially food offerings. The worship of these deities, the devatā, can be of variable importance. It can even sometimes be suppressed, whereas Buddhist ritual activities are essential and can, possibly, be celebrated themselves alone.] Giteau said that while there was no policy to impose a set practice for sīmā consecration ceremonies, Wat Unnalom (the central administrative monastery of the Mahānikāya Order and the home wat of Huot Tath and Chuon Nath) was a model for reformed practices, strictly Buddhist in character. Newly developing regions of the country tended to follow the reformed practices, whereas older, more established regions tended to maintain nonreformed practices. Different scholars, in addressing the question of how reformist tendencies have affected border ceremonies, have emphasized different issues. As mentioned above, Giteau observes how traditional practices addressing devatā (“deities of space and time,” especially as they represented the cardinal directions) were being lost in sīmā ceremony practices, and, related to it, ceremonies addressed to the indefinite spiritual presence associated with the earth and known as Kruṅ Bāli.16 Elizabeth Guthrie has described the decline in frequency of performances of the Māravijaya in conjunction with consecration ceremonies, including sīmā ceremonies, although some of the restrictions



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she documents date to before the publication of Huot Tath’s booklet.17 Ashley Thompson describes the use of the leaf-like ritual object called the babil in establishing sacred boundaries in various rituals, including that of establishing sīmā; although she is not concerned with any decline in its usage, it likewise may also be described as part of a conjunction of purāṇa practices that would have become less frequent in reform-oriented temples.18 At the heart of this discussion, and most relevant to the text translated here (or at least scholarly discussion of it), is the significance of the one sīmā placed at the center of the vihāra rather than, as all the others are, bordering the space around it.19 This is called the sīmā-khīla (a.w. sīmākil)20 or, in Western literature on Cambodian Buddhism, the indakhīla (a.w. indakil). (We note however that the contemporary monks and ex-monks we have consulted do not know the term indakhīla.21) Discussion of the sīmā-khīla and its relation to the other sīmā is prominent in the literature on Cambodian sīmā practice, such as work by Porée-Maspero that describes the sīmā as representing the parts of the body, with the sīmā-khīla as the navel. Les «racines» de semà représentent les diverses parties d’un corp humain, celle du centre étant le nombril: le terrain (phum) où doit être bâtie une maison possède un nombril. Le semà central, dit semà intikol, est le plus sacré; le nombril d’un terrain privé est doué de qualités telles que l’on ne doit point y bâtir.22 [The “roots” of a sīmā represent the various parts of a human body, the one in the center being the navel: the village land (phum) where a house is to be built has a navel. The central sīmā, called sīmā indakhīla, is the most sacred; the navel of private land is endowed with qualities such that one should not build on it.] Ashley Thompson similarly gives great symbolic weight to the central sīmā. The babil, like the sima, are used to encircle and demarcate. At the center of the circle formed by the turning of the babil are the people or objects undergoing consecration. The same can be said of the sima to some degree, with reference to the vihara or the Buddha image it shelters. Yet the eight simas also encircle another central sima placed before the Buddha image in the vihara. That is, the sima, “boundary stones,” sit at both the center and the periphery. The central sima

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functions not only to identify the center but also as a point of projection of the periphery, in the familiar image of the mandala. This is analogous with the function of the linga, or of the linga-yoni ensemble [in ancient Cambodia], a central point which demands, or enables, the demarcation of a periphery.23 A key question is whether, as some scholars have suggested, the sīmākhīla was among the practices that reformists like Huot Tath or Chuon Nath tried to do away with. Ian Harris states that Huot Tath argued that there was no Pāli basis for use of the sīmā-khīla, although the evidence for this is not completely clear. Huot Tath’s short work, Sīmāvinichhăy saṅkhep (Summary of opinions on the Sīmā), first published in 1932, fits in with this effort remarkably well. In conformity with his training under Louis Finot the work is an attempt to strip away non-canonical, i.e. brahmanical and superstitious, accretions from the sīmā-planting ritual. One of Tath’s prime conclusions is that the indakhīla is unknown in Pāli sources, which also have nothing to say about the cult of the divinities, at least in the context of ritual boundary formation.24 Nevertheless, supporting this with reference to (the longer version) of the booklet translated here raises problems, since it does not, as we said previously, make any explicit prescriptions for contemporary Cambodian usage, and it makes no mention, positive or negative, of the sīmā-khīla. This suggests one of three possibilities: (1) that Harris felt that the fact that the sīmā-khīla was not mentioned was sufficient to indicate that Huot Tath opposed it; (2) a separate text exists, not referenced by Harris, in which Huot Tath is explicit in opposing the practice of the sīmā-khīla; or (3) that Harris knew of Huot Tath’s opposition to sīmā-khīla usage from other sources, such as interviews, but introduced it here in a way that is slightly misleading. Perhaps we can say, at least, that we have some clues suggesting that Huot Tath may have opposed the usage of the sīmā-khīla, and this is in a broad sense consistent with what we know about Huot Tath and Chuon Nath’s reformist positions. This brings us to the even more complex and contradictory case of the sīmā consecration ceremony at Wat Unnalom. Wat Unnalom, in Phnom Penh, is, for administrative purposes, the central wat of the Cambodian Mahānikāya Order. Wat Unnalom’s vihāra currently displays the date 2500 BE on the outside of the building, which perhaps refers to the groundbreaking for the new



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vihāra, and suggests that its construction was conceived in conjunction with the 2500 Buddha Jayanti Celebrations (that is, celebrated in the Western calendar year of 1957 CE); this was a major event in the newly independent country, sometimes even seen as having millenarial overtones.25 The actual sīmā ceremony took place upon the completion of the building in 1963, some thirty years after the publication of the booklet translated here, at a time when Chuon Nath and Huot Tath were securely ensconced in the numbers 1 and 2 positions in the Mahānikāya Order. Giteau, in describing the consecration ceremony at Wat Unnalom, emphasizes its austerity and states that new vihāra had a single marker as sīmā-khīla: A Vatt Uṇṇālom de Phnoṃ Penh, où le braḥ vihāra a deux étages, on a posé onze bornes de sīmā: deux à l’est, au sud et au nord, une à l’ouest et une à chacun des points intercardinaux. Il n’y eut de nimitta enterré qu’au centre du sanctuaire du rez-de-chaussée pour le nimitta Indakīla.26 [At Vatt Uṇṇālom of Phnoṃ Penh, where the braḥ vihāra has two floors, eleven sīmā markers have been placed: two in the east, south and north, one in the west and one at each of the intercardinal points. There was only one marker buried in the center of the ground floor shrine to be the Indakīla nimitta.] At first glance this seems consistent with an article about the ceremony in the journal Kampuchea Suriya that includes a picture of Prince Norodom Sihanouk, then head of state, ceremonially cutting the rope that will allow the sīmā-khīla stone to fall into place. (A sword is held in place, ready to be struck, by Ray Lamuth, the president of the Cambodian branch of the World Fellowship of Buddhists.) This would undercut Harris’ argument that Huot That opposed the sīmā-khīla. On consulting monks from Wat Unnalom about this, however, a much more complicated scenario emerges. According to Ven. Yon Seng Yeath and Ven. Van Saveth, both also professors and assistant deans at the Buddhist University, it is known through oral tradition that the sīmā ceremony ended up being performed three times because of the patriarch Chuon Nath’s frustration with what he regarded as irregularities in the proceedings and his desire to perform a ceremony in keeping with the Pāli scriptures.27 The Kampuchea Suriya article doubtless describes the first ceremony, a very much public event that took place over four days, from June 1 to 4, 1963, and, besides Sihanouk, involved several prominent lay figures.28 One hundred

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monks took part the first day; this was expanded to one thousand monks for the third- and fourth-day activities. The article describes a ceremony, the first day, outside the vihāra, honoring the devatā who protect the temple. Giteau points out that in contrast to some temples, there was no offering made to Kruṅ Bāli.29 What we know about the two subsequent ceremonies is limited. Ven. Yon Seng Yeath wrote us: Unfortunately, sīma kamma was not agreed upon by the monk congregations, who affirmed that the sangha kamma was wrongly performed. Samdech Chuon Nath approved having the sangha kamma (sīma) done again without the participation of lay-people. Only monks were allowed to attend. The second try failed again based on the same reason.30 Samdech Chuon Nath agreed to have the sangha kamma performed for a third time under the Leadership of the Most Ven. Moeung Ses. It is rumored that Samdech Chuon Nath was very frustrated with the performance of sīma kamma. And he would not allow a fourth time to happen. The third performance was very secretly performed by the sangha. . . . For the third performance (sīma kamma), there was [only] one lay person who attended the ceremony, the rest were monks.31 It is unlikely that anyone who participated in these ceremonies is still living. This account leaves many questions, to most of which we are unlikely to get answers. What precisely was considered acceptable and not acceptable in the ceremonies? To what extent were the practices as described in the translated booklet those that were used as the standards in the second and third ceremonies? Were the previous sīmās ritually removed before the successive ceremonies were performed? Were the stones left in place or were they removed and replaced every time? What monks participated in the successive ceremonies? Who was the one lay person who attended the last ceremony, and what was his role? Was the second ceremony secret as well as the third? Why was secrecy considered necessary? Who was and was not privy to knowledge about the successive ceremonies? What the story does affirm is that details in the practice of sīmās were taken seriously by Chuon Nath and the circles of monks around him, including of course Huot Tath. There was a conscious effort to make the ceremony consistent with Pāli scriptures, and this included reducing the numbers of lay persons in attendance. This is consistent with the importance usually attributed to the text translated here.



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None of this tells us anything about whether the sīmā-khīla figured in the second or third ceremony. As Ven. Yon Seng Yeath and Ven. Van Saveth pointed out, a decorative tile appears to mark the site of the sīmā-khīla on the ground floor of the vihāra, although, to add another slight twist to the puzzle, it is not situated directly in front of the central Buddha image, as is customary, but at the very center of the vihāra. There seems to be no oral tradition suggesting that the second and third ceremonies did not involve a sīmā-khīla. Prior to contacting Ven. Yon Seng Yeath and Ven. Van Saveth, we communicated with a former monk who, while still young, had been secretary to Samdech Chuon Nath near the end of his life and continued as secretary to Samdech Huot Tath after he had become patriarch. He seemed surprised that we would even call into question the idea that there was a sīmā-khīla.32 One should note that while the samaya practices associated with Chuon Nath and Huot Tath are often well-entrenched in Cambodia today (with purāṇa practices adhered to in what seems to be a decreasing number of temples), the use of the sīmā-khīla seems to be universal in contemporary practice. Speculation on any political implications of the story runs the risk of lending itself to narratives biased for or against Sihanouk or other political figures. It goes without saying, however, that restricting the lay presence at the ceremonies meant excluding Sihanouk and other political or royal figures from the event. If the successive ceremonies were primarily motivated by the desire to adhere to Pāli scriptures, this also meant removing them from the taint of secular power. It would probably be an overinterpretation to suggest this was a significant motivation, but it may have been one of the reasons for keeping the ceremony secret. Huot Tath traveled widely in the 1950s and 1960s, including to Thailand, India, Japan, the United States, and China. Chuon Nath died in 1969 and Huot Tath assumed the role of Mahānikāya patriarch. Harris describes some of the complexities of monastic politics at the time Sihanouk fell from power in 1970, when Huot Tath succeeded in preventing Thammayut monks from protesting the coup.33 He supported the premier Lon Nol with a statement that the Khmer Republic was consistent with Buddhism, but he would not agree to remove Sihanouk’s name from the name of the Buddhist university. The country fell into chaos over the next five years. Kiernan describes a dramatic scene on April 17, 1975, the day the Khmer Rouge entered Phnom Penh. Huot Tath was one of a number of speakers at the Ministry of Information. The leaders of both Cambodia’s orders of Buddhist monks were there as well. A microphone was ready to broadcast the proceedings over

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the radio. Many of Cambodia’s residents, still closeted in their homes, were listening in anticipation. As Veasna watched from the crowd, the chief monks announced that they were “preparing the country” for a return to “easy” times. They called for the cooperation of officials of the ministry, students, doctors, Lon Non, and army general Mey Sichan (who was present, having removed his signs of rank). The Venerable Huot Tat, chief of the Mohanikay [Mahānikāya] Order, said: “Now we have peace: put down your guns.” It was Mey Sichan’s turn to speak; he called on all soldiers to lay down their arms. The chief monk had a sheaf of chapters in his hands and was preparing to read from it. Suddenly, a Khmer rouge officer burst onto the scene. He immediately grabbed the papers from the hands of the chief monk. Veasna, taken with fright, began to pace up and down nervously. Pin Yathay, listening to the radio, could not tell what was happening. He heard only a series of “unintelligible discussions.” Then “the confusion ended abruptly.” The newcomer took the microphone and told the crowd in what Yathay found “a serious and threatening voice”: “I hereby inform the contemptible, traitorous Lon Nol clique and all its commanders that we are not coming here for negotiations: We are entering the capital through force of arms.”34 Like most high-ranking figures of the Lon Nol period, Huot Tath was executed early in the Pol Pot period. According to testimony given at a 1979 tribunal, he was executed the following day in his home district of Oudong; however, other reports contradict this account, and it is fair to say that we don’t really know.35

I. Translation Our translation was first completed when it was commissioned by one of the parties involved in a legal dispute at a Cambodian temple in Lowell, Massachusetts; it had been presented as evidence in the dispute. The contents of the booklet we were commissioned to translate, The Analysis of Sīmās (Sīmā Vinicchaya), also appear in the somewhat longer booklet Sīmā Vinicchaya Saṅkhepa (Analysis of sīmās in summary), which is the text more commonly cited. We have little information about the separate provenance of the shorter text; it appears with a drawing of a sīmā stone on the cover and it has the stamp of the Trairatnamaram Temple. The first heading in the booklet is Sīmā



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Vinicchaya Saṅkhepa, echoing the longer pamphlet. The only date we have for it is 1932, based on the date in the foreword (which is also the date in the citations of the longer version). The one-page preface in the short version does not appear in the longer version published by Paṇṇāgā Trayratna˚, the only version currently for sale in Cambodia and the only version of the longer text which we have so far had access to. We presume the shorter version was published at a later date. For practical purposes, the shorter version can be seen as representing the longer booklet, as we see no evidence of contrasting views in the two versions. The longer version of the pamphlet includes texts in Pāli for use in consecration ceremonies, together with their translation into Khmer. The texts consist of kammavācas (verbal acts). As noted above, it also includes what seem to be study questions about the text. In the translation we have used the Saveros Pou transliteration system as adapted by Franklin Huffman for use by the Library of Congress. This is distinguished from the “Franco-Khmer Transcription System,” which Huffman also devised in an attempt to reproduce the system of writing Khmer commonly used by the French in the colonial period. In places where the Khmer text gives Khmer versions of Pāli words, we sometimes give the Khmer version followed by the Pāli version. In several cases, however, the editors of the volume have chosen to standardize the spelling of key Buddhist terminology, which will sometimes result in spellings inconsistent with the transliteration system otherwise used. Given that Huot Tath’s Khmer text is a summary and at times even a translation of Pāli passages, there is a certain semiotic complexity to the exercise represented by our translation, approaching in places a translation of a translation. Our goal here is to translate to the best of our ability the Khmer wordings and phrasings, acknowledging that the Khmer passages use and refer to Pāli terms and sentences, or Khmer versions of Pāli words. The pamphlet represents local tradition in the process of conversing with and re-presenting translocal sources. While it is not entirely clear which version(s) of the Vinaya the author and reviewers of the Khmer text utilized, references to Pāli source texts (Pali Text Society Editions) are given in notes, as well as to places where those Pāli texts are well translated by others. These references help show the parallels and departures between the texts, even if some issues remain unresolved. The preface to the pamphlet indicates that the information presented in the pamphlet is consistent with the Pāli canon and commentaries, but we note that the understandings of the Pāli source materials that underlie the word choices in Khmer may in some cases be different than those found in other contexts.

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I.1. Preface I took this completed text to present to Braḥ Sirīsammativaṅsa, director of the Buddhist Institute and Braḥ Sāsana Sobhan˚, the deputy director, for this reason: that they could kindly review and correct it. They have helped review and correct it, so that it is understood that it is correct in accordance with the Pāli canon and the commentaries. And they acknowledge that although this book is a summary, all parts of it have importance, it is easy to study, and can give benefit to monks who are training themselves quickly. This book is presented to the Royal Cambodian Library, with the request that it be published and distributed in accordance with needs. Saturday, 5 roch [five days after the new moon], month of Āsādh [eighth month in lunar calendar, appr. June or July], year of Vak Chatvāsak [year of monkey] 2475 BS [Buddhist calendar], corresponding to 23 Souyet 1932. Braḥ Visiddhavaṅs H. Tat

I.2. Analysis of Sīmā in Summary The first case of the Buddha’s permission for sīmās [boundaries] to be established is as follows: on one occasion the High Teacher and Master [the Buddha] resided near Vulture’s Peak mountain near Rājagrẏḥ [Pāli: Rājagaha], he permitted that bhikkhus [fully ordained monks] meet together to proclaim the pāṭimokkha (a.w. pādimokkha) [ritual confession by ordained monks] ceremony on the fourteenth or fifteenth day, once for each part of the month.36 At that time the entire group of chabbaggiya (a.w. chabvaggiy) monks37 proclaimed the pāṭimokkha, assembling only with their own bhikkhus. The Enlightened One gave voice to knowledge, having prohibited deeds of evil, and gave permission to enact the pāṭimokkha to the monkhood who came by agreement to one place.38 The group of bhikkhus considered the question of whether, when the Compassionate One gave permission to proclaim the pāṭimokkha to the bhikkhus who agreed to come together in one place, that meant agreeing to come together in one Buddhist temple only, or for bhikkhus to come from all Buddhist temples in the world and meet together in one place. So they gathered together to pay respect to the Meritorious One and ask him, does his Lordship permit a place where bhikkhus can hold meetings, in agreement together, only in each individual temple? All the bhikkhus further wondered, “How will each temple of this kind designate its borders in terms of width and length?” So they went together to ask the Meritorious One, resulting in his Lordship

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conceding in providing for authorization sīmās, which indicated ways of knowing the place of the temple of a group of monks. That is to say, anujānāmi bhikkhave sīmaṃ sammannituṃ,39 [or,] “Oh, all you bhikkhus, I permit (Khmer: qanuññāt) that the bhikkhus agree upon a sīmā.”40 (This is explained in detail in the uposathakkhandhaka of the Mahāvagga scriptures as well as the commentaries. The presentation above is a summary merely in order that one sees the basic causal principle by which the Enlightened One conceded the establishment of sīmās. In continuation, we will explicate the process of establishing sīmās, in accordance with what is in the Pāli canon and the commentaries. The commentators’ analysis, in summary, is as follows below.)41

I.3. There Are Two Kinds of Sīmās, namely: baddha-sīmās: sīmās that monks have chanted to establish (“tied”). abaddha-sīmās: sīmās that monks have not chanted to establish (“tied”).

I.3.a. baddha-sīmās. Any sīmā that the monkhood has made free from the eleven kinds of sīmā-vipatti (failure in the sīmā) [described below], and which is endowed with the three sampatti (sufficiency),42 [described after the eleven types of failures are concluded], and where the nimittas are tied and connected to each other, and where there has been chanting to authorize, these sīmās can be called baddha-sīmās.43 Sīmās of the eleven kinds of vipatti are: 1. atikhuddakā: a sīmā which is too small, so that it does not allow room for 21 bhikkhus to be able to sit. 2. atimahatī: a sīmā which is too large, a distance of three yojana [app. 44 kilometers] or more. 3. khaṇḍanimittā: [a sīmā] with markers set apart, that is, markers not in sequence. Which is to say, if the eastern marker is already established, and the designation of the directions in ordered sequence goes to the north, or any one direction, and stops with that direction, and does not continue to the designation of the marker for the east a second time. It can also refer to something inappropriate being used as a marker, such as coconut tree or a sugar palm tree, or a log, and so forth.

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4. chāyānimittā: [a sīmā made with] taking any shadow, for example that of a mountain, as a marker. 5. animittā: [a sīmā] where there is nothing at all as a marker. 6. bahisīme ṭhitasammatā: a sīmā agreed upon by one standing outside the markers of the sīmā. 7. nadiyā sammatā: a sīmā agreed upon in a small river or a major one. 8. samudde sammatā: a sīmā agreed upon in the sea. 9. jātassare sammātā: a sīmā agreed upon in a natural pond, that is, a pond which occurs naturally without someone having dug it.   For the three sīmā-vipatti listed from 7 to 9, if the monkhood were to establish a sīmā there, it could not properly be considered an agreement to raise a sīmā, because there is a Buddhist prohibition stating: sabbā bhikkhave nadī asīmā sabbo samuddo asīmo sabbo jātassaro asīmo,44 [which means] “Oh, all you bhikkhus, whole rivers, whether small or large, the whole sea, or the whole of a natural pond; none of these are sīmā.” 10. sīmāya sīmaṃ sambhindantena sammatā: the piercing (Khmer daṃlāy, “break, pierce”) of an old sīmā belonging to other bhikkhus with one’s own sīmā, where what is agreed upon is an agreement for one’s own sīmā to touch another sīmā, or to cover the others’ sīmā, in amounts from one hair’s width increasing up to a width that four monks can sit in.45 11. sīmāya sīmaṃ ajjhottharantena sammatā: covering and suppressing the sīmās of other bhikkhus with one’s own sīmā, where what is agreed upon is that one’s own agreed-upon sīmā covers and extends into the sīmā of other bhikkhus from an amount of space, approximately, which would permit four or more bhikkhus to sit comfortably, or which allows covering the entire sīmā of other bhikkhus.46 The three kinds of sampatti are: 47 nimitta-sampatti: sufficiency (Khmer paripūrṇ, lit. “plenitude, abundance”)48 with respect to the markers (one), parisa-sampatti: sufficiency with respect to the assembly (i.e., the assembly of monks which determines the boundary) (one), kammavācā-sampatti: sufficiency with respect to the formula for the legal act (one).

nimitta-sampatti

nimitta-sampatti, or sufficiency with respect to the markers, has eight varieties, which are:



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1. pabbatanimittaṃ: taking a mountain or hill as a marker. Of mountains there are three kinds, the mountain purely of earth, the mountain purely of stone, and the mountain where earth and stone are mixed together. A hill or mountain sized from one equal to the size of an elephant increasing to one the size of Mount Sineru [Mount Meru] can serve as a marker. If it is smaller than an elephant or if it is bigger but only a pile of sand, it should not be used at all as a marker. 2. pāsāṇanimittaṃ: using a stone as a marker. The size of the stone at the smallest should be equal to the amount of cane sugar that would weigh 32 pala or 64 nāli according to current usage. If it is smaller than this it is not appropriate, but if it is bigger, up to the size of an ox or a water buffalo at the most, it is appropriate. If one takes pieces of brick, however big, or small pieces of stone, which are in themselves appropriate for use as markers, and pile them together to a large size, that is also not appropriate. 3. vananimittaṃ: taking a forest area as a marker. If the wilderness area has only grass, or trees with only the bark, or the outside as the hard part,49 such as the sugar palm tree or the coconut tree, it should not be used at all as a marker. If the wilderness has a group of the type of trees with a hard core inside, such as hardwood trees, and there are at least four or five trees, it is appropriate for use as a marker. 4. rukkhanimittaṃ: the use of a tree as a marker. Wood of trees where the outer bark is the only hard part, such as sugar palm trees or coconut trees, may not be used as markers. But if the tree has a hard core, and is a tree living and growing on earth, then it is appropriate for use as a marker. 5. magganimittaṃ: the use of roads as markers. A road, if it is short or small, for walking to the forest or rice fields, is not appropriate as a marker. If the road is long and is a road people customarily walk on by foot, or a road where they customarily use carts, then it is appropriate as a marker. 6. vammikanimittaṃ: or taking termite mounds as markers. Regarding the length or size of the termite mound, if it is at the lowest or smallest eight thnáp [one thnáp is four fingers], that is to say, the diameter of an ox’s horn, that is sufficient for it to be a marker. If lower or smaller than this, it is not appropriate for use as a marker. 7. nadīnimittaṃ: taking a river (small or large) as a marker. A small or large river which flows constantly without any break, or else in any place where in the rainy season rain water falls frequently and there is a thread of water flowing without stop, can be called a nadī. The commentators have explained the character of such places, stating that, in the four months of the rainy season, any place that has a thread of water flowing without stop,

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and where the water is deep enough to wet the lower robe (Khmer: spáṅ) of a fully ordained nun (bhikkhunī), worn according to prescribed fashion, when she crosses a river. Such a place can be called nadī, and such a place can be used as a marker. 8. udakanimittaṃ: taking water as a marker. Water, if placed in a container, such as a boat, water jar, tank, and so forth, should not be regarded as a marker. As for water taken and placed directly on the earth in a place where the water does not flow [away], such as is the case of a dug lotus pond, natural ponds, a saltwater pond, the ocean, and so forth, it can be designated as a marker.   Moreover (if the place is such that water placed there doesn’t stay), if one digs in the earth and creates a pit, and one carries water to fill the pit, then, once monks have chanted the kammavāca in completion, as long as some residual water is left, the water can be used as a marker when the pit is filled. When the water has dried up, one should put a pile of stones or of sand directly at the place. Otherwise, planting a wood pillar there is also possible, as a device to indicate that it is a marker. These eight kinds of objects (mountains and so forth) are all appropriate as markers if there is only one kind of object being designated as a marker and there is no mixing or confusion (Khmer: craḷaṃ) with other nimitta objects. An example of markers mixed and confused would be where there is a single mountain, a single stone, and a single wilderness area mixed and confounded together. With this in consideration, [these eight kinds of objects] are appropriate.50 Moreover, concerning the number of markers, there is no limit in the designation of markers from three or more, up to a quantity even of 100 is possible: there is no objection at all. But if less than three—one or two—it is not at all appropriate to designate them as markers. For any sīmā, where it is agreed to have only three markers, it has a shape with three corners, or the shape of a water buffalo’s head. If it is agreed to have four markers, then the sīmā has the shape of a figure with four corners, something like a tambourine. If it is agreed to have more and more markers, the place of the sīmā will perforce have different shapes according to the lay of the land as it is in that place. [Regarding] the means of designating markers, when one has nimittās of the eight types discussed, and where there are nimittās of these eight types, of any single [type], [which is] sufficient [in size] and in number, the bhikkhu who is responsible for discipline (vinayadhara, a.w. vinayadhar)51 asks to



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know the marker for the east first of all, saying, “puratthimāya disāya kẏ nimittaṃ,”52 “which is the marker to the east?”53 In sequence then, a bhikkhu, novice, or lay person should reply: if the marker is a stone, they should reply, “pāsāṇo bhante,” that is, “a stone, my lord.” This having taken place, the bhikkhu responsible for discipline should designate the marker with the words, “eso pāsāṇo nimittaṃ,” “this stone is the marker.” (The asking and answering and the designation of the marker in the directions in sequence follow accordingly, different from each other only in the direction and the name of the marker.) If it is the southeast direction, the bhikkhu responsible for discipline should ask, “puratthimāya anudisāya kẏ nimittaṃ,” “which marker is the marker for the southeastern direction?” For the southern direction, he asks, “dakkhināya disāya kẏ nimittaṃ,” “which marker is the marker of the southern direction?” For the southwestern direction, he asks, “dakkhināya anudisāya kẏ nimittaṃ,” “which is the marker of the southwestern direction?” For the western direction, he asks, “pacchimāya disāya kẏ nimittaṃ,” “which is the marker of the western direction?” For the northwestern direction he asks, “pacchimāya anudisāya kẏ nimittaṃ,” “which is the marker of the northwestern direction?” For the northern direction he asks, “uttarāya disāya kẏ nimittaṃ,” “which is the marker of the northern direction?” For the northeastern direction he asks, “uttarāya anudisāya kẏ nimittaṃ,” “which is the marker of the northeastern direction?” As for the reply, it is determined by the marker. If it is a mountain, one says, “pabbato bhante, eso pabbato nimittaṃ.”54 If a wilderness area, “vanaṃ bhante, etaṃ vanaṃ nimittaṃ.” If a tree, one says, “rukkho bhante, eso rukkho nimittaṃ.” If a road, one says, “maggo bhante, eso maggo nimittaṃ.” If a termite mound, one says, “vammiko bhante, eso vammiko nimittaṃ.” If a small or large river, one says, “nadī bhante, eso nadī nimittam.” If standing water, one says, “udakaṃ bhante, etaṃ udakaṃ nimittaṃ.” When the asking and replying to designate the nimittas of all directions, in order, has been completed, it is necessary to ask and answer and designate the marker in the eastern direction once more. This manner is called “the correct designation of the markers,” also called “nimitta sampatti.” parisa-sampatti

parisa-sampatti is sufficiency of assembled bhikkhus, that is to say, at the very least four, or larger amounts in quantities not delimited. They gather together in the sīmā and agree on the sīmā. This type [of action] is called parisa-sampatti.55

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kammavācā-sampatti is sufficiency (kẏ paripūrṇa ḍoy) of formal speech acts (kammavācā), which is to say, a bhikkhu adept in reciting the agreement on sīmās with the formulas] (ñattidutiyakamma, a.w. ñattidutiyakamm),56 saying, “suṇātu me bhante saṅgho,” etc., “evam etaṃ thāyomi,”57 properly according to the realms of the letters and the categories of the letters, without confusion whereby “soft” sounds are pronounced as “hard” sounds or “hard” sounds pronounced as “soft” sounds, and so forth.58 This is called kammavācāsampatti. (As for Pāli formulas for the kammavāca, they consist as described below.) A sīmā free of the eleven types of sīmā failures and having the three sufficiencies as described above, is called a baddha-sīmā. The baddha-sīmā has three varieties, which are samānasamvāsa-sīmā (one case), avippavāsa-sīmā (one case), and khaṇḍa-sīmā (one case). samānasaṃvāsa-sīmā is a sīmā where there is a sufficient dwelling area, that is to say a boundary for the monkhood to perform saṅghakamma (a monastic act) by mutual agreement.59 avippavāsa-sīmā is a sīmā where monks agree to superimpose [an additional sīmā] on top of a samānasaṃvāsa-sīmā, with a ñattidutiyakammavāca different from [that for] the existing samānasaṃvāsa-sīmā, so that bhikkhus can leave garments of their robes [without committing offenses therewith].60 (The Pāli [kammavācā] which is recited to establish the samānasaṃvāsa-sīmā and the avippavāsa-sīmā is given below.) khaṇḍa-sīmā is a small sīmā that the monks agree to maintain within the large sīmā (mahā-sīmā) in order to perform all legal acts (saṅghakamma), such as higher ordination (upasampadākamma) and so forth.61 It is easily made, which is to say without [the] doubts (Khmer: min raṅkias) of other monks who may come into that sīmā.62 (This khaṇḍa-sīmā is a [type of] sīmā that exists in Cambodia at the present time; [i.e.,] there is agreement that the entire uposatha hall is a khaṇḍa-sīmā.) As for the size of the khaṇḍa-sīmā, at the very smallest there should be room for 21 bhikkhus to sit. If it is smaller than this, it is not appropriate. Increasing in size, even to where 1,000 bhikkhus can sit, it is appropriate. As for the ways of chanting [the kammavāca] in order to establish by agreement the khaṇḍa-sīmā, there has to be the agreedupon chanting of [the kammavāca for] the samānasaṃvāsa-sīma first, and then the avippavāsa-sīmā [on top of] it, as is also the means of establishing agreement on the mahā-sīmā.63 Because of this, when there is occasion to chant [the kammavāca] to remove sīmās, one must chant to remove the avippavāsa-sīmā first, then chant



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to remove the samānasaṃvāsa-sīmā later, because the avippavāsa-sīmā is situated above the samānasaṃvāsa-sīmā. Regarding the cases where one would chant [the kammavāca] to remove the sīmā, there are two types of reasons: 1. small sīmās. The monkhood wants the sīmā to be bigger than before, so they chant [the kammavāca] to remove the small sīmā and come to a new agreement. 2. large sīmās. The monks want to make a smaller sīmā in turn, for the occasions of the establishment of a vihāra by bhikkhus coming from other temples; thus they chant [the kammavāca] to remove the larger sīmā and come to a new agreement. (The Pāli that is chanted to remove the avippavāsa-sīmā and samā­ nasaṃvāsa-sīma is given below.) Regarding a baddha-sīmā that monks have already agreed upon as a mahāsīmā or a khaṇḍa-sīmā, when it returns to being empty (Khmer: dade) space, and no longer a place of sīmā, it is for two reasons: that the monks have chanted [the kammavāca] to remove the sīmā there with the proper formulas (ñattidutiyakammavāca) (one case), or that the religion of Buddhism has come to an end (one case). The summary of the baddha-sīmā is finished.

I.3.b. abaddha-sīmā. A sīmā for which monks do not chant [kammavāca] to bind in agreement is called abaddha-sīmā. There are three kinds of abaddha-sīmā: gāma-sīmā (one case), sattabbhantara-sīmā (one case), and udakukkhepa-sīmā (one case). gāma-sīmā

A place which is a gāmakkhetta is an individual rural district or village, and we speak of a gāma-sīmā here.64 The Enlightened One permitted all bhikkhus in these rural areas, that is to say, bhikkhus who normally live in the districts, saying, “asammatāya bhikkhave sīmāya aṭṭhapitāya yaṃ gāmam vā nigamaṃ vā upanissāya viharati yā gāmassa vā gāmasīmā nigamassa vā nigamasīmā ayaṃ tattha samānasaṃvāsā ekuposathā,”65 [which is to say] “Oh, all you bhikkhus, whenever a sīmā has not been agreed upon, not set in place, and bhikkhus go to reside in a district or village, the borders of the district or market town (nigama)66 no matter how small, will serve as a full sīmā for coresidence in equality and having uposatha [days of observance] together.”67

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In the commentaries it is stated that the word gāma translates as “district” (sruk), whereas the word nagara translates as “city” (dī kruṅ). Adding the word gāma, then, consequently, whether for a city or a district or a village, we can speak of gāma-sīmā in all cases. Moreover, if a queen or a king designates a village, or a territory (pradesa) in any village district (Pāli gāmakkhetta), this place becomes a visuṃgāma, that is a separate village, and if the king donates it to anyone and cedes [his control of it], the village or territory involved may be spoken of in terms of visuṃgāma-sīmā. For this reason, the visuṃgāma-sīmā, whether a district sīmā, a city sīmā, or a village sīmā, can be successfully used for all types of formal acts of the saṅgha (saṅghakamma), such as for ordination (upasampadākamma) or observance rituals (uposathakamma), and so forth, like a baddha-sīmā.68 However, there can be no separation from the triplerobe [ticīvara], which means that robes cannot be left even as far away as a forearm’s length in the gāma-sīmā. Gāma-sīmā are only different from baddha-sīmā in this one way. sattabbhantara-sīmā

In a forest area where there are no settlements, in-between (knuṅ ravāṅ) or “sattabhantara,” we speak of sattabbhantara-sīmā. Here the Enlightened One permitted all bhikkhus who were vanavāsī, that is, bhikkhus who customarily live in the forest, saying “agāmake bhikkhave araññe samantā sattabbhantarā ayaṃ tattha samānasaṃvāsā ekuposathā,”69 [which means] “Oh, bhikkhus, at a distance of seven abbhantara into the surrounding area of a forest without settlements is enough for an area of coresidence where [bhikkhus can perform] uposatha together.” In the commentary it is stated that each abbhantara has a length of 28 forearm lengths. The seven abbhantaras are measured from the outermost of the group of bhikkhus sitting within, extending in every direction around it. For this reason, the sīmā that extends in size extends because of the power (qaṃṇāc) of many bhikkhus assembled; if the sīmā decreases, the sīmā will decrease by nature of the fact that there is a lesser power of the bhikkhus [i.e., because there are fewer bhikkhus assembled]. This sattabbhantara-sīmā is cited in relation to the issue of separation [of a monk from his full complement of robes], because there can be leaving of the robes within a distance of seven abbhantara. However, when the robes are separated [from their monk], but kept within seven abbhantara, the distance must be measured from the monk who owns it at a distance of seven abbhantara in all the directions. So if you count the distance from one side to the



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other it is fourteen abbhantara for the total for each monk. If the robes are left beyond the seven abbhantara in the area away from oneself, and the sun rises, the robe is to be forfeited. The owner of the robe commits an offense of expiation [āpatti pācittiya]. This is the reason for measuring the seven abbhantara around each bhikkhu. And when making measurements around bhikkhus, it is from the outermost monk, for establishing the sīmā in which all the monks perform monastic action. If two groups of monks perform disciplinary action (vinaya-kamma) separately from each other using abbhantarasīmās in the forest near each other, one must maintain an empty space of seven abbhantara as sīmāntarika (a.w. sīmāntarik)70 between the two sattabbhantara-sīmās, so there is no contact between the two sīmās themselves.71 udakukkhepa-sīmā

In a nadī, which is to say in small or large rivers, or natural ponds that can be found between places of flowing water, we find what is called udakukkhepasīmā. All of these, small rivers for example, were in the beginning prohibited by the Enlightened One for establishing sīmās, when he said, “sabba bhikkhave nadī asīmā sabbo samuddo asīmo sabbo jātassaro asīmo,”72 [which means] “Oh bhikkhus, nadī, meaning the whole of a small or large river, is not a place for sīmās.”73 (Regarded in terms of authorization, one can say there is no authorization for creating (Khmer: ḷoeṅ) a sīmā at all.) However, at a later time, His Lordship permitted an udakukkhepa-sīmā everywhere: “nadiyā vā bhikkhave samudde jātassare vā yaṃ majjhimassa purisassa samantā udakukkhepā ayaṃ tattha samānasaṃvāsā ekuposathā,”74 [which means] “Oh, all you bhikkhus, any place in a small or larger river, in the sea, or in a natural pond which is designated as among those places in which water can be thrown with a man’s natural strength and it is called a sīmā,” such that there can be coresidence with equality and there can be uposatha.75

Summary statement according to what is stated in the commentaries and subcommentaries.76 What is called the udakukkhepa, “the throwing of water,” means, when a man of average strength takes water or sand and throws it with all the strength of his arm, the place of the water or sand that is thrown, wherever it falls, is called one throw of water or udakukkhepa[sīmā], which is one line of thrown water. The throw of water represents the greatest extent of the area around a group of bhikkhus. If there are many groups of bhikkhus performing separate

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legal acts, it is necessary to establish on the first occasion a line of thrown water to create the proper interval in the area between the two sīmās. If all the bhikkhus want to perform saṅghakamma on a small or large river where there is much water, they must be on a boat and do the saṅghakamma there. If the boat, while floating, falls and rises during the monastic action, it is not appropriate, because the totality of the sīmā would be indicated only by the place of water moving forward around it. When the boat floats too quickly, it will go past the sīmā, chanting will be in one sīmā and the completion of the action will take place in another sīmā. For this reason, it is necessary to plant a post and tie the boat there, tie a piece of stone as securing weight in the water, plant an anchor to hold the boat, or tie the boat to a tree which is in the water, prior to performing saṅghakamma. If the boat floats up and down within the same line of the water’s movement, it is appropriate to perform saṅghakamma. Moreover, if the boat is tied firmly to a tree that is in the water, it is necessary that the tree be beyond the line of what water touches for there not to be an offense, because the water and the udakukkhepa are mutually necessary and codependent (Khmer: trūv gnā qāsrăy gnā bān). And it is prohibited for the boat to be tied firmly to a post or a tree on the bank, because the place of the bank and the udakukkhepa are not things that can belong together or depend on each other (again, Khmer: trūv gnā qāsrăy gnā bān). If the bhikkhus are situated on a platform or raft or pier that is in the water, it is appropriate to perform saṅghakamma, but they must do it only in the place of the line of the water’s thrust. If bhikkhus are situated on top of a bridge or at the end of a bridge, and the pillars of the bridge are situated in the water, this is appropriate for performing saṅghakamma. If at the end of the bridge the supporting pillars are fastened together in an extension to the bank, it is not appropriate to perform saṅghakamma. If the pillars of the bridge are in the river, and the bridge is so long that it extends a considerable distance from the bank on both sides, floating above and not touching the earth at the riverbank,77 with all the bhikkhus who can be situated on the bridge, it is appropriate to perform a saṅghakamma. End of the summary of the analysis of sīmās.

Notes For this chapter, John A. Marston and Elizabeth Guthrie have written the introduction, and John A. Marston and Chhuon Hoeur have done the translation. 1.  See for example Ian Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse on Territory: Genealogy of the Buddhist Ritual Boundary (Sīmā),” Journal of Southeast



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Asian Studies 41, no. 2 (2010): p. 230; Elizabeth Guthrie, “A Study of the History and Cult of the Buddhist Earth Deity in Mainland Southeast Asia” (PhD diss., University of Canterbury, 2004), p. 120; Madeleine Giteau, Le bornage rituel des temples bouddhiques au Cambodge (Paris: École Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1969). 2.  This biographical material draws heavily on the work of Anne R. Hansen, How to Behave: Buddhism and Modernity in Colonial Cambodia, 1860–1930 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007); and Penny Edwards, Cambodge: The Cultivation of a Nation 1860–1945 (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2007). 3.  Braḥ grū saṃghavijjā Huot Tath, Kalyāṇamitta rapás’ khñuṃ (Phnom Penh: Buddhist Institute, 1993). 4.  Penny Edwards, “Cambodge: The Cultivation of a Nation: 1860–1945” (PhD diss., Monash University, 1999), p. 395. 5.  John Marston, “Reconstructing ‘Ancient’ Cambodian Buddhism,” Contemporary Buddhism 9, no. 1 (2008): pp. 99–121. 6.  François Bizot, Le figuier a cinq branches: Recherche sur le bouddhisme khmer (Paris: Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, 1976); Kate Crosby, “Tantric Theravāda: A Bibliographical Essay on the Writings of François Bizot and Others on the Yogāvacara Tradition,” Contemporary Buddhism 1, no. 2 (2000): pp. 141–198. 7.  Hansen, How to Behave, p. 145. 8.  Hansen, How to Behave, pp. 77–78. 9.  My thanks to Bhikkhu Nandisena for showing me how the text draws on the Vinaya and these commentaries. Editor’s note: The pamphlet closes by stating that it has drawn on the commentaries (aṭṭhakathā) and subcommentaries (ṭīkā). Petra Kieffer-Pülz observes that the pamphlet, with the exception of comments on pronunciation, stems from Vin, Sp, and Kkh. She notes one passage that presupposes a subcommentary, namely the Vimativinodanīṭīkā and/or the Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha. See below, note 76. 10.  Justin McDaniel, Gathering Leaves & Lifting Words: Histories of Buddhist Monastic Education in Laos and Thailand (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2008). 11.  For some of these lay practices in and beyond Cambodia, see the chapters in this volume by Davis (chapter 8), Work (chapter 9), and Carbine (chapter 11). 12.  See the translation for further details. 13.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, pp. 49–50. 14.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel. 15.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, pp. 3–4.

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16.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 25; Éveline Porée-Maspero, “Kroṅ pāli et rites de la maison: VI. kroṅ pāli, práḥ phum, práḥ thorani et la mnāṅ phtăḥ,” Anthropos 56, no. 5–6 (1961b): pp. 883–929. 17.  Elizabeth Guthrie, “The Performance of the Māravijaya Episode during Buddhābhiṣeka,” Udaya no. 6 (February–March 2003): pp. 11–19; Guthrie, “A Study of the History and Cult of the Buddhist Earth Deity.” 18.  Ashley Thompson, “Hiding the Female Sex: A Sustained Cultural Dialogue Between India and Southeast Asia,” in India and Southeast Asia: Cultural Discourses, ed. A. Dallapiccola and A. Verghese (Mumbai: KR Cama Institute, 2017), pp. 126–144. 19.  Editor’s note: Here reflecting widespread local Cambodian usage, the authors use sīmā to refer to sīmā marker rather than boundary. 20.  The editors use this transliteration of sīmā-khīla to be consistent with usage in other chapters of the book. We note that the transliteration from Khmer, based on spelling in the Chuon Nath dictionary (Vacanānukrama Khmaer (Phnom Penh: Buddhist Institute, 1966)), would otherwise be sīmākil (with no “h” and a short “i”). Chuon Nath does identify the term as derived from indakhīla. 21.  Editor’s note: Consistent with this, indakhīla is not used in this sense in Pāli. It is the threshold at some door. See also Erik Davis, chapter 8 in this volume. 22.  Porée-Maspero, “Kroṅ pāli et rites de la maison,” p. 910. 23.  Thompson, “Hiding the Female Sex,” p. 140. 24.  Harris points out in a footnote, however, that “there is an Indakhīla Sutta (S.V. 443f) which merely construes the indakhīla as a metaphor for unshakableness of the sort found in a monk well established in the Buddhist path.” Harris, “Rethinking Cambodian Political Discourse,” pp. 230–231. 25.  John Marston, “Relics from Sri Lanka and the Post-Independence Buddha Jayanti Celebrations in Cambodia,” in Religious Festivals in Contemporary Southeast Asia, ed. Patrick Alcedo, Sally Ann Ness, and Hendrick M. J. Maier (Manila: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2016), pp. 71–93. 26.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 13. 27.  Personal communication, December 12, 2018. 28.  “Puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā vatt uṇṇāloma,” Kampuchea Suriya 35, no. 6 (1963): pp. 106–113. 29.  Giteau, Le bornage rituel, p. 30. 30.  That is, presumably, the participation of nonmonastics. 31.  Personal communication, December 12, 2018. 32.  Personal communication, Eng Sokhan, November 23, 2018. He said that he was sure that all the Cambodian vihāras in the United States had a sīmā khīl,



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including the temple in Silver Spring, Maryland, whose abbot was very much in the reformed tradition of Chuon Nath and Huot Tath. 33.  Ian Harris, Buddhism Under Pol Pot (Phnom Penh: Documentation Center of Cambodia, 2007), p. 31. 34.  Ben Kiernan, The Pol Pot Regime: Race, Power, and Genocide in Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge, 1975–79 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1996), pp. 36–37. 35.  Harris, Buddhism Under Pol Pot, p. 36. 36.  One is the sukkabakkha (Pāli sukkapakkha), for the waxing moon, one is the kālabakkha (Pāli kālapakkha), for the waning moon. 37.  Editor’s note: The chabbaggiya monks (6) and nuns (6) are a famous Vinaya literary trope, a bad and undisciplined group of mendicants. Their involvement near the beginning of this story almost certainly indicates a problem the Buddha must resolve. They frequently cause problems as a sort of “fifth business” that forces the Buddha to make rules reasonable monks are imagined to never consider breaking. 38.  Editor’s note: The rules for sīmās are given at Vin I pp. 106–111 and translated in I. B. Horner, The Book of Discipline (Vinaya-Piṭaka), vol. IV (Mahāvagga) (Bristol: Pali Text Society, 2014; first published in 1951), pp. 137– 146. References are to the 2014 edition. 39.  Editor’s note: Vin I p. 106; Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 137. 40.  Editor’s note: Pāli anujānāmi can mean “permit” or “order”; the meaning “permit” is mostly used in Pāli conventions when a previously stricter regulation is loosened (Petra Kieffer-Pülz, personal communication). The Khmer term qanuññāt, however, means “permit” and not “order.” 41.  Editor’s note: The material in this pamphlet closely follows Kkh and Sp; for a translation of relevant parts of Kkh with comparative notes to Sp, see K. R. Norman, Petra Kieffer-Pülz, and William Pruitt, Overcoming Doubts (Kaṅkhāvitaraṇī): The Bhikkhu-Paṭimokkha Commentary (Bristol: Pali Text Society, 2018), pp. 14–25. 42.  Editor’s note: Cf. chapter 1 in this volume, where Nagasena and Crosby render sampatti as “valid factor,” “validity,” and “component.” See also Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, where sampatti is translated as “success.” Here in this translation, the choice of sufficiency is based on the Khmer wording. See below. 43.  Editor’s note: The duplicate wording here is interesting, because valid nimittas and kammavācas fall under sampatti. Cf. Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, p. 18, 2.11. 44.  Editor’s note: Vin I p. 111; Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 145. 45.  Editor’s note: Cf. sīmāya sīmaṃ sambhindantena sammatā (Kkh p. 6,25), “[a boundary] agreed upon by joining a boundary with [another] boundary,” etc. (Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, p. 17, 2.10). The Khmer choice of daṃlāy to

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convey the meaning of the Pāli is interesting, as it seems more forceful than Pāli sambhindantena, which means “by connecting,” “by joining,” “by mixing.” In the Vinaya, if there is an old sīmā, it exists. If a new sīmā is consecrated and touches or overlaps the old sīmā it does not break the old sīmā. The old sīmā still exists, but the new one is adhammika (not legitimate) from the very beginning (Vin I p. 111,7ff, Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, pp. 145ff). 46.  Editor’s note: Cf. sīmāya sīmaṃ ajjhottharantena sammatā (Kkh p. 6,25– 7,1), “[a boundary] agreed upon by overlapping a boundary with a boundary,” etc. (Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, p. 18, 2.11). For extended discussion of these eleven boundaries, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā. Vorschriften zur Regelung der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze in älteren buddhistischen Texten, Monographien zur indischen Archäologie, Kunst und Philologie 8 (Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 1992), pp. 135–144. 47.  Editor’s note: On these three sampatti, cf. the discussion in chapter 1 of this book. 48.  sampatti: The Khmer word paripūrṇ suggests quantity (plenitude) and that seems to be better rendered here as “sufficiency” rather than “success” or as another of the possible translations of sampatti. 49.  Editor’s note: Here the text may depart from Sp, perhaps reflecting local taxonomies at the time of composition. Petra Kieffer-Pülz notes that the terminology presented in Sp includes the Pāli tacasāra (“the bark as the best”) and antosāra (“the core as the best”). 50.  Editor’s note: Petra Kieffer-Pülz notes that this passage takes up the Sp text, where it is said that a mountain that encircles a monastery, that is, that runs through all the directions, can be used as a marker only in one direction. Sp V p. 1036,15–25 (abbreviated): Sace catūsu disāsu cattāro . . . pabbatā honti, catuḥi . . . pabbatanimitteh’ eva sammannitum pi vaṭṭati . . . sace ekābaddho hoti na kātabbo. Taṃ hi catūsu vā aṭṭhasu vā disāsu kittentenāpi ekam eva nimittaṃ kittitaṃ hoti. Tasmā yo evaṃ cakkhasaṇṭhānena vihāraṃ parikkhipitvā ṭhito pabbato taṃ ekāya disāya kittetvā aññāsu disāsu taṃ bahiddhā katvā anto aññāni nimittāni kittetabbāni. “If in four directions there are four mountains, it is suitable to agree upon [the boundary] even with four mountain markers. If it is [a mountain] bound together to one, it is not to be made [a boundary marker]. For even if that one being announced in four or eight directions only a single marker has been announced. Therefore, having announced in one direction a mountain that in this manner in the form of a wheel encloses a monastery, having made that one being outside in the other directions, inside [of this ring mountain] the other markers are to be announced.” 51.  Editor’s note: PED, p. 623, gives vinayadhara as “one who knows or masters the [Vinaya] by heart, an expert in the [Vinaya],” and supplies textual references, but in the Khmer usage here is the term more generalized?



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52.  Editor’s note: “Kẏ” is clearly a replacement of the Pāli word “kiṃ.” Kẏ means “is” or “equal to,” and is derived from Thai. This is an interesting example of a relatively common process by which Pāli seems to have been transformed by replacement of Pāli words with nearly approximate local words. The change here, grammatically speaking, is that kiṃ is a question word, asking “which?,” while kẏ is not necessarily a question word. The Khmer, however, can simply indicate questioning with intonation, rendering the translation basically the same. 53.  Editor’s note: Cf. Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, pp. 18–19, which does not seem to include reference to vinayadhara. In Sp, the vinayadhara is mentioned (Sp V p. 1035,25). 54.  Editor’s note: Here and in subsequent cases the Khmer does not give translations and the authors follow that presentation. 55.  Editor’s note: Cf. Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, p. 21, b, where various specifics are outlined regarding inclusion of bhikkhus assembled, matters of bringing bhikkhus into arm’s reach (hatthapāsa) of one another, getting the consent of those needed. 56.  Editor’s note: Ñattidutiyakamma is a form for a legal act of the monastic community in which there is one motion and one proclamation before the announcement of the decision. Cf. Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, p. 21, c. 57.  Editor’s note: In standard Pāli, this would be evam etaṃ dhārayāmi. 58.  Editor’s note: This refers exactly to the problems of Khmer (and also Thai and Burmese) pronunciations of Pāli texts. Petra Kieffer-Pülz (personal communication) notes that the problem is not mentioned in Sp in the context of sīmā, but the topic as such is dealt with in Sp. See the detailed essay by Oskar von Hinüber, “Das buddhistische Recht und die Phonetik des Pāli. Ein Abschnitt aus der Samantapāsādikā über die Vermeidung von Aussprachefehlern in kammavācās,” Studien zur Indologie und Iranistik 13/14 (1987): pp. 101–127; reprinted in English in O. von Hinüber, Selected Papers on Pāli Studies (Oxford: Pali Text Society, 1994), pp. 198–232. 59.  Editor’s note: Petra Kieffer-Pülz discusses samāna-saṃvāsa in Die Sīmā, A Einl. 12 (pp. 52–54), and A 2.2.2 (pp. 62–65). See also her chapter 12 in this volume. For samāna-saṃvāsa[ka]-sīmā, the glossary in Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, p. 602, gives: “ ‘A [monastic] boundary belonging to the same communion’. In the Vinaya and in Kkh it is designated samāna-saṃvāsa-sīmā, in Sp and later writings it is usually designated samāna-saṃvāsaka-sīmā. It is a baddhasīmā*, and if it includes the entire monastery and possibly one or more khaṇḍasīmās*, it is also called mahā-sīmā*. For more details, see Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā: B Einl. 8.” For saṃvāsa, the glossary gives: “ ‘Communal life’ (lit. ‘living together’); defined in the Vinaya as ‘one common procedure, one common recitation, the same training—that is communal life indeed’ (ekakammaṃ ekuddeso

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samasikkhātā, eso saṃvāso nāma, Vin III 28,20  ff.; 47,24  ff., etc.; BD I 48,9–12; cf. Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā: A 2.2.2).” 60.  Editor’s note: Avippavāsa-sīmā, “boundary for the [condition of] not being separated [from the three robes]”; this is the name for a monastic bounded sīmā which in addition has been established as a boundary in which a bhikkhu is viewed as not being separated from his three robes, even if he in fact is, and this is the point that is made in this passage. 61.  Editor’s note: Khaṇḍa-sīmā, “boundary for a part [of the community].” 62.  Editor’s note: Petra Kieffer-Pülz notes that this sentence about doubts does not appear in Kkh, Sp, etc. 63.  Editor’s note: Here in this text, the relation between the mahā-sīmā (large/ great sīmā) and the samānasaṃvāsa-sīmā is not clear. Cf. Sp, which provides further details regarding the announcing of markers (Sp V p. 1042,21–26). 64.  Editor’s note: Gāmā-sīmā: “boundary of a settlement (literally village)” is a term describing the secular boundary of a settlement; it can be used as a monastic boundary. Gāmakkhetta (“village district”) is often used synonymously with gāma-sīmā. 65.  Editor’s note: Vin I, pp. 110–111. 66.  In Chuon Nath’s dictionary, the first definition of nigam is a conglomeration of villages that a village chief oversees. The second definition (stated as antiquated usage) is a market. A translation that seems to work here is “market town.” 67.  Cf. Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 145: “Monks, when a boundary is not agreed upon, not established, whatever village or little town (a monk) lives depending on, whatever is the village boundary of that village or the little town boundary of that little town, this in that case is (the boundary) for the same communion, for one Observance.” 68.  Editor’s note: A visuṃgāma-sīmā is the boundary of a separate village, taking a part of a village and dedicating it to someone else (monastery, individual person, etc.) who then receives the taxes, etc., instead of the king to whom normally they go. 69.  Editor’s note: Vin I, p. 111; Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 145. 70.  Footnote in original text: “Sīmāntarik translates as ‘a place between sīmās,’ which is a place of free land which is not part of sīmās that monks keep as a barrier between sīmās and which keeps them from touching each other.” 71.  Editor’s note: cf. Norman et al., Overcoming Doubts, p. 23, 2.2, where “interval” is upacāra; note 2 there discusses how upacāra and sīmāntarika are used synonymously. Also cf. Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 146, including note 2, where a sīmāntarika may be quite small. 72.  Editor’s note: Vin I, p. 111, Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 145.



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73.  Editor’s note: Cf. Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 145. Note that the Khmer leaves out references to the sea (samudda) or natural lakes (jātassara). 74.  Editor’s note: Vin I, p. 111. 75.  Editor’s note: Cf. Horner, Book of Discipline, vol. IV, p. 145. Cf. Petra Kieffer-Pülz, ed., A Manual of the Adornment of the Monastic Boundary: Vācissara’s Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha, Edition and Annotated Translation, Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, Mainz. Veröffentlichungen der Fächergruppenkommission für Außereuropäische Sprachen und Kulturen, 8 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2021), verse 49. 76.  Editor’s note: “Commentaries” translates aṭṭhakathā and “subcommentaries” translates ṭīkā. Petra Kieffer-Pülz notes (personal communication) that in reading the translation, she “came across one passage which presupposes the reading of a ṭīkā, namely the Vimativinodanīṭīkā or the Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha, [re. the below], ‘the water and the udakukkhepa are mutually necessary and co-dependent.’ This . . . reflects the Vmv’s discussion about water being the basis (nissaya) and the udakukkhepa-sīmā being the dependent (nissita), so udakukkhepa-sīmā and surrounding water are considered homogenous (sabhāga). I guess that the ‘codependent’ reflects this relation. This is not dealt with in any earlier text with this vocabulary. . . . Thus this should stem from the Vimativinodanīṭīkā. Also the subsequent statement that ‘it is prohibited for the boat to be tied firmly to a post or a tree on the bank, because the place of the bank and the udakukkhepa are not things which can belong together or depend on each other’ reflects the ṭīkā statement, since that appears to be an attempt to render visabhāga (heterogeneous).” 77.  Editor’s note: Petra Kieffer-Pülz notes (personal communication) that this could be interpreted to contravene existing commentaries on this topic. She writes, “What this takes up from the Samantapāsādikā is the following, Sp V p. 1054,8–13, nadiyaṃ setuṃ karonti, sace antonadiyaṃ yeva setu vā setupādā vā, setumhi ṭhitehi kammaṃ kātuṃ vaṭṭati. sace pana setu vā setupādā vā bahitīre patiṭṭhitā, kammaṃ kātuṃ na vaṭṭati, sīmaṃ sodhetvā kātabbaṃ. atha setupādā anto, setu pana ubhinnampi tīrānaṃ upariākāse ṭhito, vaṭṭati. ‘Over a river they build a bridge; if the bridge or the feet of the bridge [are] exclusively within the river, [then] it is suitable that those standing on the bridge carry out a legal act. But if the bridge or the feet of the bridge are established on the bank outside [the river], it is not suitable to carry out a legal act. It is to be carried out having purified the sīmā. Further, if the feet of the bridge are inside [the river], the bridge, however, is in the air above both banks, it is suitable.’ ” The point here is that the banks of the river count as gāma. If the bridge does not touch the banks there is no confusion of udakukkhepa-sīmā and gāma. In the Khmer text, it sounds that what is important is that the bridge does not touch the

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riverbanks, i.e., ‘the bridge is so long that it extends a considerable distance from the bank on both sides, floating above and not touching the earth at the riverbank.’ This bridge is considered ‘floating’ so at some point it obviously needs to lead to the ground. But even if that ground is no longer the riverbank it might be either gāma or arañña, because all land is either of the two. Based on the translation from the Khmer, a reader might get the impression that it only is important that the bridge does not touch the riverbanks, [leaving open the question of] where the ever-floating bridge then leads down to the earth or has another pair of feet which touch the ground.” For more on udakukkhepa-sīmā, see Nagasena and Crosby, chapter 1 in this volume, Irwin, chapter 5 in this volume, and Kieffer-Pülz, chapter 12 in this volume.

ch a pter 11

King Rāmādhipati, Prime Minister U Nu, and the Kalyān. ī Sīmā Constructing and Overcoming Others Jason A. Carbine

The highly influential fifteenth-century Kalyāṇī inscriptions constitute one of the most significant sources for the study of the relations between Buddhist monasticism, textual worlds, and sīmā space and practice. The inscriptions paint a picture of a king and probably monastics engaged in a debate with preceding tradition while trying to centralize and control the monastic community and its resources. When decisions are finally promulgated, families of nonconforming monks are threatened with punishment. Framed by stock references to monastic councils in India, to the arrival of a pair of demon-subduing monks, and a river in Sri Lanka where the Buddha is believed to have bathed, the inscriptions are part historical and mythic treatise, part monastic code, part agreement between political authorities and monastics, and part an account of the regional spread of Buddhist identity and practice via sīmās. All these concerns are couched within an overarching framework of legal judgments about sīmā definitions and regulations. And thus, as a whole, the inscriptions provide the legal and narrative charter for the Kalyāṇī Sīmā in Bago in lower Myanmar. This and other sīmās attributed to the fifteenth-century reforms under the Mon king, Rāmādhipati (r. 1470/1471–1491/1492; also known as Dhammacetī, Dhammazedi), remain active religious sites to this day.1 Specifically, this chapter compares two sets of Buddhist statements,2 (1) a concluding set of poetic verses (gāthās) in King Rāmādhipati’s Kalyāṇī inscriptions and (2) an address by Prime Minister U Nu during the staking ceremony for the rebuilding of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā during 1952–1954. In comparing these two statements, with some evidence from additional sources, I suggest how the approaches to and interventions of each person in the Kalyāṇī Sīmā partake in both similar and differing cultural logics, in which there are

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Figure 11.1.  On the top, an image of the current interior of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā in Bago. Courtesy Paisarn Piemmettawat, River Books, Bangkok. On the right, the interior of another Kalyāṇī Sīmā, in Daik Wun Kwin Yat Kwet, attributed to the reforms of King Rāmādhipati. Courtesy Jason A. Carbine.



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several interlocking themes: decline of, danger to, or rupture of Sāsana (Religion);3 notions of lineage; perspectives on the path; the roles of royal or political power in purifying the monastic order; monastic and lay responsibility for the Sāsana; sīmās as markers of territorial unity; emphasis on the category of Dhamma (Teaching) specifically; motivations rooted in saṃvega (religious agitation); and overcoming Others who subvert the Sāsana.4 In addition to helping to think about both continuity and change over time relative to uses of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā, the chapter is also meant to help contribute to thinking about how certain kinds of people, Others for instance, are viewed from the vantage point of such sīmās. In this chapter, I use the term “Others” in a general way to refer to a range of people from “those who are like us but problematic” to “those who are not at all like us.” Within this range any person or group may be conceived of as dangerous or subversive to a cause, such as a sīmā or Sāsana. While Rāmādhipati ultimately dealt with Others close in cultural life and practice to him (i.e., deviant monks and their erroneous sīmās, who were said to threaten a speedier decline of the Sāsana), and while U Nu expressed concerns over others politically different (i.e., communists who threatened to destroy the Sāsana), both people were dealing with the relations between such people, the Kalyāṇī Sīmā, and the Sāsana.5

King Rāmādhipati’s Concluding Verses The Question at Hand Among the most significant premodern documents concerning Buddhist monastic organization in Southeast Asia, the Kalyāṇī inscriptions record a legal judgment (vinicchaya) concerning sīmās by the Mon king, Rāmādhipati. The king was said to be troubled by monastic fragmentation and ritual impropriety in his domain and was intent upon correcting the situation. He did so in a way that situated a purified, centralized monastic community within the authority of the state, via the control of the spaces, i.e., sīmās, where legal acts of the community or saṅghakammas must take place.6 He accomplished this through a boundary (sīmā) case that rested on a technical appeal to a range of Pālilanguage source materials, redefining certain legal terms to fit the situation in his land. The relevance of that case, and the reform that was founded on it, to Buddhist monastic and political history in Myanmar, Thailand, and Sri Lanka has been profound, with major implications continuing up to the present day.7 Previously, I examined King Rāmādhipati’s deliberations about sīmā matters in the Kalyāṇī inscriptions as a whole in regard to how he read and worked

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across several textual genres—vinaya (monastic law), sīmā (boundary), vaṃsa (historical chronicle), and katikavatta (agreement for rules of conduct)—from a region including Sri Lanka, South India, and Southeast Asia. I discussed how Rāmādhipati both adapted and created new technical definitions to solve some legal matters in his land.8 Here I expand upon that approach and ask: How do the inscriptions themselves represent Rāmādhipati’s views on the synthetic work that he does as a whole, and how does that perspective relate to other expressions of Buddhist work related to the Kalyāṇī Sīmā and its histories? To address this question, I explore in this chapter the concluding verses at the end of the inscriptions, reading them against the backdrop of the inscriptions generally, and then I compare the verses with a speech given by Prime Minister U Nu of Burma during the restaking ceremonies for the Kalyāṇī Sīmā in the early 1950s.

Additional Background and Translation of the Verses The Kalyāṇī inscriptions were incised on ten large stones, with the first three in Pāli and the next seven in Mon. Broken apart over time, perhaps due to both human and environmental factors, the inscriptions were preserved extensively in palm leaf manuscripts and later in modern print editions.9 The text of the verses as preserved in the modern print editions and palm leaf manuscripts has a high degree of correlation with what is on the actual stone, with the kind of variations one would expect as a result of the process of manuscript copying, and then production of modern print editions based on earlier palm leaf copies and other modern editions.10 This indicates that the procedures (whatever they

Figure 11.2.  A close-up of the portion of stone face analyzed in this chapter. Courtesy Jason A. Carbine, with special thanks to Ashin Kavindābhivaṃsa (Taik-oak Sayadaw, Kalyāṇī Sīmā).



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were) that were used for preserving the Kalyāṇī inscriptions in manuscript form in the first place must have maintained a high degree of fidelity to the actual stones, or vice versa if source manuscripts were first generated before the stones were incised. The poetic verses are found on the third of the three Pāli stones, reverse side, lines 60 to 68.11 The narrative contained in the verses also appears on the Mon stones, with some variation but preserving the basic story line. The major difference is that, as noted by Blagden, the final Pāli verse has no equivalent in the Mon stone text; that line contains an aspiration for beings to attain release from suffering. Why it has no equivalent in the Mon is unclear.12 In some cases here in the translation I include explanatory and conversational notes about choices made and matters of further contemplation.13 [Concluding Verses]14 1. In former times, the righteous king Āsoka, who rose to unequal power,15 out of love for the Sāsana, was shaken on account of seeing its impurity.16 2. Relying on Moggaliputta Tissathera, he made a purification [of the Sāsana], having expelled a vast number of sinful bhikkhus.17 3. And also in Laṅkādīpa, Parakkamabhuja,18 whose name began with the first word Sirisaṅghabodhi,19 was friendly toward the Buddha’s Sāsana. 4. Seeing that the Sāsana was impure, agitation (saṃvega) arose in his mind; [he too expelled] many sinful20 bhikkhus who speak mischievous Dhamma,21 5. [and] except only for a single school, the monastic community of the speakers of the Dhamma of the tradition, residents of the Mahāvihāra, he purified [the Sāsana].22 6. Subsequently, again another [king] Vijayabāhu-bhūpati23 and also Parakkantabhuja24 likewise purified the Sāsana. 7. In times past, our Bodhisatta, while fulfilling perfections, ruled over Tidasālaya heaven [as king Sakka].25 8–9. At that time, Ānandathera as Usinnara ruled over Bārāṇasīpura; although he perceived impurity in the Sāsana of Kassapa-Buddha, he remained indifferent and did not purify the Sāsana. Then Sakka, king of the gods, turned away from his heavenly luxury,26 10. [and,] accompanied by Mātali,27 who had assumed the appearance of a dog, went and terrified the king, called Usinnara.

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11. Having received a promise [from him] to purify the Sāsana,28 and, after admonishing him, he returned to Tidasālaya. 12. Therefore, the lord of Rāmaññadesa, Rāmādhipati-bhūpati, following the conduct of the good ones which is permanent,29 purified the Sāsana so that it would be established for five thousand years. [13.] 30 I Rāmādhipati sought for31 and obtained merit by purifying the Sāsana, [and] by that [merit], peace, purity, and happiness [are] generated, like the state of shining bright, being even free from the passions.32 [14.] May the kings after [me], endowed with faith, ruling over Haṃsavatīpura, when seeing impurity born in the Sāsana, always strive to clean it. [15.]- [16.]- [17.]  The elders beginning with Majjhantika,33 whose defilements were destroyed, who had done what was to be done,34 even though they took delight in solitude, they set aside the happiness of emancipation,35 and in former times did do work [which was] the reason for the Sāsana’s flourishing. Therefore, following their good conduct, [being] well behaved, may the monastic community living in Haṃsapūra, [being] respectful, when later seeing an impurity of the Sāsana, purify [it]. Thence, [18]. May [one] strive to overcome being in the misery of the three states of existence, to get rid of the conditions of being miserable, which are a bad course,36 to attain the most excellent path of the noble, to play37 [in Nibbāna], which has no death,38 played in by the wise. [The Kalyāṇī stone inscriptions are finished.]39

Discussion To begin to unpack the poetic verses, some comment on the part of the inscriptions that precede them is in order. The closing verses come immediately after a section of the inscriptions where Rāmādhipati is said to have sent a katikavatta (also identified in the inscriptions as a katikavacana) to all the monks in Rāmaññamaṇḍala.40 This katikavatta follows the pattern of the three Sri Lankan katikāvata (alt., katikavatta or katikāvatta, an agreement for rules of conduct for the monastic community) known to Rāmādhipati.41 The katikavatta given by Rāmādhipati includes orders: to not admit to the saṅgha criminals, robbers, prisoners, offenders against the state, old or decrepit, those



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who are ill, or deformed in the body; to not confer the higher ordination (upasampadā) in a locality without the sanction of Rāmādhipati or leading elders of Haṃsavatīpura (here there is also a statement that noncompliance will be met with punishments to parents, relatives, and lay supporters of those being ordained); to prohibit sinful bhikkhus from taking up residence under the protection of venerable ones; to permit faithful and good bhikkhus to take up residence under the protection of venerable ones; to train those of good family and faith desirous of the novice ordination (pabbajjā), and then to confer that ordination on them; to instruct sāmaṇeras, who have completed their twentieth year and who are desirous of receiving the upasampadā ordination, by teaching them in summary form the catu-pārisuddhi-sīla, “four kinds of morality consisting of purification”;42 to further instruct the sāmaṇeras in the Bhikkhupāṭimokkha, the Khuddasikkhā, and the catu-paccaya-paccavekkhana, “wise reflection with regard to the four requisites”; to report said actions regarding the sāmaṇeras to King Rāmādhipati as well as to the leading priests residing in Haṃsavatīpura (then King Rāmādhipati will have the upasampadā conferred on them); to follow the Vinaya; and to follow the bodily comportment of the mahātheras of Sīhaḷadīpa (Sri Lanka).43 After this katikavatta, Rāmādhipati is said to have sent a request (or implied order) to those monks possessing gold, silver, elephants, horses, male and female slaves, etc., to either give up said possessions or leave the order.44 This message is then followed by a series of short pronouncements about those who opted to leave the order or who were asked or commanded to do so, a statement about the purging of monks and the unification of the monastic community, a statement about the years (838–841 Sakkarāj) in which reordinations in the Sīhaḷa-upasampadā-based Kalyāṇī Sīmā took place, a statement about numbers of reordained and newly ordained ones (the sāmaṇeras), and a final emphasis on the purging of an impure form of upasampadā as well as impure monks so that the Sāsana would be established for five thousand years.45 In other words, the final poetic verses are framed by a series of orders and statements about those who have been or will be excluded from the newly centralized monastic community, or who have been reappropriated within the new community, based on conformity or not with the communal principles related to receiving the upasampadā in the Kalyāṇī Sīmā. The scene is thus set for a poetic distillation of royal effort to purge the monastic community of wayward monastics and influences. Verses 1 through 6 highlight the well-known Asokan purification of the monastic order in Majjhimadesa (India), and the later kings in Laṅkādīpa (Sri Lanka) who also purified the religion, with an emphasis on Dhamma

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(Teaching, Law). After this initial reference to Asoka and other kings, verses 7 through 11 focus on a moment in the life continuum of the being who became the Buddha, by way of his life as the Bodhisatta when he was at one point Sakka, king of gods. Sakka/Bodhisatta traveled to Bārāṇasīpura to scare the then king Usinnara, his future disciple Ānanda, into taking care of the Sāsana when it was on the wane during the time of Buddha Kassapa. The Sāsana was afflicted with impurities, and the future Ānanda was a bit lax in addressing the matter and only changed his ways when Sakka arrived with a dog to scare him into action. We are not told explicitly what the future Ānanda did to clean up the situation, but perhaps Rāmādhipati wanted people to think that, in the least, Usinnara/Ānanda booted the bad monks. Then, verses 12 through [17] appear to emphasize Rāmādhipatī’s voice, his call to action for kings and monks alike to preserve the Sāsana. In verse [18], Rāmādhipati closes with a final thought concerning the possibilities that arise from such efforts, that is, crossing over from the cycle of rebirth. That Rāmādhipati sees his work as thoroughly integrated with various elements of Buddhist community flourishing is clear. While he does not call himself a bodhisatta, it is clear that he sees his efforts as helping beings cross over to liberation.46 He highlights instances in the past, and stresses potential instances in the future, when the Sāsana’s monastic, subversive Others rear their head and need to be excised. It is interesting to note that the concluding verses do not make any sort of explicit reference to the complex legal matters of sīmā classification and technical practice that dominate earlier parts of the inscriptions (e.g., with regard to practices concerning hatthapāsas, visuṃgāma-sīmās, baddha-sīmās, udakukkhepa-sīmās, ticivareṇa avippavāsa, etc., that have also been discussed in this book in various places), nor to any of the texts identified as part of those discussions and deliberations.47 In light of this, it could seem that these concluding poetic verses have little to do with that content, other than a generic sort of connection. When read in light of the katikavatta and the inscriptions as a whole, however, these concluding verses suggest that Rāmādhipati wanted his efforts concerning sīmā classification and practice to be seen as a major part of his efforts to address the conundrums of being sunk in the misery of the cycle of rebirth, with the necessity to overcome the Sāsana’s detractors as they arise, and doing so through legal regulation of sīmā space as necessary. Related to this point, we can consider the reference to saṃvega in the initial portion of the verses, because of the implied way saṃvega, legal work, and addressing the problems raised by some people seem to coalesce.



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Saṃvega, which can range from a state of agitation to an emotional, visceral reaction to one’s existential situation in the cycle of rebirth,48 seems here emphasized as an agitated mental state born of concern for the Sāsana, a state leading one to not be indifferent toward the Sāsana. While the term saṃvega does not seem to be used elsewhere in the inscriptions, references to “not being indifferent” to the plight of the Sāsana appear several times.49 By invoking saṃvega in this way at the end of the inscriptions, perhaps the intent was to show that Rāmādhipati had saṃvega in the sense ascribed to Parakkama­ bhuja, who is depicted as hardly indifferent to the Sāsana. Saṃvega, it would seem, can be an emotional basis for engaging in Buddhist legal work, from ridding the Sāsana of incorrect transmissions of law to incorrect transmissions of sīmās. Saṃvega compels devotional work, and the legal work of kings on behalf of the Sāsana; in these cases, the goal is to excise those who promote deviance and thereby promote a renewed vision of centralization and uniformity of the Sāsana. In sum, Rāmādhipati, as a lawgiver, invokes not only the work of former kings in Majjhimadesa and Laṅkādīpa but also of the Bodhisatta while he is striving on the path as Sakka, king of gods. Whether following the model of Sakka/Bodhisatta, of the motivated Usinnara/Ānanda, or of former kings such as Asoka, etc., Rāmādhipati is repeating a kind of care for the Sāsana that traverses various temporal periods, across times and contexts. Rāmādhipati’s specific legal work concerning sīmās, even if potentially different in character than the work of royals before him including the Bodhisatta as Sakka, doubles as a spatial and temporal continuation of the energies even the Bodhisatta invested in times past. Lawgivers are Sāsana builders, and in Rāmādhipati’s case specifically a sīmā builder. And this becomes the basis for helping others to attain release from rebirth, a quintessential kind of Buddhist work, as clearly emphasized in the very last lines of the concluding verses.

U Nu at the Staking Ceremony Shifting to U Nu’s speech at the staking ceremony, my goals are twofold: one, to discuss how this recent moment from 1952–1954 compares thematically with the evidence from Rāmādhipati’s fifteenth-century poetic statements, and two, to engage in a conversation about what the evidence indicates about being a supporter of the Sāsana in different time periods. Does the evidence explored from this recent moment represent anything distinctively new or different about religious identity in relation to the Sāsana, especially in comparison to the evidence from the fifteenth-century sīmā reform under Ramadhipati?

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The Contemporary Backdrop Occurring at a time when the fledgling Burmese state50 was seeking its footing with Prime Minister U Nu at the helm, the sīmā-staking ceremony was preceded by an invitation from prominent lay people and monks, on Saturday, May 23, 1953, to U Nu to take the lead in the staking itself.51 That the prime minister should be invited to lead the staking was perhaps a foregone conclusion. After all, he was solidly into his efforts to promote the Sāsana as an integral part of his nation-building agenda.52 As for the rebuilding of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā itself, this was one of a number of Buddhist reconstruction projects occurring around this time.53 The re-establishment and rebuilding of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā entailed various expressions of Buddhist piety. The primary lay donor, a cheroot magnate and a prominent sponsor of monastic exams, was said to be motivated by the death of his wife and other relatives and the saṃvega he felt as a result of those deaths. As a result, he made a formal declaration of intent to rebuild the sīmā. There were meetings with senior monks, a clearing of excess foliage and trash from the dilapidated site, and other devotional and merit-making activities. Monies were raised, a formal request to proceed was made, key committees were identified, plans were drawn up, the old structure was cleared, and the new structure was constructed and dedicated. The account of the staking ceremony and U Nu’s speech can be summarized as follows.54 On Nayon Lasan, day 11, 1315 (Saturday, May 23, 1953), Dayaka Kyi U Thu Taw and others from the lay donor committee, and three sayadaws,55 led by the Mahakalyani Phaya Kyi Sayadaw Ashin Nyanavamsa Mahathera, met with Prime Minister U Nu and invited him to drive the foundation stake for the new building. U Nu agreed and, with eight dignitaries led by him, performed the staking. The first part of the staking ceremony began with a recitation of the Paṭṭhāna Dhamma, from 3 a.m., First Wa So Lazan, day 13, 1315 (Wednesday, June 24, 1953), until 9 a.m. First Wa So Lazan, Full Moon Day (Friday, June 26, 1953), for a total of fifty-four hours.56 (The recitation of Paṭṭhāna is associated with the deepest depths of the Buddha’s glimmering wisdom.57) After the conclusion of the recitation, recitations of various parittas (protective verses) followed. U Nu and others present then took the nine precepts, and after that the Mya Thapeit Sayadaw, Ashin Sumana, gave an address in which he defined what it meant to be an upāsaka (a lay devotee) following the Buddha’s teachings with inspiration from Dhammacetī.58 U Nu’s own speech then followed, which is presented and analyzed below.59 Other presentations came



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afterwards. A speech from U Win, the minister of home and religious affairs, summarized the content of the Kalyāṇī inscriptions,60 identified Dhammacetī as a Great Sīmā Donor,61 distilled the relations between pure sīmās and pure monks, stated that a sīmā “is like a great mother who gives birth to monks,”62 and explained what was given in the inscriptions as the katikavatta (see discussion above), the part of the inscriptions that immediately precedes the concluding verses. All this was then followed by a report by the secretary (of the leading sayadaws)63 and a word of thanks from the chairman of the Reception Committee. This concluded the first part of the staking ceremony.64 The second part of the ceremony began at 10:40 a.m. with an invitation to deities, for seven minutes; a recitation of mantras in the ten directions, for seven minutes; and announcing of auspicious time for the staking, for three minutes. At the auspicious moment of twelve o’clock, the nine dignitaries, beginning with U Nu,65 struck the stake, with auspicious rice grains and popped rice thrown in the air, brass gong sounded, and conch blown. Minister of Religious Affairs U Win then recited the Pathavī Jayamantan for seven minutes;66 U Nu spoke for seven minutes; and then Religious Affairs Official U Khin Maung Lin gave an expression that others may share in the merits.67 After the new sīmā hall was completed in 1954, there were various ceremonials held from the day 11 of Wasa Lazan, 1316 (Sunday, July 11, 1954), until the full moon day (Thursday, July 15, 1954). There was an ordination of 108 monks (108 is a number of auspiciousness and totality; for example, this is the number of marks on the soles of the feet of the Buddha).68 The ordinations themselves were held over a five-day period,69 with the monks staying at the Kya Khet Wain Kyaun Taik, a prominent Shwegyin monastery.70 On day 14, there were sermons from monks from three different monastic affiliations in Bago.71 On the full moon day, dignitaries headed by U Nu arrived at the Kalyāṇī Sīmā and observed the uposatha (day of observance) precepts. There was a grand merit-making offering of provisions to the new monks and the invited monks after they came out from the sīmā.72 For ten days afterwards, the new monks took alms and meditated at Uttarakuru Kyaun Saun at Sirimingala Kaba Aye in Yangon. On the full moon day of Thadingut 1316 (October 12, 1954), a water-pouring ceremony was held at the Kalyāṇī Sīmā, the ritual text for which U Nu provided himself.73 The proceedings included the taking of eight precepts from Nayaka Shwegu Sayadaw Phaya Kyi, a recitation of the Metta Sutta, and a sermon by the same sayadaw that he framed with a quotation from the poetic verses of the inscriptions (the line about monks purifying the Sāsana when seeing impurity in it, verse [17]), and again integrated discussion with the katikavatta. After that, another address

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was given by the minister of religious affairs, during which he repeated the metaphor of a sīmā as mother, highlighted the first sīmās in India, Myanmar, and Sri Lanka, and then commented on the nature of religious property. The water pouring was then performed.74

U Nu’s Address U Nu is said to have given his address on June 26, 1953, after the conclusion of the Paṭṭhāna ceremony and before the staking.75 I want to give my special thanks to the sayadaws and venerable monks, and all lay people, who are supervising the auspicious staking and foundation ceremony for the Revered Kalyāṇī Sīmā and for giving me a chance to report a bit about the current situation of the Sāsana76 in our great union (B. praññʿ toṅʿ cu krī˝). From now on, the venerable monkhood and the citizens of the union will clearly find the Sāsana [radiating] like the moon freed from the mouth of Rahu, in awe-inspiring splendor. I believe that when pious Buddhists reverent toward the Great Sāsana now think back to three years ago, they were greatly worried about the Sāsana. Shouts, such as “The Sāsana is like opium. The Sāsana is used by the rich.77 Is there a thing called omniscience (sabbaññuta-ñāṅ)?,” which were composed with the intention of destroying the Great Sāsana at the root, came out loudly in the union, as a vanguard of the enemies and the thorns78 of the Sāsana. At that time, the enemies and thorns of the Sāsana were strong, and those reverent toward the Great Sāsana were weak, like an untied bundle of bamboo. We see that, taking advantage of this weakness of those reverent toward the Sāsana, the destroyers of the Sāsana became more brazen day by day. However, today, the situation of the Great Sāsana has changed in an extraordinary way. Not only would they dare not speak or act brazenly like before, insulting the Great Sāsana in speech and action, these enemies and thorns of the Sāsana themselves have disappeared one by one. Who are the people responsible for changing the situation in this way? We need to find them. These people are not some other people. They are monks and lay persons reverently following the teachings of



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the Omniscient Buddha, the highest being in the Three Worlds, who observe the precepts, give charity [to the monastic community], study the [Pāli] texts, strive for tranquility, and nurture [the mind] through meditation. The thing called “Sāsana”: if simply stated, this is the instruction of the Buddha. The thing called “instruction”: it stands firm in people who follow [it], people who follow it with the right intention and act accordingly. However good the teaching, it is natural (dhammatā) that it will vanish without people following it. Presently, sayadaws and monks are ardently studying the texts (pariyatti) and ardently cultivating practice (paṭipatti) as the Lord Buddha taught. And we can see obviously that in the entire union, male donors (dāyakā) and female donors (dāyikāma) give charity [to the monastic community], observe the precepts, ardently study the [Pāli] texts, and cultivate practice. No one can dispute that every time sayadaws, monks, male donors, and female donors diligently perform their duties according to the teachings of the Buddha, the Great Building of the Sāsana will grow stronger day by day. When sayadaws, monks, male donors, and female donors each and every one serving according to the Buddha’s instruction, without disrupting the present momentum, if they serve79 the duties of the Sāsana like now, I openly dare to say that in our union the Sāsana’s thorns and enemies will never be able to rear their head. The Revered Kalyāṇī Sīmā, which we are refounding today, this is a Great Revered Sīmā eminent in royal history.80 In truth, the sayadaws, monks, and people who are generously supporting, by way of planning, labor, and money, the building of the Great Revered Sīmā, are not only male and female sīmā donors who are building the Great Revered Kalyāṇī Sīmā, they are also male and female Sāsana donors, on account of being people who successfully make the Sāsana strong. Therefore, led by male and female sīmā donors, male and female Sāsana donors, may all peoples of the union, of Bago, along with the entire mass audience,81 who have come to this ceremony, be filled with all manner of blessings. May all the good devas be able to protect them. On account of the powers and glories of the three gems, the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, which are complete with unlimited hpon,82

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merit, wisdom, and power to split asunder the Cakravalā world system, may all those people be well in body and mind, be able to work for the benefit of the Great Revered Sāsana and the entire world, and be quickly freed from all sufferings in the cycle of rebirth.

Discussion U Nu situates the staking of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā against the backdrop of the civil war in the early 1950s, via reference to anti-Sāsana slogans of communists.83 By doing this, he taps into a long-established Buddhist paradigm of royal or elite power stepping in to prevent or overcome the decline or subversion of the Sāsana, in the process of linking said efforts to the structures of the organization and control of the union.84 This emphasis on the union is crucial to note because of its encompassing nature and because of its opposition to the destabilizing forces of communists and others, “who claimed federalism but were opposed to the unitary state of U Nu and the AFPFL.”85 U Nu’s address opens with a word of thanks to the sayadaws and venerable monks who are supervising the ceremony, and to the lay people coming to and supporting it. He notes that at present people will see “the Sāsana [radiating] like the moon freed from the mouth of Rahu, in awe-inspiring splendor.” Here Rāhu is a reference to the deity/demon who freed the moon at the instruction of the Buddha; the obvious implication is that the Sāsana has been released from the maws of its enemies.86 As for these enemies, U Nu refers to them not by name, but by their attitude toward the Sāsana. According to U Nu, they were particularly vociferous a few years earlier when communist and other challenges to the fledgling state were at their height.87 U Nu remarks, “We see that, taking advantage of this weakness of those reverent toward the Sāsana, the destroyers of the Sāsana became more brazen day by day.” At present, U Nu then notes, the situation has changed dramatically: “However, today, the situation of the Great Sāsana has changed in an extraordinary way. Not only would they dare not speak or act brazenly like before, insulting the Great Sāsana in speech and action, these enemies and thorns of the Sāsana themselves have disappeared one by one.” U Nu proceeds to highlight the people who are responsible for changing the situation in this way. He identifies these as monks and lay persons who affirm classic aspects of Buddhist practice: they are monks and lay persons reverently following the teachings of the Omniscient Buddha, the highest being in the Three Worlds, who observe the precepts, give charity to the monastic community, study the Pāli texts, strive for tranquility, and nurture



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the mind through meditation. Perhaps most interesting here, and in keeping with discussions about U Nu’s career arc and agenda,88 is his apparent effort, however myopic it may have been, to view Buddhist thought and practice as a form of sociopolitical mobilization that could overcome the enemies of the Sāsana, for instance communists, who also, by implication, double as enemies of the state. As U Nu continues with his address, a question arises for me in regard to what at first glance may come across as a formulaic statement. No one can dispute that every time sayadaws, monks, male donors, and female donors diligently perform their duties according to the teachings of the Buddha, the Great Building of the Sāsana will grow stronger day by day. When sayadaws, monks, male donors, and female donors each and every one serving according to the Buddha’s instruction, without disrupting the present momentum, if they serve the duties of the Sāsana like now, I openly dare to say that in our Union the Sāsana’s thorns and enemies will never be able to rear their head. Does this mean that those who defend the Sāsana are simultaneously to be understood as defenders of the union? U Nu does not make an explicit claim here. But if we consider the threat posed to the government by communist and other elements, and the threat they posed to the Sāsana, perhaps this is what U Nu intends. And once the link between Buddhist piety and overcoming the Sāsana’s enemies has been made, U Nu turns to the topic of the Kalyāṇī Sīmā and the people undertaking its reconstruction. The Revered Kalyāṇī Sīmā, which we are refounding today, this is a Great Revered Sīmā eminent in royal history. In truth, the sayadaws, monks, and people who are generously supporting, by way of planning, labor, and money, in the building of the Great Revered Sīmā, are not only male and female sīmā donors who are building the Great Revered Kalyāṇī Sīmā, they are also male and female Sāsana donors, on account of being people who successfully make the Sāsana strong. Here the specific effort to create the ritual spaces in which new monks are made, and where other monastic acts are carried out, becomes coequal with being a donor of the Sāsana as a whole, a category that includes all components of the teachings and practices taught by the Buddha. With the link between sīmā and Sāsana sponsorship made explicit, and with both Buddhist

No, not explicitly, but U Nu’s very delivery of his speech itself may imply this.

Yes: for U Nu: sīmā dāyakās (male sīmā donors) = Sāsana dāyakas (male Sāsana donors) sīmā dāyikamas (female sīmā donors) = Sāsana dāyikama (female Sāsana donors)

Yes, by way of the emphasis on the necessity of valid sīmās for the pursuit of the monastic life and for the persistence of the Sāsana; concluding emphasis on the achievement of peace, happiness, and release from the cycle of rebirth.

Yes: Rāmādhipati, etc., in purifying the monastic order

Yes: Rāmādhipati, monks, and whoever else joined in, fixed the sīmās.

Perspectives on the path

The roles of royal or political power in purifying the monastic order

Lay and monastic responsibility for the Sāsana

Yes, by way of an emphasis on sīla, dāna, pariyatti, samatha, and bhāvanā, and, by implication, upasampadā. Note too such associated activities as the Paṭṭhāna recitation ceremony.

No, not expressed explicitly in U Nu’s address, but addressed by others during the activities, who highlight the classic Mahinda and Mahāvihāra trope.

Yes, i.e., emphasis on the lineage of Mahinda and the Mahāvihāra.

Valid lineage

Is the theme present, if at all, in U Nu’s speech? How?

Is the theme present, if at all, in Rāmādhipati’s verses? How?

Theme

Table 11.1  Rāmādhipati’s and U Nu’s statements relative to a range of themes concerning sīmās and Sāsana

Yes, Dhamma emphasized over Adhamma in the concluding verses.

Yes, highlighted in Rāmādhipati’s concluding verses.

Yes, the decline of the Sāsana is traced to errors in sīmāpractice, which is linked with errors in the formation of the monastic quorum performing ordinations in said sīmās.

Emphasis on the category of Dhamma, specifically

Motivations rooted in saṃvega

Decline of, danger to, or rupture of Sāsana

Overcoming Others Yes, as summarized in Rāmādhipati’s concluding verses; who subvert the discussed at length in the inscriptions; in particular, monks Sāsana with erroneous rituals, and bad monks.

This is perhaps implied when U Nu situates the staking of the new Kalyāṇī Sīmā in the context of overcoming Sāsana’s enemies.

Perhaps, but the point is not explicitly made in the closing verses. The post–Kalyāṇī Sīmā sīmās established all over Rāmaññadesa by Kalyāṇī Sīmā–ordained monks are specified in the Mon portions of the inscriptions.

Sīmās as markers of territorial unity/ well-being

Yes, as indicated in specific references to communists by U Nu.

Yes, because of, for example, the modern battle against the Sāsana’s enemies with their anti-Sāsana slogans.

No, but identified as part of the motivations of the cheroot magnate who led the efforts to get U Nu and others on board.

Yes, along with the other parts of the Triple Gem (Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha).

Is the theme present, if at all, in U Nu’s speech? How?

Is the theme present, if at all, in Rāmādhipati’s verses? How?

Theme

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identities bound together with the battle against the Sāsana’s enemies asserted, U Nu invokes the blessings of the devas/nats. In a manner reminiscent of Rāmādhipati’s own closing, he concludes by directing attention to the power of the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, and to a call to action on the part of Buddhists to work “for the benefit of the Great Revered Sāsana and the entire world, and be quickly freed from all sufferings in the cycle of rebirth.”

Constructing and Overcoming Others If we compare Rāmādhipati’s and U Nu’s statements relative to a range of themes concerning sīmās and Sāsana, it is possible to end up with a table as given above. While lengthy, table 11.1 indicates with as much specificity as possible my understanding of the multivalent layers of communal action and practice in one or both of the sets of materials. The table considers thematic content of Rāmādhipati’s concluding verses and of U Nu’s speech, on the topics of: valid lineage; perspectives on the path; the roles of royal or political power in purifying the monastic order; lay and monastic responsibility for the Sāsana; sīmās as markers of territorial unity/well-being; emphasis on the category of Dhamma; motivations rooted in saṃvega; decline of, danger to, or rupture of Sāsana; and overcoming Others who subvert the Sāsana.89 Drawing on table 11.1, let me conclude by offering a final set of synthetic comments, which highlight what may be “new” in the specifically modern Kalyāṇī statement attributed to U Nu. Though separated by centuries, by differences in textual production and preservation, by authorship and leadership, and by political organization, both sets of statements traffic in similar patterns of thought and action concerning the Kalyāṇī Sīmā. This derives from the fact that sīmās are spatial foundations of the Sāsana, and as such they are ritual spaces much like any other ritual spaces, as many interpreters of ritual have taught us: places onto which a panoply of social, political, cultural, religious, territorial, bodily, and economic concerns and aspirations can be grafted, past, present, future. They continue to be important because they function as places where particular kinds of action can, and in some cases must, take place. Sīmās sustain Sāsana, and this becomes a framework for much Sāsana thought and practice, operating at various levels of society, whether elite or ordinary, monastic or lay. If there is something distinctively new in the specifically modern Kalyāṇī statement attributed to U Nu, it may lie in an implied claim that male and female sīmā donors = male and female Sāsana donors = defender against communism and other enemies of Sāsana = basically any ordinary person who sponsors a sīmā. If we consider U Nu’s wider state-building stratagems,



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we might further be compelled to argue that he implies that sīmā donors = “defender against communists and other enemies of Sāsana” = ideal citizen of the state = defender of the union. In light of these thoughts, U Nu appears to be something of a contemporary inflection of Rāmādhipati, embracing as he does a particular ritual place as a locus for framing and directing the future of the Sāsana in his land. When both Sāsana and the ritual sīmās related to it are supplanted by the concerns of the state or ruling power, they become a lens through which various people are constructed, contested, and overcome.90

Notes Field and text research contributing to this chapter and other parts of my scholarship on the Kalyāṇī inscriptions has been graciously enabled by Ashin Kavindābhivaṃsa (Taik-oak Sayadaw, Kalyāṇī Sīmā) and Ko Mon Le (a complete set of acknowledgments is given in the larger project, distilled in note 1 below). Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Jacques Leider, Richard Fox, Christian Lammerts, and Erik Davis have all offered generous comments on this chapter. Any errors are my own. 1.  The present chapter constitutes my third foray into understanding various aspects of the inscriptions. In the first foray, I explored matters concerning the spatial foundations of Sāsana. In the second, I expanded the analysis of the legal content of the inscriptions and discussed what the inscriptions seem to be, as a product of local and regional Southeast Asian Buddhist textual traditions. This chapter addresses some matters relating to the final section of the inscriptions in comparison to much more recent developments. Together the three works are part of my in-progress Pāli text and English translation edition of the Kalyāṇī inscriptions. That work documents textual similarities and divergences between modern print editions, palm leaf manuscripts, and the original stone inscriptions; integrates references to other relevant Pāli texts and to contemporary scholarly works; and addresses various matters of translation and understanding. 2.  As used here, “statements” = material preservations of arguments or utterances made at particular points in history. 3.  This is a powerful and important theme in Buddhist thought and practice. For two recent studies addressing the topic in Myanmar, see Jason A. Carbine, Sons of the Buddha: Continuities and Ruptures in a Burmese Monastic Tradition (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011); and Alicia Turner, Saving Buddhism: The Impermanence of Religion in Colonial Burma (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2014). 4.  In my analytical endeavors, I have benefited from the work of other scholars who have written about the inscriptions and Rāmādhipati/Dhammacetī. The

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scholars include Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Patrick Pranke, Donald Stadtner, Michael Aung-Thwin, Andrew Huxley, Anne Blackburn, and Tilman Frasch, among others. 5.  My comments here build from discussions at the Theravāda Civilizations Project, Phase II, meeting, May 2–3, 2017, at the University of Missouri, and are an extension of points I first explored in Carbine, Sons of the Buddha. 6.  In keeping with his views on Pagan more generally, Michael Aung-Thwin argued many years ago that Rāmādhipati was acting for economic reasons, that is, in order to reacquire land and labor that had been dedicated to the religion and thus beyond his ability to tax or use. See Michael Aung-Thwin, “The Role of Sasana Reform in Burmese History: Economic Dimensions of a Religious Purification,” Journal of Asian Studies 38, no. 4 (1979): pp. 671–688; and subsequently Michael Aung-Thwin, Pagan: The Origins of Modern Burma (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 1985), pp. 144–147. For commentarial review and debate, see Victor Lieberman, “The Political Significance of Religious Wealth in Burmese History: Some Further Thoughts,” Journal of Asian Studies 39, no. 4 (1980): pp. 753–769; and Victor Lieberman, “Pagan: The Origins of Modern Burma,” Pacific Affairs 60, no. 1 (1987): pp. 154–156. 7.  A useful way of highlighting Rāmādhipati’s historical impact has been suggested by Patrick Pranke (personal communication, March 3, 2017). Drawing from his extensive work in the vaṃsa genre, Pranke notes that Rāmādhipati appears in royal chronicles in a largely negative way (as a subversive Mon king in light of whom Burmese kings construct their identity) and in monastic/religious chronicles in a largely positive, celebratory way (lauding his religious accomplishments and especially his purification and centralization of the monastic community, as detailed in the inscriptions). For a distillation of Rāmādhipati’s religious works, with reference to scholarly sources on the topic, see Jason Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati Handled His Boundary Case: Sīmā, Sāsana, and Buddhist Law,” Buddhism, Law & Society 1 (2015–2016): p. 106, note 1. Anne M. Blackburn, “Buddhist Connections in the Indian Ocean: Changes in Monastic Mobility, 1000–1500,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 58 (2015): pp. 237–266, provides a discussion about how the inscriptions relate to matters of regional movement. 8.  See Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati.” 9.  A complete listing of sources is to be given in my Kalyāṇī text and translation edition. There are some differences between the Pāli and Mon stones, and between the stones and the manuscripts, and these are discussed in my previous work on the inscriptions as well as in my current in-progress edition. One of those differences consists of a long list of sīmās established throughout Rāmaññadesa



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as part of the Kalyāṇī reforms. The list is on the Mon stones but not on the Pāli stones. A survey of the archaeological evidence for these sīmās awaits scholarly effort; the kind of surveys discussed by Stephen Murphy in chapter 2 in this book provides a potential model for that kind of effort in Myanmar, either concerning the Kalyāṇī sīmās or other sīmās more generally. The kind of ethnographic surveys done by Satoru Kobayashi on Cambodian sīmās, also in this book in chapter 7, offers a model for how one might proceed in a more anthropological mode, assessing the contemporary presence and significance of these sīmās. 10.  The purposes that were served by copying and preserving the inscriptions likely varied among monastic and other copyists, but most if not all copies are framed within the context of contributing to preserving the Buddha’s Sāsana. 11.  Plate VI, lines 60–68, as given in Major R. C. Temple, “Postscript” to “A Preliminary Study of the Kalyani Inscriptions,” Indian Antiquary XXII (1893): pp. 274–275. 12.  C. O. Blagden, “Môn Inscriptions Section II—The Mediaeval Môn Records: No 12, The Inscriptions of the Kalyāṇīsīmā, Pegu,” Epigraphia Birmanica 3, no. 2 (1928): pp. 75–290, 263. 13.  The sources consulted for this translation include my personal photographs of the Pāli stone face; the lithic plate as given in Temple, “Postscript”; Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions Erected by King Dhammacetī at Pegu in 1476 A.D.: Text and Translation (Rangoon: Superintendent, Government Printing, 1892); Taw Sein Ko, Some Remarks on the Kalyani Inscriptions, reprinted from Indian Antiquary (Bombay: Education Society’s Steam Press, 1894); Bhurā˝ Phrū Charāto‘, Kalyāṇī kyok‘ cā pāṭh‘-nissaya (Ran‘ kun‘: Sudhammavatī, 1938); Kyuikkacaṃ Ūʹʹ Ācara and Saprekan‘ Charāto‘, Dhammacetī “mahā” kalyāṇī kyok‘ cā (Ran‘ kun‘: Praññ‘ krīʹʹ maṇḍuiṅ‘ piṭakat‘ tuik‘, 1300 [1938]).); Aṁbalaṅgoḍa Polvattē Buddhadatta, ed. and trans., Kalyāṇīprakaraṇa yana nāmayenda prakaṭavū Dhammacetiya maharajatuman visin pihiṭuvanalada Kalyāṇī Śilālipi (Koḷamba: N. Ārtar Pranāndu / Śrī Bhāratī Yantrālaya, 1924) (title page also in English as Polwatte Sri Buddhadatta Sthavira, Kālyāni Inscriptions of King Dhammaceti (1478 A.D.) at Pegu, Lower Burma with a Sinhalese Translation and an Appendix (Colombo: N. Arthur Fernando/Sri Bharati Press, 1924); various palm leaf manuscripts including FPL 2699.5, 2699.6, 10254.1 (these three manuscripts are available at https://archive.org/details/bdrcfplmanuscripts? query=Kalyani&sin= (last accessed June 21, 2021); Blagden, “Môn Inscriptions Section II”; and Bhaddanta Pālitamahātherʻ, Prakuihʻ trāai likʻ tmaṃ Kalyānī ([Moulmein?]: [n.p.], 2557 [2013]). Also consulted were Peter Nyunt, A Descriptive Catalogue of Burmese Manuscripts in the Fragile Palm Leaves Collection, vols. 2 and 3, Materials for the Study of the Tripiṭaka, vols. 10 and 11

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(Bangkok and Lumbini: Fragile Palm Leaves Foundation and Lumbini International Research Institute, 2014 and 2015); and William Pruitt, Yumi Ousaka, and Sunao Kasamatsu, The Catalogue of Manuscripts in the U Pho Thi Library, Thaton, Myanmar (Bristol: Pali Text Society, 2019). Original Pāli text presentation and commentarial details are provided in my Kalyāṇī text and translation edition. Petra Kieffer-Pülz offered extended comments on this translation of the verses. Steven Collins offered very helpful discussion of some of the verses. I am very grateful to both. 14.  The heading here is in modern print editions but not on the stones or in palm leaf manuscripts. 15.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 103, “to whom incomparable majesty and might had accrued.” 16.  The poetic verses exhibit shifts in metrical patterns, with variation between anuṣṭubh, śardūlavikrīditā, and toṭaka patterns, and with some departures from the metrical forms here and there. The different meters probably have little to do with different meanings, but rather were perhaps used to demonstrate the poetic abilities of the author(s). I say more about the meters in the text and translation project. 17.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 103, “by expelling 60,000 sinful priests from the Order”; this seems to be a reading of chanahute (in Taw Sein Ko’s source material) instead of ca nahute (on the stone). 18.  In palm leaf manuscripts and modern print editions, often Parakkamabāhurājā. 19.  This should be Parakkamabāhu I Sirisaṅghabodhi (1153–1186 CE). From the time of Aggabodhi III (seventh century CE) onward, each king in Sri Lanka received the epithet Sirisaṅghabodhi or alternatingly Sirimeghavaṇṇa; see Wilhelm Geiger, Culture of Ceylon in Medieval Times (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1960), § 108. I am thankful to Petra Kieffer-Pülz for this reference. 20.  Alternately “bad,” “of bad practice.” 21.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 104, “and he expelled numerous sinful priests, who held heretical doctrines.” 22.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 104, “He effected purification by sparing the single orthodox sect, whose members were the spiritual successors of the residents of the Mahāvihāra.” This translation misses a compound, paveṇi-dhamma (“Dhamma of the tradition”) that is attested on the stone and in other sources. 23.  Vijayabāhu-bhūpati should be Vijayabāhu III (1232–1236). Vijayabāhu I (1059–1114 CE), who also bore the epithet Sirisaṅghabodhi, reintroduced an ordination lineage from Burma into Sri Lanka, but he should not be the reference here



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because of the emphasis on “subsequently” and the fact that Parakkamabāhu I Sirisaṅghabodhi seems already referred to above (Petra Kieffer-Pülz, private communication). 24.  Parakkantabhuja should be Parakkamabāhu II (1236–1271; actually, sources seem to diverge slightly on the dates for Parakkamabāhu II). In palm leaf manuscripts and modern print editions, Parakkantabhuja is replaced by Parakkamarājā/a and Parakkamanarindo. 25.  Tidasa: See DPPN (http://www.palikanon.com/english/pali_names/t/t2_tu .htm): “A name given to Tāvatimsa [the second of the six god-worlds], the inhabitants being called Tidasā (J.iii.357, 413; vi.168; v.20, 390). The Tidasa devas [gods] are spoken of as being full of glory. S.i.234.” Tāvatimsa is also given its own lengthy entry (http://www.palikanon.com/english/pali_names/t/taavatimsa .htm). 26.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 104, “set aside his celestial bliss.” 27.  Sakka’s charioteer. 28.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 104, “having received a pledge for the purification of the Religion.” 29.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 104, “following respectfully in the footsteps of the virtuous.” 30.  After 12, the numbering of the verses on the stone face stops, so I have put the remaining verse numbers in brackets. 31.  “sought for” (itthaṃ): extended discussion of this term is provided in the text and translation edition. 32.  This is a somewhat free translation. A translation possibly closer to the Pāli syntax but awkward in English is: “Which merit sought for I Rāmādhipati obtained by purifying the Sāsana, by that [merit], peace, purity, and happiness [are] generated, like the state of shining bright, being even free from the passions. Or: Which merit sought for I Rāmādhipati obtained by purifying the Sāsana, by that [merit], Nibbāna, peaceful [and] pure, [is] generated, like the state of shining bright, being even free from the passions.” I am thankful to the late Steven Collins for discussion about these verses and their translation. 33.  Majjhantika: an entry can be found in DPPN (http://www.palikanon.com /english/pali_names/ma/majjhantika_th.htm). Some of the details there may require further investigation. 34.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 105, “who had performed their last deeds.” 35.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 105, “they set aside their bliss of Nirvāṇa.”

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36.  Cf. Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, p. 105, “conditions of sin and suffering.” 37.  I am still debating about the translation here. 38.  For “no death,” “deathless” (amata), see entries in CPD, DOP, PED, and discussion in K. R. Norman, Collected Papers (Oxford: Pali Text Society): III (1992), p. 66; IV (1993), pp. 137, 261–262, 273; VI (1996), pp. 18–22, 24, 27, 28, 164–166. 39.  This closing sentence is found in palm leaf manuscripts and modern print editions, but not on the stones. 40.  Taw Sein Ko treats Rāmaññaṭṭhāna, Rāmaññadesa, and Rāmaññamaṇḍala as synonyms (and perhaps they are), with a preference for using Rāmaññadesa in his translation. I use Rāmaññamaṇḍala here, as given in this place. 41.  Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, pp. 19, 30, 71, 85. For a discussion of how the inscriptions fit within the katikāvata genre, see Patrick Pranke, “The ‘Treatise on the Lineage of Elders’ (Vamsadipani): Monastic Reform and the Writing of Buddhist History in Eighteenth-Century Burma” (PhD diss., University of Michigan, 2004), pp. 14ff; and Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati,” pp. 115–117, which engages and debates with Pranke and compares some points with Nandasena Ratnapāla, The Katikāvatas: Laws of the Buddhist Order of Ceylon. From the 12th Century to the 18th Century (Münchener Studien zur Sprachwissenschaft, Beiheft, N. München: Kitzinger, 1971). See also Berthe Jansen, “Monastic Organizational Guidelines,” in Brill’s Encyclopedia of Buddhism, vol. I, Literatures and Languages, ed. Jonathan Silk, O. v. Hinüber, and V. Eltschinger (Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 442–449. Benjamin Schonthal, “Buddhist Law beyond the Vinaya: Monastic Constitutions (Katikāvatas) and Their Transformations in Colonial Sri Lanka,” History of Religions 60, no. 4 (May 2021): pp. 287–324, “reveals a dynamic portrait of monastic law that differs considerably from the Vinaya-centric picture offered in many academic and normative accounts of Buddhism” (p. 321). 42.  I.e., the four are the pāṭimokkha-saṃvara-sīla (“restraint with regard to the disciplinary code”), indriya-saṃvara-sīla (“restraint of the senses”), ājīvapārisuddhi-sīla (“purification of livelihood”), and paccaya-sannissita-sīla (“morality connected with the four requisites”). 43.  Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, pp. 40–42, 99–101. This corresponds to the third stone, reverse, lines 27–46. Taw Sein Ko translates both katikavacana and katikavatta in the inscriptions as “message,” thereby obscuring the relation of this section of the inscriptions to the katikāvata genre. 44.  Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, pp. 42, 102. This corresponds to the third stone, reverse, lines 46–47.



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45.  Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, pp. 42–44, 102–103. This corresponds to the third stone, reverse, lines 47–60. Compare also pp. 19–20 and 71–72, where the inscriptions offer a version of Sirisaṅghabodhi Parakkamabāhu Mahārājā’s dedication to avoiding indifference toward the Sāsana and his issuing of a katikavatta. Reference is made there to two other Sri Lankan katikavattas (of Vijayabāhurājā III and Parakkamabāhurājā II) as well. 46.  For a helpful discussion of Buddhist political rhetorics, see Jacques P. Leider, “Buddhist Diplomacy: Confrontations and Political Rhetoric in the Exchange of Letters between King Alaungmintaya and King Banya Dala of Pegu (1755–56),” in Buddhist Dynamics in Premodern and Early Modern Southeast Asia, ed. D. Christian Lammerts (Singapore: ISEAS, 2015), esp. pp. 403–405. 47.  For discussion of those sections in the inscriptions, see Carbine, “How King Rāmādhipati.” 48.  For a study concerning saṃvega (and its relation to another term, pasāda), see Kristin Scheible, Reading the Mahāvaṃsa: The Literary Aims of a Theravāda Buddhist History (New York: Columbia University Press, 2016). Scheible translates saṃvega as “anxious thrill.” 49.  E.g., Taw Sein Ko, The Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, pp. 19–20, 71–72. 50.  Burma achieved independence on January 4, 1948. See Michael Charney, A History of Modern Burma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), p. 72, last paragraph, citing Thant Myint-U, River of Lost Footsteps: Histories of Burma (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006), p. 259, for a summary of the situation. 51.  Arhaṅʿ Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ (Ranʿ kunʿ: Ne laṅʿ cā puṃ nhuipʿ tuikʿ, 1981), p. 261. 52.  See Juliane Schober, Modern Buddhist Conjunctures in Myanmar: Cultural Narratives, Colonial Legacies, and Civil Society (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2011), esp. pp. 76–82 for a discussion of U Nu’s use of and appeal to religion. See also Charney, A History of Modern Burma, chaps. 4–5, and U Nu, Saturday’s Son: Memoirs of the Former Prime Minister of Burma (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1975). I have not located anything in U Nu’s memoirs about the Kalyāṇī Sīmā. 53.  E.g., the Botataung in Yangon, the Shwemawdaw in Bago, the Shwesandaw in Toungoo, the Ananda Hpaya in Bagan, the Kyauktawgyi in Amarapura, the Shwezigon in Tagaung, and, of course, the Kaba Aye complex, completed in 1952 for the Sixth Council running from 1954 to 1956. That the Kalyāṇī Sīmā and other places of Buddhist significance were being integrated into a program of protection of the Sāsana by the state is clear. See also Donald E. Smith, Religion and Politics in Burma (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1965), p. 170.

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Notes could be added on these other sites in their own right, such as “The Kaba Aye stupa . . . was a complete break from the past, since it was designed so that worshippers could enter and see the relics. . . . This novel hollow design quickly became the standard for large public projects such as the Botataung (1953) and the Maha Wizaya (1980). All of the large government-sponsored pagodas since then have also adopted this plan, such as the shrines for the tooth-relic replicas, in Yangon and Mandalay, and the Lokananda in Sittwe” (Donald Stadtner, Sacred Sites of Burma: Myth and Folklore in an Evolving Spiritual Realm (Bangkok: River Books, 2011), pp. 64–65. 54.  The accounts in Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ and in another book (not authored by Kelāsa) titled Kalyāṇī simʿ toʿ samuiṅʿʺ cā (Pai khūʺ: Kalyāṇī simʿ toʿ krīʺ coṅʿ rhokʿ thimʿʺ simʿʺ reʺ a phvai, 1959, third printing) may of course diverge from what actually happened. 55.  sayadaw = presiding monk of a monastery. 56.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 261–262. Kalyāṇī simʿ, p. 39. 57.  When the Buddha was enlightened, his mind swam in the depths of the Paṭṭhāna and light emanated from his body, permeating the cosmos. See Pe Maung Tin, trans., The Expositor (Atthasālinī) (London: Pali Text Society, 1976), p. 18; Carbine, Sons of the Buddha, p. 149. 58.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 262–264. 59.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 264–267. 60.  Here it is worth mentioning that on August 26, 1951, U Win delivered a speech at the inauguration of the Buddha Sasana Council; the speech emphasized the need to protect the Sāsana in Burma and to spread it to the entire world. See Hon’ble U Win, “Protecting the Sasana,” The Fourth Anniversary Burma II, no. 2 (1952): pp. 22–24. (I am thankful to Jacques Leider for this reference.) As summarized by U Win, the Buddha Sasana Council was established as part of three acts of the state to protect the Sāsana. The three acts were the Vinicchaya Act, the Pali University and Dhammacariya Act, and the Buddha Sasana Organization Act. Together, these pertained to religious education, monastic courts, and the promotion of Sāsana widely, including the holding of the Sixth Buddhist Council running from 1954 to 1956. 61.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 268–272. 62.  Whether this image exists in other sīmā literature remains a question for ongoing research. The image is especially interesting, since women are excluded from sīmās during ordination and other monastic legal acts, and in some cases from a sīmā at all times. Women are permitted to enter the Kalyāṇī Sīmā when it is not being used for legal acts of the monastic community. 63.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, p. 260, and Kalyāṇī simʿ, p. 47, give the list of leading sayadaws.



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64.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ and Kalyāṇī simʿ, seem to diverge in part concerning the timing here, but it is not clear to me if that is so, or if I am just misreading the material. 65.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 272–273, and Kalyāṇī simʿ, p. 41, give the list. 66.  Christian Lammerts (private communication, September 12, 2017), notes “this [is] printed in a number of collections of paritta and lokīpaññā material—it is a very common text. There are certain parallels with the Mahādibbamanta edited by Jaini [and] there are references to the pathavījayamanta even in the tipiṭaka.” For the Pathavī Jayamantan, see, for example, Bha Saṅḥ Moṅ‘, Lokīsippalaṅkāra kyam‘˝ (Ran‘ kun‘: Lay‘ tī maṇḍuiṅ‘ piṭakat‘ puṃ nhip‘ tuik‘, 1956; reg. copyright K. N. Mohamed Easa), pp. 8–12. See also Padmanabh S. Jaini, “ ‘Mahadibbamanta’: A ‘Paritta’ Manuscript from Cambodia,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London 28, no. 1. (1965): pp. 61–80. I am thankful to Lammerts for these references, as well as to Saya U Saw Tun, who sent others. 67.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, p. 273. 68.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, p. 275, Kalyāṇī simʿ, p. 54. The numbers listed are 68 from Yangon; 21 from Bago division, 8 from Eyawadī division, 5 from Mandalay division, 1 each from Magwe division, Sagaing division, Yakhine division, Shan state, and Karen state. Note that this is only 107 rather than 108. 69.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, p. 276, Kalyāṇī simʿ, p. 55. The numbers ordained were 27 on the eleventh, 27 on the twelfth, 27 on the thirteenth, 24 on the fourteenth; and 3 on the fifteenth. These add up to 108. 70.  The Shwegyin are a famed monastic group in Myanmar. See, for example, Carbine, Sons of the Buddha. 71.  By the Shwegu Sayadaw (Shwegyin), Myathapeit Sayadaw (Thudhamma), and Vizitayon Sayadaw (Dvāra). 72.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, p. 278, gives 206 monks total; Kalyāṇī simʿ, p. 56, gives 198. 73.  Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 279, 289–291, Kalyāṇī simʿ, pp. 57–59, 68–70. 74.  See Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 289–291, for the text said to be used for the water-pouring ceremony. There, the text is presented in nissaya form (i.e., with Pāli words and phrases given separately with Burmese gloss or expansion), perhaps indicating the way it was chanted at the ceremony. The water-pouring ceremony is traced by some to the actions of Prince Vessantara when he gave away his kingdom’s white elephant. (I am thankful to Ashin Silacara for first alerting me to this.) Petra Kieffer-Pülz has written about water pouring in her Verlorene Gaṇṭhipadas II Z 157 n. 14, where the dakkhiṇodaka (water of

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donation) marks the transition of ownership from one to another. Sp describes a case where a donation is given to a split saṅgha, with one party receiving the dakkhiṇodaka and the other one robes. In places where dakkhiṇodaka is the measure, the party who receives the dakkhiṇodaka also has the claim to get an equal share of the robes of the other party (Sp V p. 1135,23–27). This indicates that the giving of dakkhiṇodaka establishes a legal claim with respect to an equal share of the donated goods. The Mahā-aṭṭhakathā, one of the early commentaries used as a source text by Sp, states that this dakkhiṇodaka as a measure was customary on the other side of the ocean, and this is explained as referring to Jambudīpa (India). The Vmv (II p. 202,1–2) states that this has been taught in difference to Tambapaṇṇidīpa (Sri Lanka), where this seems to have not been the common practice. The ṭīkās state that by accepting the dakkhiṇodaka the monk becomes an owner of the gift (deyyadhamma). 75.  As a statement in the sense used in this chapter, it may or may not accurately represent what U Nu actually said. The original Burmese is found at Kelāsa, Kalyāṇī sāsanā-waṅʿ, pp. 264–268, and Kalyāṇī simʿ, pp. 44–47; I am very thankful to Ashin Silacara, Than Than Win, and Jacques Leider, who provided suggestions for this translation. 76.  Here, I give the Pāli spelling Sāsana rather than the Burmese Thāthanā (which is actually a romanization that combines attention to both spelling and pronunciation). I do this to help highlight the connections between the two sets of statements compared in this chapter. 77.  An idiom, lit. “the walking stick of the rich.” 78.  “thorns”: alternately, “obstacles,” “impediments,” “obstructions.” 79.  Some further thought about the relation between perform and serve may be needed here; this is a topic of ongoing reflection. 80.  As suggested to me by Jacques Leider, the implication may be wider than royal history. 81.  “along with the entire mass audience”: the precise implication of the original Burmese is not clear to me. 82.  Here, B. hpon appears to mean pāramī or perfections. Ashin Silacara, private communication. 83.  U Nu had previously criticized socialist opponents, such as when he countered socialist opponents to the establishment of the Buddha Sasana Council. Cited in Nicholas F. Gier, The Origins of Religious Violence: An Asian Perspective (Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books, reprint edition, 2016), p. 264. Gier’s chapter is titled “Weak Belief, Overcoming the Other, and Constructive Postmodernism.” I am still debating how what I argue in this chapter relates to what is said there; Gier



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builds toward an argument for the importance of virtue ethics in addressing the moral needs of the contemporary world. 84.  Charney, A History of Modern Burma, p. 77, notes, “In response to early rebel gains, Ne Win, who replaced Smith Dun as commander of the Armed Forces in 1949, began a dramatic expansion and improvement of the army. Burma was under martial law during 1948–1950, viewed as the worst years of civil war for the government. By 1951, the Burmese Armed Forces were still insufficient in number to end armed opposition to the government.” 85.  I am thankful to Jacques Leider (private communication) for putting it this way. 86.  Rāhu: DPPN (http://www.palikanon.com/english/pali_names/r/rahu.htm) notes, in addition to other details: “An Asura chieftain (Asurinda) (cp. Mtu.iii.138, 254). The Samyutta Nikāya (S.i.49f) says that on one occasion when he seized Candimā (Moon god), and on another Suriya (Sun god), both these invoked the aid of the Buddha. The Buddha then instructed Rāhu to let them free. Rāhu immediately let them go and ran to Vepacitti, ‘trembling and with stiffened hair.’ This incident evidently refers to the Indian myth of the eclipses, and the legend has been annexed by the Buddhists to illustrate the Buddha’s power and pity.” 87.  For a map highlighting the civil war in the early 1950s, see Charney, A History of Modern Burma, p. 75. 88.  See Schober, Modern Buddhist Conjunctures, pp. 78–82. 89.  This conclusion adapts and expands ideas initially explored in Jason A. Carbine, “Sāsanasuddhi/Sīmāsammuti: Comments on a Spatial Basis of the Buddha’s Religion,” in How Theravāda Is Theravāda? Exploring Buddhist Identities, ed. Peter Skilling, Jason A. Carbine, Claudio Cicuzza, and Santi Pakdeekham (Chiang Mai, Thailand: Silkworm Books, 2012), pp. 263–264. 90.  In regard to this, it could be illuminative to know more about how or whether sīmās are woven into current Buddhist-Muslim tensions in Myanmar and elsewhere.

ch a pter 12

Flawed or Deliberately Altered Readings? Two Quotations from the Vajirabuddhit.īkā in the Sīmālakkhan.adīpanī Petra Kieffer-Pülz

There are many sīmā treatises that originated in the nineteenth century CE in Sri Lanka and mainland Southeast Asia. In them, we see, for instance, many quotations from and expansions upon the earlier Vinaya literature, and these materials thus constitute significant resources for the study of Buddhism as it was developing in the “modern” world.1 Close readings of textual passages shed a great deal of light on how Buddhist monks and others made use— either deliberately or otherwise—of known sīmā literatures. One of these sources is Vimalasāra’s Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī,2 an independent treatise on sīmā written in 2422 (1878/9) and published by the minister Balatāsara Vīrasīha and others with Vimalasāra’s approval in 2424 (1880/1) in the Satthādhāra Press in Sri Lanka. In terms of lineage, Vimalasāra (1825–1889)3 was the chief pupil and nephew of Bēratuḍuvē Dhammadhāra (?–1866), and was thus the great nephew4 of Aṁbagahapiṭiyē Ñāṇavimala Tissa (1766–1833 or 1768–1835),5 the first monk who received an ordination in Amarapura, Burma, in 1800 through the Saṅgharāja Ñāṇābhivaṃsa,6 and the one appointed as chief monk of the Salāgama monks by the Sri Lankan government in 1825.7 This lineage (now called Mūlavaṃsa) lived, and still lives today, in the Aṁbarukkhārāma or Aṁbagahapitiya in Välitara (Välitoṭa), Balapiṭiya. Vimalasāra was the leading figure of the “nonconfusionists” (asaṅkāra-vādin) of his time in the famous dispute concerning the legal validity of the monastic boundary (sīmā) of Balapiṭiya. The Balapiṭiya dispute arose with respect to the udakukkhepa-sīmā (a sīmā established by throwing water or sand around a platform of some sort on a body of water; see fig. 12.1) of Balapiṭiya in the river Mādugaṅga in 326



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Figure 12.1. An udakukkhepa-sīmā based on a platform within a river. Detail of an illustration in the illustrated sīmā manuscript from Wat Suthat Thep Wararam, Bangkok (Sīmākathā: Samut khǭi Wat Suthatsanathēpwarārām / Nǭ. Na Pāknam (Krung Thēp (Bangkok): Samnakphim Mūang Bōrān, 1997), p. 116.

southwest Lanka. It was the first sīmā to be established by the new branch of Buddhist monks, later known as the Amarapura Nikāya. The dispute began in 1851 and actively lasted three decades. It finally led to a split of the community into the Mūlavaṃsa (nonconfusionists), to which Vimalasāra belonged, and the Saddhammavaṃsa (confusionists), both still existent today. As stressed by various Sinhalese historians, the bases of this conflict were caste differences.8 The five founders9 of the branch that later was called Amarapuranikāya belonged to the castes of the Salāgamas (cinnamon peelers),10 Karāve (fishermen), and Durāve (toddy tappers). They used different sīmās and selected the heads of their monasteries from within their castes.11 When in 1835 the government appointed a chief monk over the entire Amarapura nikāya, it chose Bōpāgoḍa Sumana (1784–1864), a Salāgama monk. This was not appreciated by the Karāve and Durāve, who in vain applied for own chief monks for their ordination lineages. Though the caste differences certainly added to the bitterness of this dispute, the importance of the monastic boundary (sīmā) for the continuation of the Buddhist community should not be underestimated, nor should the technical sīmā issues invoked throughout the dispute be ignored. Here in this chapter, we take a close look

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at how some sīmā issues played out in the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī, and what they suggest about studying the histories of Buddhism.

The Sīmā of Balapiṭiya and the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī The sīmā of Balapiṭiya consisted of a wooden platform permanently established in the river. From the fringe of this platform water or sand was thrown that dropped on the water surface. This line constituted the sīmā. When in the early 1820s the lineage of Ñāṇavimalatissa (in Välitara, with udakukkhepasīmā in Balapiṭiya) and the one of Kapugama Dhammakkhandha (in Daḍalla, with udakukkhepa-sīmā at Giṃtoṭa) were united, it was decided to use the sīmā of Balapiṭiya for the combined community. Since the united community was too large for the original platform, it was decided to enlarge the Balapiṭiya platform in 1845, and at the same time a bridge was erected made from wood and bamboo. This bridge began on the bank of the river and ended at some distance before the platform. A gap was left between the bridge and the platform, which was bridged by a plank. When legal acts of the monastic community (saṅghakamma) were held there, the plank was removed when all monks had entered the platform. Thus, with the goal of following monastic rules, no connection existed between the platform and the bridge. Six years after this enlargement, in 1851, the monk Laṅkāgoḍē Dhīrānanda (1808–1871) had doubts regarding the legal validity of that sīmā.12 The problem was the bridge. The bridge led so close to the platform that its end was situated inside the throw of water or sand that marked the udakukkhepa-sīmā. The bridge, furthermore, was erected in such a manner that its feet stood on the bank of the river. The crucial point was that riverbanks per definitionem belong to a village boundary area (gāma-sīmā). The bridge, therefore, connected the udakukkhepa-sīmā with the village boundary. Since an udakukkhepasīmā exists only on bodies of water, and a gāma-sīmā exists only on land, these two types of sīmā are mutually heterogeneous (visabhāga) and should be kept separate in order to keep it clear that there is no confusion about who should assemble in the udakukkhepa-sīmā. Because of the severity of the potential legal issues, a connection between two heterogeneous monastic boundaries renders each legal act (kamma) carried out inside one of the mutually connected sīmās completely invalid.13 Vimalasāra’s Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī, written in defense of the legal validity of the udakukkhepa-sīmā of Balapiṭiya, is a Pāli treatise of seventy-five pages (printed in Sinhalese script) consisting of three parts. The first part contains a discussion of canonical and noncanonical sīmā passages, a rejection of sixteen



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wrong opinions, and illuminations of the rejection of others’ opinions as well as of the purification of sīmā confusions. In the second part the author discusses various aspects of the gāma-sīmā, and in the third he explains the method for determining a sīmā. In general, Vimalasāra quotes from many Vinaya texts, among others from the canonical Vinaya, from the Vinaya commentary called Samantapāsādikā (ca. fifth century CE) and attributed to Buddhaghosa by tradition; from the Kaṅkhāvitaraṇī (ca. fifth century CE), the commentary to the Pātimokkha, likewise attributed to Buddhaghosa but certainly not by the same author as the Samantapāsādikā; from the three Vinaya subcommentaries, the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā (ca. tenth century CE) attributed to Vajirabuddhi since the thirteenth century CE, which aimed at a readership in Lanka and South India; Sāriputta’s Sāratthadīpanī, which represents the Lankan Vinaya exegesis of the twelfth century CE; Coḷiya Kassapa’s Vimativinodanīṭīkā, which reflects the South Indian tradition of the late twelfth or early thirteenth century CE; Vācissara’s Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha (early thirteenth century CE),14 a sīmā treatise written from the Lankan perspective and concerning a sīmā dispute between South Indians and Lankan inhabitants;15 and from Ñeyyadhamma’s Sīmāvivādavinicchayakathā (1858), the Burmese saṅgharāja’s judgment concerning the sīmā dispute of Balapiṭiya. In general his quotations conform to the text in the editions at hand. But there are at least two cases where a difference between the quotation and the original text is detected, namely concerning quotations from the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā. To my knowledge no Sinhalese script edition of this text exists, and the Burmese and Siamese editions date from 1912, 1960, 1980, 1998, etc.,16 and thus were not yet available in Vimalasāra’s time. Thus he must have accessed the text via manuscripts. Therefore, there is the possibility that discrepancies between his quotations and the original source text had their origin in a flawed manuscript. But there is also the possibility that these discrepancies originated from an intentional adjustment by Vimalasāra. Let us investigate these two cases.

Quotation from the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā in Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī 4,6–14 The first quotation appears in the first chapter of the first section of the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī, in which Vimalasāra discusses canonical Vinaya statements and offers a word commentary to the Vinaya passage that states that a river, a natural lake, and an ocean in their entirety are not monastic boundaries.17 The altered quotation from the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā is to be found in the commentary on the compound samāna-saṃvāsā.

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Sīmāl 4,6–14: samānasaṃvāsā ti (Vin I 111,6) sammānīyyate ti samāno; saṃvasanaṃ saṃvasanti etthā ti vā saṃvāso; samāno saṃvāso yassaṃ, sā samānasaṃvāsā. samānānaṃ ekaladdhikānaṃ sabrahmacārīnaṃ samānakammavasena sahavāso ettha vattatī ti attho. iminā etth’ eva visuṃ uposathassa vuccamānattā vinā uposathaṃ avasesakammānaṃ vasena veditabbaṃ. Ṭīkāyam pi “‘visuṃ ekuposathā ti (Vin I 111,6) vacanato uposathaṃ ṭhapetvā sesakammānī samānasaṃvāsā nāmā’ ti likhitan” ti (≠ Vjb 456,1–2) āgataṃ. [A monastic boundary] for the same communion18. [what] is brought together19 [is] the same (samāna); the living together (saṃvasana) or “they live together here” [is] a communion (lit. the living together) (saṃvāsa); concerning which [monastic boundary there is] the same communion (living together), that [is a monastic boundary for] the same communion. The meaning is: The living together (sahavāsa) by means of the same legal acts of the same fellow students, sharing one and the same opinions is suitable here. Because the observance (uposatha) is separately mentioned only in this context (ettha), the [attribute, i.e., samānasaṃvāsa] is to be understood without “observance” by virtue of the remaining legal acts. Even in the Ṭīkā it is handed down that because of the separate [Vinaya] statement [a monastic boundary] for a single observance, for the remaining legal acts—except for the observance—just [the statement a monastic boundary] for the same communion is written. There are several irregularities here. First, the word likhitaṃ in the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā actually announces a quotation from Dhammasiri’s Gaṇṭhipada20 and therefore cannot be connected with samānasaṃvāsa nāmā ti, as done by me in the above translation of the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī.21 Second, the text in the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā is longer, and what is given as one sentence in the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī belongs to two different sentences in the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā, as the following passage shows (portions quoted by Vimalasāra are underlined). Vjb 455,25–456,2: yaṁ saṁgho ākaṅkhati vihāraṁ vā . . . pa . . . guhaṁ vā ti (Vin I 107,6f.) vacanato na kevalaṁ pathaviyaṃ yeva, vihārādīnaṁ upari pi sīmā anuññātā hoti uposathakammapadhānattā ti siddhaṁ.



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“tappadhānā sīmā ti kathaṁ paññāyatī” ti ce? “tadadhikārānuññātattā, sammutiyaṃ samānasaṁvāsā ti (Vin I 106,17f.) ettāvatā siddhe visuṁ ekūposathā ti (Vin I 106,17f.) vacanato ca. “uposathaṁ ṭhapetvā sesakammāni samānasaṁvāsā nāmā” ti likhitaṁ. On account of the [following authoritative Vinaya] statement: [having agreed upon] whatever the community wishes, a vihāra . . . or a cave, [as a house for the observance], it is proven that a monastic boundary is allowed not only on the ground, [but] also with regard to a vihāra, and so on, because it [i.e., the monastic boundary] is the most important thing for the legal act of observance (uposathakamma). If [someone asks]: “How does it become visible that the monastic boundary is the most important thing for the [legal act of observance]?” [It is to be replied: “It becomes visible] from [its] prescription in the chapter about the [legal act of observance], and from the separate [authoritative] statement, [a monastic boundary] for a single observance, [given in addition] to [what was] accomplished at [the time of] the agreement [upon the monastic boundary] by just so much, [a monastic boundary] for the same communion. “Except for the observance (for which both attributes are valid), for all the remaining legal acts [the attribute is] just for the same communion”, [thus] it is written [in Dhammasiri’s Gaṇṭhipada].22 In this case Vimalasāra gives his source as tīkāyam pi . . . ti āgataṃ, “Even in the Ṭīkā it is transmitted.” This must refer to the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā, since it is the only commentary commenting with the words given in this quotation. As the comparison of the Sīmālakkhaṇādīpanī with the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā shows, Vimalasāra here combined parts of two independent sentences. Having taken the end of a sentence, he omitted the ca, which connected it to the preceding sentence. Then he combined it with the subsequent sentence, which actually is a separate text, namely, a quotation from Dhammasiri’s Gaṇṭhipada.23 The Ṭīkā says that the monastic boundary is the main subject of the legal procedure of the observance and that this becomes visible from two facts:

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first, that the monastic boundary is prescribed in the chapter on observance, and second that in the case of the monastic boundary, in addition to the attribute samānasaṃvāsā the attribute ekuposathā has been added. Thereafter the Ṭīkā adds a quotation from Dhammasiri’s Gaṇṭhipada saying that except for the observance for all the remaining legal procedures only samānasaṃvāsā is the attribute. This implies that for the observance both attributes are relevant. Although the content of the Ṭīkā statement and of Vimalasāra’s quotation do not differ substantially from the point of view of content, Vimalasāra’s quotation is not literal. He either had a flawed manuscript of the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā or he ignored the usage of likhitaṃ in this commentary, explicitly explained by the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā author, and adjusted the quotation to his needs.

Quotation from the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā in Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī 40,8–10 The sixth subsection of the first part of Vimalasāra’s book deals with the “illumination of the purification, etc., of a confusion [of sīmās]” (saṅkarasodhanādi-dīpanī). In this connection Vimalasāra explains that a statement of the Vimativinodanīṭīkā (Vmv II 165,16–166,26), quoted by him (Sīmāl 39) implies that the ground at the bottom of a river flowing through a village (gāma) is gāma-sīmā area. Based on this assumption, people could say that the posts (thambha) of a platform (aṭṭaka) erected in such a river stand on gāma-sīmā ground, and thus cause a confusion of gāma-sīmā and udakukkhepasīmā. This is immediately rejected by Vimalasāra with the argument that invisible connections do not cause a fault of confusion. As a confirmation of this he then quotes from the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā: Sīmāl 40,8–10: Vajirabuddhiṭīkāyam pi “nadiyā heṭṭhā nisinnabhikkhu kammaṃ na kopeti. upari yeva nadī hotī ti vadantī” ti (Vjb 455,21f.) vuttaṃ. Even in the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā it is said: “[People] say: ‘A monk sitting below the river (that is, on the river bed), does not disturb the legal act; the river is only above.’ ” Vimalasāra obviously understands this as referring to the case that a monk (probably furnished with magic power) sitting on the river bed, with the river current flowing above him, does not disturb the legal act carried out in an udakukkhepa-sīmā that exists on the surface of this same river. Such cases are discussed in legal literature independent of whether or not they are likely to occur, in order to legally cover all eventualities.



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Figure 12.2. A nadīpāra-sīmā, including land on both banks of a river, with a bridge in the not-too-far distance. Illustration in the illustrated sīmā manuscript from Wat Suthat Thep Wararam, Bangkok (Sīmākathā: Samut khǭi Wat Suthatsanathēpwarārām / Nǭ. Na Pāknam (Krung Thēp (Bangkok): Samnakphim Mūang Bōrān, 1997), p. 96.

Now, the corresponding passage in the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā runs as follows: Vjb 455,21–22: “nadiyā heṭṭhā nisinnabhikkhu kammaṃ kopeti. upari yeva hi nadī hotī” ti vadanti. “[People] say: ‘A monk sitting below the river does disturb the legal procedure, for the river is only above.’ ” As clearly visible, the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā says exactly the opposite. It actually quotes some people who state that a monk sitting on the riverbed below the current disturbs the legal act, and as a reason for this he says “because (hi) the river is only above.” It is not visible from this sentence alone which legal act that monk disturbs; this only is clarified by the context (see below). Vimalasāra has rendered the “does disturb” into a “does not disturb” and has omitted the “for” (hi) which introduces the reason. Vimalasāra has not only modified the quotation, however, but rather transferred it to a different context. For in the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā this quotation forms the final sentence in the section commenting on the determination of a sīmā that covers areas on two banks of a river (see fig. 12.2), and possibly also an island within the river, that is of a nadīpāra-sīmā. The nadīpāra-sīmā is a special type of a determined sīmā (baddha-sīmā).24 Though it stretches over water as well, the water sections do not count as sīmā area, because—as stated in the Vinaya—a sīmā cannot be determined within a body of water (see above, note 17). In the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā this statement of an anonymous group is made with respect to the case that a nadīpāra-sīmā is

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going to be determined in a legal act. The anonymous group says that a monk sitting below the river current, that is, on the riverbed, would disturb this legal act. The basis for this proposition is an information contained in the Vinaya commentary, the Samantapāsādikā. There it is stated that the area within a determined sīmā extends down to the earth magma (lit. “the water carrying the earth).25 Thus, the earth at the bottom of the river also is part of the baddhasīmā area. Hence a monk sitting there would be within the future sīmā area, but not in arm’s reach (hatthapāsa) of the monks who form the Saṅgha that carries out the legal procedure above on land. Therefore, the Saṅgha would be incomplete. This is why that monk disturbs the legal procedure. The argument “for the river is only above,” hints at the fact that the riverbed counts as land, and that only the river current above the bed is counted as river. From this example it is clear that a monk sitting on the ground at the bottom of the river counts as being present within the baddha-sīmā area, and thus has to participate in the legal act carried through above on land. Vimalasāra, however, transferred this quotation to the discussion of the udakukkhepasīmā, which is an undetermined boundary (abaddha-sīmā).26 Thus there is no legal act for the determination of any sīmā. But one could refer this statement also to a legal act concerning some other matter carried out within an udakukkhepa-sīmā. Then the monk sitting on the ground at the bottom of the river would not disturb the legal act carried through in the udakukkhepa-sīmā, since he sits on ground considered to be gāma-sīmā (according to Vimalasāra’s interpretation), whereas the udakukkhepa-sīmā is only valid on the surface of the body of water above this ground. This conclusion is correct. Unlike in other cases, however, it is not reached by arguing based on the sutta (i.e. Vinaya) or “in conformity with the sutta” (suttānuloma). Vimalasāra here first had to transfer a passage from a different context in the source text (namely, that of a determined boundary) to his context (undetermined boundary, i.e., udakukkhepa-sīmā). Second, he had to deliberately alter the quotation rendering the positive statement related to a baddha-sīmā (does disturb the legal act) to a negative statement related to an abaddha-sīmā (does not disturb the legal act), and to omit the “for” (hi), which introduced the reason for the statement in the original context. Thus it is clear that in this case the alteration of the quotation from the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā is not caused by a flawed manuscript, but is a deliberate modification of the original text. Without the Vajirabuddhiṭīkā at hand, we would think that an anonymous group had made this statement concerning an udakukkhepa-sīmā, though this wasn’t the case. Interestingly, this passage is not discussed by Randoṁbē Dhammālaṅkāra in his Sīmānayadappana, which he wrote in critical response to the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī.



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Conclusions Though I am not aware of such modifications in the older Pāli literature, we have to keep in mind that there are large numbers of lost commentaries, which are only partly preserved, namely in quotations transmitted in commentaries that have come down to us. Without the original texts at hand, we are not in the position to check whether or not they are quoted correctly. Nevertheless, according to my present knowledge this manner of treating quotations is not common in the older Pāli literature. Whether it is a unique feature of the work of Vimalasāra, who, however, mostly quotes literally, or whether this type of adjustment is to be found in the work of other authors as well, needs investigation. There are many sīmā treatises, especially in vernaculars, that originated in the nineteenth century CE. In them there are many quotations from the earlier Vinaya literature. It is important to keep in mind the possibility of adjustments, as we have observed them here, in working with that material. The possibility cannot be excluded that other authors of the nineteenth century CE also worked in this manner.

Notes This contribution is a result of my work on “The Dispute about the Validity of the Buddhist Monastic Boundary in Balapiṭiya in 19th c. CE Sri Lanka” (“Der Streit um die Rechtsgültigkeit der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze (sīmā) von Balapiṭiya in Sri Lanka im 19. Jh.”) at the Academy of Sciences and Literature, Mainz, promoted by Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (German Research Foundation). I thank Jason A. Carbine and Erik W. Davis for their suggestions and corrections, and for improving my English. 1.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Sīmā Treatises with a Focus on Illustrated Manuscripts,” in Proceedings of the Third International Pali Studies Week Paris, 2018 (provisional title), Materials for the Study of the Tripiṭaka Volume (Bangkok and Lumbini: Fragile Palm Leaves Foundation, Lumbini International Research Institute, forthcoming). 2.  Vimalasāra is also known for his Sāsanavaṃsadīpa, or History of the Buddhist Church, a verse text with 1,671 stanzas in twelve chapters, which he wrote one year later (2423, 1879/80) and which was published in the same year as the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī by the same people with the same publisher. In the “Advertisement” with which the Sāsanavaṃsadīpa begins, we are informed that both books were published by B. Mendis, B. D. A. Rájapaksa, and H. D. Silva, and others, at their expense “with the view of promoting the interests of religion.”

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3.  His full name was Aṁbagahapiṭiyē (or Välitarē) Vimalasāra Tissa. He was a mahānāyaka himi, that is, the chief monk of his branch, the Mūlavaṃsa. For a short biography, see P. B. Sannasgala, Siṃhala sāhitya vaṃśaya. ārambhayē siṭa kri. va.1994 dakvā toraturu saṃgṛhitayi ([Koḷamba]: Saṃskṛtika depārtmentuvē anugrahaya yaṭatē, 2538/1994), p. 746. 4.  Kitsiri Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, 1750–1900. A Study of Religious Revival and Change (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), p. 145, note 3. 5.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, pp. 97–98; on the stamp printed in Sri Lanka in 2009, his lifetime is given with the dates 1766–1833. 6.  Ñāṇābhivaṃsa (1753–1833), the first Maungdaung sayadaw and the king’s chief of religious affairs at the end of the eighteenth century CE, was involved in the ordination of three of the five founders of the Amarapuranikāya in Sri Lanka (Ñāṇavimalatissa, Dhammajoti, and Dhammarakkhita), participating in their ordinations in Amarapura, Burma. 7.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, p. 149. 8.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, p. 146. See also Uditha Devapriya, “The Rise and Fall of Amarapura,” https://medium.com/@udithadevapriya/the-rise -and-fall-of-amarapura-997bd36130a7; last accessed February 28, 2020; Uditha Devapriya, “Sketches from the South. The Segmentation of Amarapura,” Daily Mirror Online, September 9, 2018, http://www.dailymirror.lk/article/Sketches-from -the-South-The-segmentation-of-Amarapura-153809.html (last accessed, September 12, 2020). 9.  Kapugama Dhammakkhandha (1768–1816), Aṁbagahapiṭiyē Ñāṇavimala Tissa (1768–1835), and Bogahapiṭiyē Dhammajoti (1780–1856) belonged to the Salāgāma; Kataluvē Guṇaratana (1752–1834) to the Karāve, and Attudāvē Dhammarakkhita (1775–1834) to the Durāve. All five went to Burma for ordination and brought their own ordination lineage to Lanka. 10.  They were further subdivided into four subcastes which later merged into two; see Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, p. 152, note 30. Like the members of the other two castes, the Salāgamas belonged to Tamils and Malayalis who migrated from South India to Sri Lanka between the fourteenth and eighteenth centuries CE; see Jude Lal Fernando, Religion, Conflict and Peace in Sri Lanka. The Politics of Interpretation of Nationhoods, Theology, Ethics and Interreligious Relations, Studies in Ecumenics, vol. 2 (Zürich, Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2013 (Dublin University dissertation, 2008)), p. 141; Michael Roberts, Caste Conflict and Elite Formation. The Rise of the Karāva Elite in Sri Lanka, 1500–1931, Cambridge South Asian Studies (London: Cambridge University Press, 2008 (original 1982)), p. 136ff.



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11.  Malalgoda, Buddhism in Sinhalese Society, p. 145. 12.  See Irwin, chapter 5 in this volume, where Irwin discusses a Thai translation of a letter from Dhīrānanda to Thera Vajirañāṇamaḳuta (later King Mongkut or Rama IV). 13.  Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā. Vorschriften zur Regelung der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze in älteren buddhistischen Texten, Monographien zur indischen Archäologie, Kunst und Philologie, 8 (Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 1992), B 15.8. 14.  For more information on the single Vinaya texts, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Vinaya Commentarial Literature in Pāli,” Brill’s Encyclopedia of Buddhism, vol. 1, ed. Jonathan Silk, O. v. Hinüber, V. Eltschinger (Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 430– 441. For the Sīmālaṅkārasāṅgaha, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, A Manual of the Adornment of the Monastic Boundary: Vācissara’s Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha, Edition and Annotated Translation. Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur. Veröffentlichungen der Fächergruppenkommission für Außereuropäische Sprachen und Kulturen, 8. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2021. 15.  For more details concerning this dispute, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, “Translocal Debates and Legal Hermeneutics. Early Pali Vinaya Texts in the Adjudication of Sīmā Procedures c. 1200–1900 CE,” Buddhism, Law and Society 2 (2016– 2017): pp. 115–134. 16.  For an overview of the various editions, see Petra Kieffer-Pülz, Verlorene Gaṇṭhipadas zum buddhistischen Ordensrecht. Untersuchungen zu den in der Vajirabuddhiṭīkā zitierten Kommentaren Dhammasiris und Vajirabuddhis, Veröffentlichungen der Indologischen Kommission, 1 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2013), I XXXIIf. 17.  Vin I p. 111,3–6: sabbā bhikkhave nadī asīmā, sabbo samuddo asīmo, sabbo jātassaro asīmo, nadiyā vā bhikkhave samudde vā jātassare vā yaṃ majjhimassa purisassa samantā udakukkhepā ayaṃ tattha samānasaṃvāsā ekuposathā ti. “An entire river, monks, is not a boundary, an entire sea is not a boundary, an entire natural lake is not a boundary. Within a river, monks, or within a sea or within a natural lake, a throw of water all round of a man of average [strength] is there [the boundary] for the same communion, for one Observance.” 18.  For the context in which the quoted text stands, see note 17. Saṃvāsa literally is “dwelling together”; but in this context it is used in a wider sense, for a community (saṅgha) of monks (bhikkhu) sharing the same rules and interpretation of the rules, thus carrying out legal acts together in the same monastic boundary (for details, Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā, pp. 62–65). Saṃvāsa, therefore, is used here in the sense of “living together” with all facets implied. I thus render it in this context as “communion,” and samāna-saṃvāsa as “same communion.”

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19.  Sammānīyyate; sammā is used in the sense of saṃ, “together,” and combined with āniyyati (CPD s.v.) as to optically match sam-āno. 20.  Vjb p. 95,29–30; 132,5. For a discussion of these abbreviations, see KiefferPülz, Verlorene Gaṇṭhipadas, I p. 125f. 21.  In the manner in which this quotation is given in the Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī I do not see another possible way to understand the likhitaṃ. 22.  For a more detailed discussion of this passage, and of the question where the quotation from Dhammasiri’s Gaṇṭhipada begins, see Kieffer-Pülz, Verlorene Gaṇṭhipadas, III, pp. 1896–1898. 23.  Even if one assumes that the quotation from Dhammasiri’s Gaṇṭhipada did not consist merely of this final sentence, but included the objection and reply as well (see note 22), the syntactic structure indicates two independent sentences. 24.  Baddha-sīmā (literally “bounded boundary”) is a term for a monastic boundary determined (sammatā, baddhā) by a Buddhist community of at least four monks in a legal act (kamma). Opposite of abaddha-sīmā. These terms are also discussed in various chapters of this book. 25.  Sp V p. 1041,17–19: kammavācāpariyosāne yeva nimittāni bahi katvā heṭṭhā paṭhavīsandhārakaudakaṃ pariyantaṃ katvā sīmā gatā hoti. “At the end of the legal act, the sīmā [area] extends to the marks that have been made [lying] outside [the sīmā area, and] to the water supporting the earth (earth magma) that has been made the limit below.” See also Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā, B 5.0; kammavācāpariyosāne sīmā paṭhavīsandharakaudakaṃ pariyantaṃ katvā otarati. “At the end of the legal act, the sīmā [area] extends down to the water supporting the earth that has been made the limit [below]. See Kieffer-Pülz, Die Sīmā, B. 7.1.0. 26.  Abaddha-sīmā (literally an “unbound boundary”) is an undetermined monastic boundary. Abaddha-sīmā is the generic term for all types of monastic boundaries that are not determined by a Buddhist community in a legal act, but are either pre-existing secular boundaries such as the gāma-sīmā (including nigamasīmā, nagara-sīmā, visuṃgāma-sīmā), or boundaries that simply came into being (sattabbhantara-sīmā) or were fixed in some way (udakukkhepa-sīmā).

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Contributors

Jason A. Carbine is associate professor, C. Milo Connick Chair of Religious Studies at Whittier College. His research expertise focuses on the history and culture of Buddhism in South and Southeast Asia, and on Sri Lanka and Myanmar in particular. His teaching and research about religion draws from the fields of history, anthropology, sociology, textual studies, and comparative religious ethics. Carbine has authored a monograph on Shwegyin monks in Myanmar and has coedited two books, one dealing with the practice of Buddhism and the other with Theravāda Buddhism. He is currently finishing a new text and translation of the famed fifteenth-century Kalyāṇī Inscriptions, among other projects. M. L. Pattaratorn Chirapravati is an art historian who specializes in Buddhist art and Southeast Asian art visual cultures. She has published extensively on ancient Buddhist art (e.g., Votive Tablets in Thailand: Origin, Styles, and Uses (2007) and Divination Au Royaume De Siam: Le corps, la guerre, le destine (2011)). She cocurated two major art exhibitions at the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco, titled The Kingdom of Siam: Art from Central Thailand (1530–1800) and Emerald Cities: Arts of Siam and Burma (1775–1950). She is a faculty member in the Art Department and former director and vice director of the Asian Studies Program at California State University, Sacramento. She is also former head of studies, Division of Arts and Humanities at Yale-NUS College (Singapore). Kate Crosby is professor of Buddhist Studies in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies at King’s College, London. She works on Sanskrit, Pāli, and Pāli-vernacular literature, and on Theravāda practice in the premodern and modern periods. She is interested in the diversity of premodern meditation, the practicalities of monastic life, and what Theravāda Buddhism may have looked like at the dawn of the modern period. Her books include Theravāda Buddhism: Continuity, Diversity, Identity (2014) and Esoteric Theravada: The Story of the Forgotten Meditation Tradition of Southeast Asia (2020).

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372 Contributors

Erik Davis is professor of religious studies at Macalester College, in Saint Paul, Minnesota. He focuses on ritual performance and the lived practice of Buddhism in Cambodia. He has investigated the ritualization of ethnic boundaries, worked on Khmer folklore, and is currently finishing a volume regarding contemporary claims of past-birth memory and the social outcomes of such claims. His 2016 book focused on Buddhist funerals in contemporary Cambodia, and the Cambodian imagination of death, titled Deathpower: Buddhism’s Ritual Imagination in Cambodia. Elizabeth Guthrie lectures on Buddhism and Southeast Asian religion in the Department of Religious Studies at the University of Otago. Her primary area of research is Cambodia, but she has also traveled and worked in Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Burma, Arakan, Southwestern China, and Indonesia. Publications include a book on new religious movements in Cambodia, essays on Cambodian Buddhist nuns, the relationship between Buddhism and politics, the biography of the Buddha, and the religious iconography of mainland Southeast Asia. Chhuon Hoeur has worked as a research assistant for several international scholars since the 1990s. He completed an MA in law at Build Bright University in 2009 and has taught law and other topics at different schools in Cambodia as well as conducting private tutoring. A monk for more than ten years, he continues to supplement his income as a lay ritual specialist in Phnom Penh and Kampong Cham Province. He coauthored “A ‘People’s’ Irrigation Reservoir on the Tonle Sap Floodplain” in the book Conservation and Development in Cambodia (2015). Anthony Lovenheim Irwin is a visiting assistant professor in the Department of Religious Studies at Siena College in Albany, New York. He received his PhD from the Department of Asian Languages and Cultures at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He writes about Buddhist space and temple building in northern Thailand and on the social and ethical resonance of craft, construction, and spatial production as important religious activities. Alexandra Kent is an associate professor of social anthropology at the Gothenburg Research Institute, Sweden. Her early work focused on religion and power in India and Malaysia. In 2002, she began working in Cambodia, where she has studied various efforts to recover moral order in the wake of the Khmer Rouge era. These include studies of the revival of Buddhism, gender and religion, and the Khmer Rouge Tribunal. She is currently exploring the effects of the tribunal upon Cambodians’ expectations and notions of “justice.” She has published widely and has also coedited with Professor David Chandler the anthology People of Virtue: Reconfiguring Religion, Power and Moral Order in Cambodia Today (2008).



Contributors

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Petra Kieffer-Pülz is a research fellow at the Academy of Sciences and Literature in Mainz, Germany. She holds an MA and a PhD in Indology from the University of Göttingen, Germany. Her primary fields of interest include the cultural history and literature of the Buddhism of South and Southeast Asia, with a special focus on Pāli literature and Buddhist monastic traditions (Vinaya). Besides numerous works and reviews, her authored and coedited works include Die Sīmā. Vorschriften zur Regelung der buddhistischen Gemeindegrenze in älteren buddhistischen Texten (1992). Satoru Kobayashi is a professor of Southeast Asian Area Studies at the Center for Southeast Asian Studies, Kyoto University. He is an anthropologist who has been interested in studying local transformation of livelihoods and religious activities in rural Cambodia as well as other Asian countries. His recent research focuses on sociological aspect of expansion of merit-making activities among Cambodian Buddhists in an era of globalization, with the special focus on ritual behavior for caring for sick persons. He is currently writing a book on the social history of Cambodian rural communities since the beginning of the twentieth century. John Marston has taught at the Center for Asian and African Studies of El Colegio de México in Mexico City since 1997. A sociocultural anthropologist by training, his research has gone in several directions, but he is perhaps best known for research on Cambodian religion, on new movements centered on religious building projects and on religious practice as it responds to political and economic change. Recent research looks at cohorts of Cambodian monks studying in India prior to 1975. He is coeditor (with Elizabeth Guthrie) of History, Buddhism, and New Religious Movements in Cambodia (2004). Stephen A. Murphy is the Pratapaditya Pal Senior Lecturer in Curating and Museology of Asian Art at the Department of History of Art and Archaeology, SOAS, University of London. He specializes in the art and archaeology of early Buddhism and Hinduism in Thailand, Laos, Myanmar, Cambodia and Malaysia, as well as Asian maritime trade, particularly in the middle to late first millennium CE. In terms of museology, he engages with issues surrounding colonialism/postcolonial studies and debates surrounding decolonizing museums, with a particular focus on Southeast Asia. He has published several museum catalogs on Southeast Asia. He is coeditor of The Tang Shipwreck: Art and Exchange in the 9th Century (2017) and of Before Siam: Essays in Art and Archaeology (2014) and has contributed works to leading academic journals such as Asian Perspectives, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, and Journal of Southeast Asian Studies. Nagasena Bhikkhu is from the Chittagong Hill Tracts in Bangladesh, where he runs Lotus Children Home for underprivileged children. After traditional Buddhist studies in Sitwe, Arakan State, he gained a BA from Mahachulalongkorn Buddhist

374 Contributors

University, Bangkok, and MAs from Kelaniya University, Sri Lanka, and another from SOAS, University of London. His SOAS PhD (2012) was on the textual history and practice of sīmā consecration in Burma. He currently divides his time between Bangladesh and the United Kingdom, teaching at the Birmingham Buddhist Vihara and the Birmingham Buddhist Academy (UK), which is affiliated with the International Theravāda Buddhist Missionary University, Myanmar. Tom Newhall is currently a PhD student in the Department of Asian Languages and Cultures at UCLA, but his contribution to this book was researched and written while he was a PhD student in the Department of Indian Philosophy and Buddhist Studies at the University of Tokyo. His research focuses on medieval East Asian Buddhist monasticism, particularly the works of Daoxuan and the tradition of Chinese-language commentaries on monastic regulations. He lives with his family in Los Angeles. Arthid Sheravanichkul graduated from Chulalongkorn University, where he received his PhD in Thai literature. He is currently assistant professor at the Department of Thai, Faculty of Arts and Thaiwithat Research Unit, Chulalongkorn University. His research interest is on Thai Buddhist literature and culture. Courtney Work is assistant professor in the Department of Ethnology at the National Chengchi University in Taipei, Taiwan. She began research on Cambodia in 2005 and received her PhD in anthropology from Cornell University in 2014. Her research ranges to include religion, development, the environment, the past and present of Southeast Asian political formations, and climate change politics. She has published widely on these various topics, and her book Tides of Empire: Religion, Development, and Environment in Cambodia (2020) explores how soldiers and settlers, loggers and land-spirits negotiate Cambodia’s development frontier while carving a new village out of the forest.

Index

Bold page numbers refer to figures or tables. abaddha-sīmās (lit., “unbound boundaries”; boundaries not consecrated or determined through a legal procedure): absence of markers, 2; Analysis of Sīmās on, 285–288; defined, 1, 14n3, 279, 338n26; distinction from consecrated sīmās, 21; types, 33–34. See also gāmasīmās; sīmās; udakukkhepa-sīmās Abbreviated History (Da song seng shi lue), 76–77, 78, 82–83, 92 ABE. See Association of Buddhist Monks for the Environment agriculture: association with sīmā, 217–218; industrial plantations, 232, 233, 234–235, 247, 250, 251 Alahana Parivena monastery, 57–58 Amarapura Nikāya, 4, 125, 130, 134, 141n3, 326, 327, 336n6. See also Balapiṭiya sīmā case Aṁbagahapiṭiyē Ñāṇavimala Tissa, 326, 336n3, 336n9 Aṁbarukkhārāma, in Välitara (Välitoṭa), Balapiṭiya, 326 Anagarika Dharmapāla, 20 anak tā (ancient ones), 232, 235, 239–242 Analysis of Sīmās (Sīmā Vinicchaya): contents, 268, 269, 276–277; publication, 267, 269, 276–277; sources, 268; translation, 277–288; uses, 268–269 Analysis of Sīmās in Summary (Sīmā Vinicchaya Saṅkhepa), 267, 268–270, 276–277

Angkor: as capital city, 51, 245; preservation efforts, 249; sīmā stones, 58–59 Angkor Conservation Office, 58 Angkorian kings, 204, 210, 239 Angkor Wat, 154, 190, 191, 225n31 animism, 155–156, 161, 194, 246 Anuradhapura, Niki Vihara Chaitya, 57 APSARA Authority, 49 Asad, Talal, 242 Āsram Alnong Kong, 190 Āsram Phnom Balieng, 189–190 āsrams, in Cambodia, 182, 189–191, 192, 197n17, 200n46 Āsram Teuk Ap Daung Phdav, 190–191 assembly. See parisā-sampatti Association of Buddhist Monks for the Environment (ABE), 250 Aung-Thwin, Michael, 316n6 avippavāsa-sīmās (lit., “boundaries for the [condition of] not being separated [from the three robes]”), 130–131, 284–285, 294n60 Ayutthaya period, 43, 52, 53, 58, 110, 111, 112 Baddhasimapasada, 57–58 baddha-sīmās (lit., “bound boundaries”; boundaries determined through a legal procedure), 1, 21, 126, 136, 137, 279–285, 338n24. See also sīmās Bago (Pegu). See Kalyāṇī Sīmā, Bago baisema. See Thailand, sīmā stones

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Index

Balapiṭiya sīmā case, 4, 20, 134, 136, 326–328, 329 Bangkok: as capital city, 111; Grand Palace, 59, 111, 113, 124n56; Wat Phra Kaew, 111, 111; Wat Suthat Dhepvararam, 57. See also Thonburi Bangkok period, sīmā stones, 110, 111–112 Bangladesh, water-splashing sīmā, 35. See also udakukkhepa-sīmās Baochang, Biographies of Buddhist Nuns (Biqiuni zhuan), 80–81, 92 Battambang, Cambodia, 160, 162, 164, 166 Beikthano, 55 Bender, Barbara, 235–236, 238, 240 Bēratuḍuvē Dhammadhāra, 326 Bertrand, Didier, 155 Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa (festival of the dead), 157–159 Bhūridatta Jātaka, 48 Biographies of Buddhist Nuns (Biqiuni zhuan), 80–81, 92 Biographies of Eminent Monks (Gaoseng zhuan), 77–79, 82, 83, 84, 92 biopower, 218 Bizot, François, 255n54, 266 Blagden, C. O., 56–57, 300 boats: as ordination platforms, 80–81, 92, 103–104n69; performing sanghakamma on, 288. See also udakukkhepa-sīmās Bōpāgoḍa Sumana, 327 boundaries: constructing order with, 151, 153; effects, 1; political, 244. See also gāma-sīmās; sīmās boundary markers. See sīmā boundary markers; territorial markers Bourdieu, Pierre, 219–220 Brahmanism, 44, 46, 155, 203, 243, 245 Buddha: as cakkavattī, 216–217; on establishment of sīmās, 278–279; jātaka tales, 48–49, 56, 110, 215; life of, 48; sermon on Vulture’s Peak, 268, 278 Buddhaghosa, 22, 268, 329. See also Kaṅkhāvitāraṇī; Samantapāsādikā Buddhapadeep, 23 Buddha Sasana Council, 322n60, 324n83

Buddhist Institute, 267 Buddhist law, 11, 13. See also sīmā validity; vinaya Bunthoeun, Sam, 162 buried stones. See Cambodia, sīmā stones; sīmā stones; Thailand, sīmā stones Burma: adoption of Buddhism, 44, 53–54; Bamaw Sayadaw, 27; civil war, 310, 325n84; independence, 306, 321n50; litanies performed, 31, 32; Mahāpāsāṇa Cave, 22, 38n10; ordination halls (thein), 54, 55–56; sīmā consecrations, 24; sīmā rituals, 28–29; sīmā shapes, 26; sīmā stones, 17n21, 26–27, 53–57; sīmā validity cases, 23, 24–25. See also Kalyāṇī Sīmā; Myanmar Cambodia: adoption of Buddhism, 44, 58, 59, 155, 156–157, 210; capitalist economy, 160, 170n7, 183; contemporary political economy, 152–153; economic inequality, 152–153, 165; elections, 161, 162, 169, 175n67, 177; expatriates, 159–160, 183; French colonial rule, 267; history, 245–246; house inauguration rituals, 214; Kampong Thum Province, 179–181, 183–194; Khmer Rouge, 151, 159, 163, 178–179, 180, 275–276; land disputes, 233, 234–235, 241, 247, 250; lowlands and highlands, 179–180, 196n9; Ministry of Cults and Religion, 181–182, 183, 185, 189, 190, 197n14, 201n53; monastic sects, 197n11; moral degeneration perceived, 158–159, 160–161, 162, 165–166, 168–169; nationalism, 267; neoliberal economic policies, 165, 168–169; political parties, 161, 162, 163, 166–168, 186–187; reconstruction, 151, 152, 159; royal buildings, 203–204; rural poor, 152–153, 159; territorial markers, 202–203, 209, 242–243; Vietnamese rule, 151–152, 161 Cambodia, Buddhist revival: āsrams, 189–191; external forces and, 165;

Index377 field research, 153, 164–169, 183–193; government support, 181; historical imagination and, 195; monks, 161–162, 168–169, 174n58, 179, 183, 192, 197n12; new temples, 159–161; nuns, 159, 173n53; recognizing ancient sīmā, 189–192, 193, 195; re-establishing sīmās, 3, 153, 179, 184–187; reordinations, 174n58, 179; roles of temples, 153, 177; under Vietnamese rule, 161; views of sīmā, 164–166 Cambodia, sīmā rituals: effects of reforms, 270–271, 272; Kruṅ Vālī ritual preceding, 204–206, 207; meanings, 60, 221; non-Buddhist, 269–270; objects placed in holes, 160, 162, 164, 185, 187, 207, 214; popularity, 60; puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā, 202–203, 205, 206–208, 208, 213–214, 216; in rock shelters, 246; stone-planting ceremonies, 153, 155, 156, 162–163, 164–167; territorial marking practices and, 202–203; thread and cloth with magical powers, 164–165, 166, 187–188, 207, 208; in villages, 153; at Wat Unnalom, 272–275. See also pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā ritual Cambodia, sīmā stones: at Angkor, 58–59; archaeological remains, 191, 195, 236; central, 155, 207, 211, 245; decorative motifs, 154, 243; leaf stones (slẏk sīmā), 181, 207, 217, 242; narrative art carvings, 58; at non-Buddhist temples, 242–243; at ordination halls (vihāras), 154–157, 172n26, 181; on Phnom Gok, 229, 233, 236, 237, 238–239, 243, 244–247, 248, 250; at Phnom Kulen, 49–51, 50, 243; ṛs sīmā (sīmā roots), 184, 187, 206–207; shapes and sizes, 58–59, 154, 156, 244. See also indakhīla stones Cambodian People’s Party (CPP), 152, 162, 166–167, 170n7, 175n67, 187 Cambodian temples (wats): Angkor Wat, 154, 190, 191, 225n31; archaeological remains, 189–191, 191, 194–195; Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa (festival of the dead),

157–159; buildings, 181; central stones, 245; consecration rituals, 161, 162–163, 164–167, 178, 188; construction in twentieth century, 180; creation of, 177–178, 181–182, 193, 194–195, 197n14; destroyed under Pol Pot regime, 178–179, 183–184; diversity, 177, 178, 181; donations to, 153, 159–160, 162, 164, 165, 167, 183, 184, 187, 215; in Kampong Thum Province, 180, 181, 183–188, 193–194; khaṇḍa-sīmās, 147n66, 155, 163, 202; local knowledge of histories, 188, 189, 193; mahā-sīmās, 154–155; number of, 181, 193, 197n11; political parties associated with, 161, 162, 163, 166–168, 175n66, 186–187, 198n26; protective spirits, 214–215, 216; reconstruction of, 182–183, 184–185, 189, 193, 198n24; roles, 171n24, 177; scholarship on, 177; sīmās, 181, 217; unofficial worship spaces, 182, 192–193, 194, 197n15, 201n51. See also vihāras catu-pārisuddhi-sīla (four kinds of morality consisting of purification), 303, 320n42. See also pāṭimokkha Certeau, Michel de, 241 Chajang, 93 Chan (Jp. Zen) school, 68 Chao Phraya Basin, 51 Chen, Huaiyu, 70 Chiang Mai, 243–244 China: ordinations, 87, 95; sinification of Buddhism, 70. See also ordination platforms in China chthonic energies, 232–233, 235, 238, 242, 249, 250. See also Phnom Gok Chulalongkorn, King. See Rama V Chuon Nath, 211, 265–268, 272, 273, 274, 275 Coedès, George, 46 Coḷiya Kassapa, 329 Commentary on Conduct and Procedure (Xingshi chao), 86 communists, in Burma, 310, 311, 315 consecration rituals: of Cambodian temples, 161, 162–163, 164–167, 178,

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Index

188; of vihāras, 162, 164–165, 178; vinaya on, 132. See also sīmā consecrations Continued Biographies of Eminent Monks (Xu gaoseng zhuan), 84 CPP. See Cambodian People’s Party Daeng Silavaḍḍhano, Somdet Phra Wannarat, 118–119, 120 daḷhikamma (act of strengthening), 127–128, 129, 133–134, 135–136, 139–140 Daoan, 83 Daoxuan: Commentary on Conduct and Procedure (Xingshi chao), 86; Illustrated Scripture of Jetavana (Zhong tianzhu sheweiguo zhihuan si tujing), 70, 88–89, 90–91, 93, 94; Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms (Guanzhong chuangli jietan tujing), 68, 81–82, 83, 85, 88, 89–90, 91; Lüxiang gantong zhuan, 69, 83; on ordinations, 89–90, 93 Davis, Erik W., 157, 229, 238, 244 deathpower, 218 deva (gods), 53, 309, 314, 319n25 devatā (deities), 269–270, 274 Dhammacetī, King. See Rāmādhipati Dhammasiri, Gaṇṭhipada, 330, 331 Dhammayuttika (Thammayut) order: divisions between land and water monks, 135–136, 140; founding, 126, 266; ordinations, 112, 133–136; patriarchs, 119; practices, 128, 131; temples, 59, 113–117, 118, 120; transregional connections, 129–132; uposatha-rafts, 126, 127, 128, 133–134, 135, 139. See also Rama IV (Mongkut), King Dhammayuttika reformation, 126, 127, 128–129, 135, 139, 140 Dhammazedi. See Rāmādhipati, King Dharmaguptaka, 73, 78, 79, 98n25, 102nn53–54, 104n75, 143 Dhīrānanda, 125–126, 129, 130–132, 134, 136, 138, 139, 141n3 Diam Sukh, 231–232, 233, 234–235, 236, 240, 245, 246–250

Douglas, Mary, 151 Dunhuang, 83–85, 92 Dvaravati culture, 51–52, 53, 57, 242 ecclesiastical acts. See ordinations; rituals; sanghakammas École du Pali, Phnom Penh, 267 École Française d’Extrême-Orient (EFEO), 249, 267 Edwards, Penny, 266, 267 EFEO. See École Française d’Extrême-Orient Enryakuji, 67 Finot, Louis, 266, 272 Five-Part Vinaya (Wufen lü), 73–74 Foucault, Michel, 218 Four-Part Vinaya (Sifen lü; Jp. Shibun ritsu), 67, 71–73, 74, 79 French Indochina, 267 Funayama Tōru, 70, 82 FUNCINPEC Party, 167 Gabaude, Louis, 177 gāma-sīmās (village boundaries): Analysis of Sīmās on, 285–286; in cities, 286; connections to baddha-sīmās, 4; defining, 23; sīmās based on, 23, 33–34; udakukkhepa-sīmās and, 328, 332, 334 Ganjin (Ch. Jianzhen), 66–67, 68, 69, 93 Gaṇṭhipada, 330, 331 Gier, Nicholas F., 324–325n83 Giteau, Madeleine, 4, 60, 155, 161, 205, 213, 243, 265, 269–270, 273, 274 Gok Mountain. See Phnom Gok Goldsworthy, Andy, 236 Gorman, Chester, 46 Graeber, David, 203–204, 220 great sīmās. See mahā-sīmās Great Tang Chronicle of Eminent Monks (Da tang xiyu qiufa gaoseng zhuan), 85–86, 90–91 Green Vision, 235, 246, 247, 249–250 Groslier, Bernard-Philippe, 244 grū pāramī (spirit medium), 187–188 Guillou, Anne Y., 155 Guthrie, Elizabeth, 270–271

Index379 Hansen, Anne R., 267, 268 Harding, Sandra, 238 Harris, Ian, 53, 155, 161, 163, 216, 243, 244, 245, 272, 275 hatthapāsa (arm’s reach), 22, 23, 25, 30, 32, 34, 293n55, 334 Heirman, Ann, 79, 82, 102n54 Hevajra, 58 Hiei, Mount, 67 higher ordinations (upasampadā), 19, 23, 132–133, 141n5, 142–143n13, 303 Hirakawa Akira, 70, 71, 74, 79, 98n20, 105–106n93 historical imagination, 180, 191, 192, 195. See also pāramī houses: inauguration rituals, 214; thresholds, 13, 226n44 Huffman, Franklin, 277 Huijiao, Biographies of Eminent Monks (Gaoseng zhuan), 77–79, 82, 83, 84, 92 Huiming, 84 Huineng, 68 Hun Sen, 152 Huot Tath, 265–267, 268, 272, 273, 275–276. See also Analysis of Sīmās Illustrated Scripture of Jetavana (Zhong tianzhu sheweiguo zhihuan si tujing), 70, 88–89, 90–91, 93, 94 Illustrated Scripture on Ordination Platforms (Guanzhong chuangli jietan tujing), 68, 81–82, 83, 85, 88, 89–90, 91 indakhīla (Khmer, indakil) stones: burial rituals, 156, 161, 207, 211, 218; in Cambodia, 155, 207, 211, 212, 218, 271–272, 273, 275; as central stone of khaṇḍa-sīmā, 155, 211, 212–213, 242; Chuon Nath on, 211; development of tradition, 12–13; distinction from sīmā stones, 211; Huot Tath on, 272; non-Buddhist meanings, 211–212; at Phnom Gok, 245; shapes and sizes, 211, 212; symbolism, 155, 211, 217, 218; in Thailand, 12–13, 211, 224n25. See also sīmā-khīla stones India, ordination platforms, 69, 74–75, 85–91, 93, 94

Indorf, Pinna, 57 Indra, 13, 155, 211, 213 Ingold, Tim, 238 Itō Chūta, 70 Janowski, Monica, 236 Japan, ordination platforms, 66–68, 67, 76, 91, 93 Jayavarman VII, 58 Jetavana monastery, 88, 89, 90–91, 93 jietan. See ordination platforms in China Jingjian, 80, 81, 92, 103 Kaet Vay, 192, 193, 200–201n50 kaidan (ordination platform), 66, 67, 71, 91 Kalyāṇī Sīmā, Bago (Pegu): establishment, 20, 121–122n12; interior, 298; monks ordained at, 127, 307; rebuilding, 297, 306, 307, 311; rituals held at, 307–308; staking ceremony (1953), 305–307, 308–311; U Nu’s staking ceremony speech, 297, 305–306, 307, 308–311, 312–313, 314–315 Kalyāṇī Sīmā, Bago (Pegu), stone inscriptions: compared to U Nu’s speech, 312–313, 314–315; concluding verses, 300, 301–302, 303–305, 307, 318n16; copies, 300–301; “excessive rain” discussion, 35; katikavatta, 302–303, 304, 307; significance, 297, 299–300; sīmā rules, 56–57, 144–145n37; summarized at 1953 ceremony, 307 Kalyāṇī Sīmā, Daik Wun Kwin Yat Kwet, 298 Kalyāṇī Sīmā, Thaton, 56, 60 Kalyāṇī-sīmā order, 113 Kamburupiṭiye Ariyasēna, 3–4 kammas (legal acts). See sanghakammas kammavācā-sampatti, 21, 29–32, 33, 280, 284. See also litanies Kang Sengkai, 79 Kaṅkhāvitāraṇī, 21, 22, 33, 36, 38n11, 329 Kapugama Dhammakkhandha, 328, 336n9 Karpelès, Suzanne, 267 katikavatta (agreement for rules of conduct, alt., katikavatta, katikāvatta, katikavacana), 302–303, 304, 307

380

Index

Keane, Webb, 244 Keyes, Charles F., 174n58 khaṇḍa-sīmās (lit., “[monastic] boundaries that are a part” or “[monastic] boundaries for a part [of a Buddhist community]”): in Cambodia, 155, 163, 202, 284; central stones (indakhīla), 155, 211, 212–213; defined, 121n8; establishing, 284; ordinations held in, 71–73, 75, 124n33; in Thailand, 113, 119–120, 124n33. See also sīmās Khmer culture, 50, 52, 58, 215 Khmer Rouge, 151, 159, 161, 163, 178–179, 180, 183, 275–276 Khorat Plateau, 43, 44–49, 45, 50, 52, 53, 58, 60 Kieffer-Pülz, Petra, 4, 53, 71, 75, 123n28, 128, 130 Kiernan, Ben, 275–276 Kingmanee, Arunsak, 48 kings: Angkorian, 204, 210, 239; centralized power, 155; deaths caused by, 215, 216, 217; land ceded for sīmās, 217–218, 221, 244; land claims, 243, 250; visuṃgāma-sīmās established by, 24, 117, 136–139, 140. See also sovereignty; territorial markers; and individual kings Korea, ordination platforms, 93 Krairiksh, Piriya, 46, 56 Kruṅ Vālī, 204–206, 217, 218, 235, 244, 270, 274 Kruṅ Vālī ritual, 204–206, 207 lakes. See udakukkhepa-sīmās; water Lamuth, Ray, 273 land disputes, 233, 234–235, 241, 247, 250 Laṅkāgoḍē Dhīrānanda, 328 Lanna period, sīmā stones, 110 Laos, sīmā stones, 56, 59 Latour, Bruno, 238, 241 lay people: excluded from sīmās, 11–12, 18; precepts, 215 leaf stones (slẏk sīmā), 181, 207, 217, 242 Lee, Sangyop, 94 legal issues, 11, 13. See also Balapiṭiya sīmā case; land disputes; sīmā validity

Leper King, 240 Li Qunyu, 66 Lidai sanbao ji, 79 linga. See territorial markers litanies (kammavācās), 27–28, 29–32, 284–285. See also kammavācā-sampatti Lok Ta Nem, 248 loka dhaṃ (high-ranking officials), 165 London, Thai sīmā in, 23 Lon Nol, 275, 276 Luce, Gordon H., 56 luk nimit (buried stones), 53, 54, 127, 142n9, 245 Luon Sovath, 169 Lu Thai, 52 Lüxiang gantong zhuan, 69, 83 Mabbett, I. W., 243 Mahānikāya Order: monks, 119, 131–132, 136, 140, 265–267; patriarchs, 265, 267–268, 273, 275–276; reformism, 266, 268, 270–271, 272; temples, 118–120; Wat Unnalom, 270, 272–275 Mahānipāta Jātaka, 48–49 Mahāpāsāṇa Cave, 22, 38n10 mahā-sīmās (great sīmās): in Cambodia, 154–155; defined, 121n7; introduced by Rama IV, 113; in Thailand, 118–119, 123n27; Wat Phothinimit, 118, 119, 120, 124n33; Wat Rajapradit Sathitmahasimaram, 112, 113–116, 114, 117 Mahāvagga, 34, 268, 279 Mahāvaṃsa, 217 Mahendraparvata, 50 Malalgoda, Kitsiri, 4 mandala polities, 244 mandalas (maṇḍalas), 75, 154, 165, 272 markers. See boundary markers; sīmā stones; territorial markers Marston, John A., 174n58, 179, 248 Massey, Doreen, 246 Maung Mya, 56 mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī (master/owner of water and land), 230, 232, 233–234, 235, 239. See also Kruṅ Vālī McDaniel, Justin, 268 McRae, John R., 70, 93, 98n20, 105–106n93

Index381 Method for Those Who Leave the Home to Receive the Bodhisattva Precepts, A (Chujiaren shou pusajie fa), 83–84 Ministry of Cults and Religion, Cambodia, 181–182, 183, 185, 189, 190, 197n14, 201n53 Miura, Keiko, 249 Miyabayashi Akihiko, 70, 103n59 Mohesengqie lü, 74 monastic boundaries. See khaṇḍasīmās monastic community. See monks; sangha; vinaya Mongkut, King. See Rama IV monks: defeated, 24; number needed to establish sīmā, 22; offerings to, 157–158; political participation, 161–162, 174n59; robes worn within sīmā, 31, 130–131; transregional connections, 129–132, 179. See also ordinations Mon lineage, 127–129, 133 monsoon rain, 35 Moore, Elizabeth H., 55 Morgan, David, 242 Mrauk-U, 54 Muang Fa Daed, 47–48 Mūlasarvāstivāda-vinaya, 4, 74, 75, 76, 87, 100 Mūlavaṃsa lineage, 326, 327 Murata Jirō, 70 Murphy, Stephen A., 245, 246 Mus, Paul, 209, 224n25, 226n49, 243 Myanmar: nuns, 173n53; violence by monks, 227n58. See also Burma nadīpāra-sīmā (special type of a determined sīmā (baddha-sīmā), 333–334, 333. See also baddha-sīmās nāgas (serpents, mythical snakes): across Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain mythologies and practice, 223n10; associations with kings, 206, 221; in Bhūridatta Jātaka, 48; defined, 205; images in Bhjuṃ Piṇḍa festival, 158; invisible, 192; Khmer origins and, 223n11; motifs carved on sīmā stones, 110, 111, 114. See also Kruṅ Vālī

Nagasena Bhikkhu, 17n21 Nakhon Si Thammarat, 52 Nālanda ordination platform, 85–86 Nalanda-Sriwijaya Centre, 49 Ñāṇābhivaṃsa, Saṅgharāja, 326 Ñāṇavimalatissa, 328 Nanlin Monastery, 81–82, 83, 85, 92 Nara National Research Institute for Cultural Properties, 59 Ñeyyadhamma: Sīmāvivādavinicchayakathā, 329; on udakukkhepa-sīmās, 34 Nidana-katha, 48, 56 nimitta. See sīmā boundary markers nimitta-sampatti (validity of boundary markers): importance, 21; key points, 29; khmer rendering of, 280; rules, 25–29, 280–283 nonconfusionists (asaṅkāra-vādin), 326, 327 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). See Green Vision Nu, U, Prime Minister of Burma: socialist opponents, 324n83; staking ceremony speech, 297, 305–306, 307, 308–311, 312–313, 314–315 nuns: in Cambodia, 159; in Myanmar, 173n53; ordinations, 173n53; ordinations on boat, 80–81, 92, 103–104n69; upasampadā ordinations, 142–143n13 Ōchō Enichi, 70, 89, 91 O’Connor, Richard A., 240 O’Lemmon, Matthew, 162 ordination halls: in Burma (thein), 54, 55–56; in Thailand (ubosat), 43, 44, 49. See also sīmās; uposatha; vihāras ordination platforms: boats as, 80–81, 92, 103–104n69; development timeline, 91–93; importance, 69, 95; in India, 69, 74–75, 85–91, 93, 94; in Japan, 66–68, 67, 76, 91, 93; in Korea, 93; scholarship on, 69–71; shapes, 85, 105–106n93; as sīmās, 71–73, 80 ordination platforms in China (jietan): boat used as, 80–81, 92; Daoxuan on, 68–69, 70; factors in development,

382

Index

94–95; first uses, 76–85, 92; Indian influences, 91, 94–95; ordinations, 87; as sīmās, 71–74, 75; textual evidence, 73–74, 75–80, 92–93 ordinations: in China, 87, 95; daḷhikamma, 127–128, 129, 133– 134, 135–136, 139–140; Daoxuan on, 89–90, 93; Dhammayuttika, 112, 133–136; diverse traditions, 128; higher (upasampadā), 19, 23, 132–133, 141n5, 142–143n13, 303; in India, 87; in Japan, 66–67, 91; karman texts, 79–80, 92, 103n59; of nuns on boat, 80–81, 92, 103– 104n69; precepts, 67, 68; sīmā for, 93–95; of trees, 250; in udakukkhepa-sīmās, 132–133, 139, 141n5. See also reordinations; uposatha ceremonies Orsi, Robert, 240 Others, 299, 304, 314–315 overlapping sīmās, 27–28 Pāli pronunciations, 32 Pāli Vinaya: Mahāvagga, 34, 268, 279; on ordination spaces, 71; Parivāra, 19; sīmā tradition in, 4, 19. See also Analysis of Sīmās; vinaya Pānadura debate., 20 Parakkamabāhu II, 319n24 Parākramabāhu (Parakkamabāhu) I, 141n5, 318n19, 319n23 pāramī: meanings, 191, 255–256n54; as perfection, 214; as power, 187–188, 191–193, 194, 216, 255–256n54; as virtues, 11, 155, 165 parisā-sampatti (validity of assembly), 21, 22–25, 25, 280, 283 parisā-vipatti (failure of assembly), 24 Parivāra, 19 pāsāṇanimittas. See sīmā stones pāṭimokkha (rules governing monastic life), 19–20, 125, 278, 320n42, 329. See also catu-pārisuddhi-sīla Pawaret, Prince, 135–136, 146n57 Pegu. See Kalyāṇī Sīmā, Bago Petchaburi, 51, 52 Pheapimex Corporation, 234

Phnom Gok, Pursat Province, Cambodia: Diam’s vision of, 247; indakhīla stone, 245; preservation efforts, 249–250; religious activities, 247–249; sīmā, 244–246; sīmā stones, 229, 233, 236, 237, 238–239, 243, 244–247, 248, 250; Temple of the Seven Angels, 229, 234–235, 249, 250; water flows, 247–248; Yāy Deb at, 240–241 Phnom Kulen, Cambodia, 49–51, 53, 243 Phnom Penh Post, 162 Phra Ariyamuni (Thap), 135, 145nn51–52 Phra Sumet, 127 pidhī pañcuḥ sīmā (burying sīmā) ritual: meanings, 178, 187, 195; merit gained by attendees, 178, 184, 185, 187; at rebuilt vihāras, 184–188, 186, 193, 198nn28–29; worship spaces established without performing, 188, 189, 193, 194. See also Cambodia, sīmā rituals Pitya Bunnag, 123n27 plantations. See agriculture Plate, S. Brent, 236 Platform Scripture of the Sixth Patriarch (Liuzu tanjing), 68, 69 political parties, Cambodian, 161, 162, 163, 166–168, 175n66, 186–187, 198n26 Polonnaruwa, 57 Pol Pot, 151, 163, 168, 178–179, 180, 276 Porée-Maspero, Éveline, 158, 205, 271 power: bio-, 218; chthonic, 232–233, 235, 238, 242, 249, 250; of stones, 236–239. See also pāramī; sovereignty Pranke, Patrick, 316n7 precept platforms. See ordination platforms pretas (hungry ghosts), 157, 158, 205 puṇya pañcuḥ sīmā ritual, 202–203, 205, 206–208, 208, 213–214, 216. See also Cambodia, sīmā rituals Pursat Province, Cambodia, 234. See also Phnom Gok Pyu, 44, 53, 55

Index383 Raffles, Hugh, 238 rafts. See uposatha-rafts Rāmādhipati (Dhammacetī, Dhammazedi), King: Dhammayuttika reformation, 126, 127, 128–129, 135, 139, 140; Kalyāṇī reformation, 121–122n12, 127, 297, 316–317n9; Kalyāṇī Sīmā establishment, 20, 121–122n12. See also Dhammayuttika order; Kalyāṇī Sīmā stone inscriptions Rama I, King, 110–111 Rama III, King, 129 Rama IV (Mongkut), King: avoidance of controversy, 136; as monk, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129–134, 139–140; reordination, 113, 126, 127, 128, 139, 206; scripturalism, 129, 133, 139; on sīmās, 127, 129, 132, 136–139, 140, 145–146n52; temples built by, 112–117, 119, 120, 123nn29–30; on vinaya, 133 Rama V (Chulalongkorn), King, 118, 119, 135, 136 Rama VI, King, 59 Rama Khamheng, 52 Rāmaññadesa, 122n12, 127, 302, 313, 316n9, 320n40. See also Rāmaññamaṇḍala Rāmaññamaṇḍala, 302, 320n40. See also Rāmaññadesa Ranariddh, Prince, 167 Randoṁbē Dhammālaṅkāra, Sīmānayadappana, 335 Ratchaburi, 51–52 reordinations: in Burma, 20, 303; in Cambodia, 174n58, 179; daḷhikamma ceremonies, 133; of Rama IV, 113, 126, 127, 128, 139, 206; in udakukkhepa-sīmās, 113, 126, 135 Revire, Nicolas, 46, 51 revocation of sīmās, 27–28, 30, 284–285 rituals: house inauguration, 214; Kruṅ Vālī, 204–206, 207; water-pouring, 307, 308, 323–324n74. See also Cambodia, sīmā rituals; consecration rituals; ordinations; sīmā validity; sanghakammas

ritual spaces, 314. See also sīmās rivers, 26, 295n77, 333–334. See also udakukkhepa-sīmās; uposatha-rafts; water Sa Pussadeva, 119 sabhāga (homogeneous), 295n76. See also visabhāga sacrifices: foundation, 204, 214, 215; human, 156, 199n36, 203, 213–216, 218, 219, 226n49, 226n52; in sīmā rituals, 157, 164, 203, 204, 207, 213–214, 219; violence of, 156–157, 203 Saddhammavaṃsa lineage, 134, 327. See also Mūlavaṃsa lineage Saichō, 67, 69 Śaivism, 51, 210 Salāgama monks, 326 samāna-saṃvāsa (same communion, common affiliation), 30, 31, 293n59, 337n18 Samantapāsādikā: authorship, 38–39n11; cited in sīmā texts, 329; on daḷhikamma ceremony, 128, 133; on ordination platforms, 74–75, 76; on sīmā regulations, 4, 27, 36; on sīmā rituals, 28; on sīmās, 22, 334; on udakukkhepa-sīmās, 34–35; on visuṃgāma-sīmās, 130, 131, 138 Saṃghabhadra, 74 sammatā (agreed upon, determined), 31, 46, 115, 280, 285, 291–292nn45–46, 338n24 sampatti (validity), 19–20. See also kammavācā-sampatti; parisāsampatti; parisā-vipatti; sīmā validity saṃvega (religious agitation), 299, 301, 304–305, 306, 313, 314, 321n48 sangha (monastic community): meeting places for ecclesiastical business, 1, 3, 18, 21–22; relationship to lay communities, 11–12. See also monks; vinaya sanghakammas (acts or rituals of monastic community): daḷhikamma and, 127–128, 129; importance, 11–12; vinaya rules, 19. See also ordinations

384

Index

saṅkara (confusion), 332. See also nonconfusionists Sanwu, 82, 83, 92 Sāriputta, Sāratthadīpanī, 329 Sar Kheng, 162, 163, 166, 167 sāsana (teaching of the Buddha): promoted by U Nu, 306, 308–311, 314; protection by modern Burmese state, 322n60; protection by Rāmādhipati, 304, 305; sīmās as foundation, 3, 10–14, 20, 125–126, 132, 139, 202, 314 Sato, Yuni, 59 sattabbhantara-sīmās (boundaries with a radius of seven abbhantara), 14n3, 34, 285–287, 338n26 Schmitt, Carl, 250 Schneider, Laurel, 242, 248 Schopen, Gregory, 75, 100n40 scripturalism, 128–129, 133 Sdok Kak Thom inscription, 209–210 secular legal authorities, 11 sema. See Thailand, sīmā stones Sengyou, Chu sanzang jiji, 79, 82–83 Shanjian lü piposha, 74–75, 76 Shorto, H. L., 56 Sihanouk, Prince, 161, 268, 273, 275 sīmā boundary markers (nimitta): bronze, 111, 111; natural objects, 26, 44, 281–282; number used, 28, 57, 282; types, 26; validity, 25–29, 280–283; wooden, 54–55, 57. See also nimittasampatti; sīmā stones sīmā consecrations: in Burma, 24; components, 32; in contemporary Cambodia, 60, 155, 157; diverse traditions, 132; litanies, 27–28, 30–32; methods in Thailand, 136; sīmā validity and, 21–25, 27, 28, 36, 131, 132; vinaya rules, 132. See also Cambodia, sīmā rituals sīmā failure (sīmā-vipatti), 127, 206, 279–280, 284 sīmā-khīla stones, 242, 245, 271–272, 273, 275. See also indakhīla stones Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī: contents, 328–329; publication, 326, 335–336n2; quotations from vinaya texts, 329, 335; Vajirabuddhiṭīkā quotations, 329–335

Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha, 4, 329 Sīmānayadappana, 335 sīmās (boundaries, especially monastic boundaries; generic term for all types of boundaries): diverse traditions, 2–3, 12–14, 178; as foundations of Buddhist religion, 3, 10–14, 20, 125–126, 132, 139, 202, 314; legal issues, 11, 13; “like a great mother,” 307, 308; in mandala polities, 244; meanings, 1, 2, 13, 18; as meeting places for ecclesiastical business, 1, 3, 18, 21–22; origins of concept, 21–22; overlapping, 27–28; partial closure of spaces, 11–12; revoking, 27–28, 30, 284–285; scholarship on, 3–4; uses of term, 1. See also abaddha-sīmās; avippavāsasīmās; baddha-sīmās; khaṇḍa-sīmās; mahā-sīmās; sattabbhantara-sīmās sīmā stones: buried or above-ground, 12; in Burma, 17n21, 26–27, 53–55; compared to territorial markers, 210–211, 212–213, 217, 243–244; development of tradition, 43, 44–49; diverse traditions, 1–2, 12; leaf stones (slẏk sīmā), 181, 207, 217, 242; repurposed, 59; shapes and sizes, 26–27, 58; in Sri Lanka, 52, 57–58. See also Cambodia, sīmā stones; Kalyāṇī Sīmā; sīmā boundary markers; Thailand, sīmā stones sīmā texts, 2, 4, 9, 12, 326, 329, 335. See also Analysis of Sīmās; Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī sīmā validity (sīmā-sampatti): complexity, 18–19, 36; components, 21, 22–32, 280–284; consecration rituals and, 21–25, 27, 28, 36, 131, 132; importance, 2, 18, 19–20, 126; issues at Wat Unnalom, 274–275; legal challenges, 4, 31, 134; in modern urban contexts, 23, 24, 31; questions on, 132–134; rituals needed for, 19–20. See also Balapiṭiya sīmā case; sīmā failure Sīmā Vinicchaya. See Analysis of Sīmās Sīmāvivādavinicchayakathā, 329 Sisowath, King, 161, 266 Skilling, Peter, 21–22, 46

Index385 slẏk sīmā. See leaf stones Smith, Jonathan Z., 248 Sok An, 208 Solheim, William G., III, 46 Son Ngoc Thanh, 267 sovereignty, 203–204, 213, 217–221. See also kings; territorial markers spirits: anak tā (ancient ones), 232, 235, 239–242; mcâs dẏk mcâs ṭī (master/ owner of water and land), 230, 232, 233–234, 235, 239; protective, 214–215, 216; as territorial guardians, 238, 241–242; village, 245. See also Kruṅ Vālī; Yāy Deb Springer, Simon, 165, 168–169 Śrāvastī, 70 Śrīkṣetra, 55 Sri Lanka: Balapiṭiya sīmā case, 4, 20, 134, 136, 326–328; castes, 141n3, 327, 336n10; monastic sects, 130, 134, 141n3, 206, 326, 327; monks, 129–132, 134; sīmā stones, 52, 57–58; sīmā texts, 326, 329; upasampadā ordinations, 141n5 Stadtner, Donald, 55–56 steles, compared to sīmā stones, 243 stones: at centers of villages, 211; at city gates, 212; power of, 236–239; standpoint of, 238. See also indakhīla stones; sīmā stones; territorial markers Sukhothai period, sīmā stones, 43, 52–53, 110, 245 Surat Thani, 52 Taksin, King, 136, 137 Tambiah, Stanley J., 128–129, 133 Tan, Zhihui, 70 tantric Buddhism, 58 Taw Sein Ko, 3 Temple of the Seven Angels, Phnom Gok, 229, 234–235, 249, 250. See also Phnom Gok temples. See Cambodian temples; ordination halls; ordination platforms Tendai ordinations, 67 territorial markers: Cambodian practices, 202–203, 209, 242–243; compared to sīmā stones, 210–211, 212–213, 217,

243–244; liṅga, 209–211, 212, 243; liṅga-yoni ensemble, 209, 210, 248; sīmā stones used as, 246; stone traditions in Southeast Asia, 208–210 territories, guardian spirits, 241–242. See also land disputes; sovereignty Thailand: adoption of Buddhism, 44; Buddhist temples, 23, 110–117, 138, 177; indakhīla stones, 12–13, 211, 224n25; modern state, 138; nuns, 173n53; ordination halls (ubosat), 43, 49; religious education, 138; village boundaries, 130–131, 136–139, 140. See also uposatha (ordination halls) Thailand, sīmā stones (sema): arrangements, 57; from Ayutthaya period, 43, 52, 53, 110, 111, 112; from Bangkok period, 110, 111–112; decorative motifs, 110, 112; double, 121n4; from Dvaravati period, 51–52, 57, 242; importance, 43–44; inscriptions, 46, 114–116; from Khorat Plateau, 43, 44–49, 45, 52, 58, 60; from Lanna period, 110; luk nimit (buried), 53, 54, 127, 142n9, 245; mahā-sīmā, 112, 113–116, 114, 117, 118–119, 120; materials, 53, 110, 111–112, 114, 120; meanings, 53; narrative art carvings, 45, 46–47, 48–49, 52, 56, 110; shapes, 43, 52, 114, 120; sizes, 52, 53, 110, 112, 113, 127; slab-type, 43, 46–47, 47, 52; spread, 52, 56, 58, 59, 60; from Sukhothai period, 43, 52–53, 110, 245 Thammayut order. See Dhammayuttika order Thap (Phra Ariyamuni), 135, 145nn51–52 Thaton, Kalyāṇī Sīmā, 56, 60 thein (ordination halls), 54, 55–56 Theosophical Society, 20 Theravāda Buddhism: outsider discussions, 20; reformers, 125, 126, 139; use of term, 15n6. See also monks; Pāli Vinaya Thompson, Ashley, 208–210, 213, 248–249, 271–272 Thonburi, 110, 112, 118. See also Wat Phothinimit Tōdaiji, 66, 91, 109

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Tōshōdaiji, Nara, 66–67, 67, 68, 76, 91 trees, on Phnom Gok, 234, 247, 250 ṭūn jī (renunciant women), 159, 164, 173n53 ubosat (ordination halls), 43, 44, 49 udakukkhepa-sīmās (sīmā spaces on water; boundaries made by throwing water or sand around the assembled community): Analysis of Sīmās on, 287–288; Balapiṭiya sīmā case, 4, 20, 134, 136, 326–328, 329; defined, 2, 4, 34; illustration, 327; ordinations held in, 132–133, 139, 141n5; origins of concept, 34; reordinations held in, 113, 126, 135; rules, 34–35, 36; separation from land, 35, 328, 332; sīmā texts on, 332–333, 334–335; uposatha-rafts, 126, 127, 128, 133–134, 135, 139; validity, 14n3 unconsecrated sīmās. See abaddha-sīmās UNESCO, 249 United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC), 161, 180 upasampadā ordinations, 19, 23, 132–133, 141n5, 142–143n13, 303 uposatha (ordination halls): khaṇḍa-sīmās, 284; mahā-sīmās, 113–116, 123n27; mural paintings, 123n30; in two-story buildings, 202; visuṃgāma-sīmās and, 130–131; Wat Bowoniwet, 135 uposatha ceremonies: litanies, 30–31; spaces for, 19–20, 111, 113, 114, 117, 120, 121n4, 125–126 uposathaghara (Sri Lanka), 57–58 uposatha-rafts, Wat Rachathiwat, 126, 127, 128, 133–134, 135, 139 Vācissara, Sīmālaṅkārasaṅgaha, 4, 329 Vajirabuddhiṭīkā, 329–335 Vajirañāṇa, Prince, 134, 135–136 Van Saveth, 273, 275 Vesali, 54–55 Vessantara Jātaka, 49, 215 vihāras (ordination halls): consecration rituals, 162, 164–165, 178; construction materials, 44; reconstruction of, 153, 183, 184–185, 193; replacing,

193–194, 201n53; sīmās, 154–157, 178, 181, 184, 202; in two-story buildings, 202. See also Cambodia, sīmā rituals; Cambodian temples Vihear Prampil Loven, 59 Vijayabāhu I, 318n23 Vijayabāhu III, 318n23, 321n45 village boundaries. See gāma-sīmās; visuṃgāma-sīmās village spirits, 245 Vimalasāra, 326, 335–336nn2–3. See also Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī Vimativinodanīṭīkā, 27, 295n76, 329, 332 vinaya (discipline): Chinese translations, 76, 78, 79, 92; on consecration rituals, 132; development and expansion, 9; Huot Tath on, 268; on ordination spaces, 71–76, 79–80, 93–95; pātimokkha, 19–20, 125, 278, 329; precepts, 67; quotations in Sīmālakkhaṇadīpanī, 329, 335; on sīmās, 9, 178, 184, 329–332, 333–334; on sīmā stones, 242. See also Pāli Vinaya Vinaya in Ten Recitations (Shisong lü), 74 Vinaya Piṭaka, 19, 22 violence: sīmās linked to, 13, 203, 218–219; sovereignty and, 203, 204, 218, 219–220, 221. See also sacrifices visabhāga (heterogeneous), 295n76, 328. See also sabhāga visuṃgāma-sīmās (boundaries of separate villages): in cities, 31; defined, 24; establishing, 117, 136–139, 140; in Kalyāṇī inscriptions, 304; Samantapāsādikā on, 130, 131, 138; in Thailand, 130–131, 136–139, 140; used to define sīmās, 33 Waguang temple, 83, 84, 92–93, 105n84 Wat Benchamabophit Dusitwanaram, 118, 119–120, 124n36 Wat Bosveng, 185–187 Wat Bowoniwet, 129–130, 134, 135 Wat Chanserey, 188–189, 193 water: monsoon rain, 35; on Phnom Gok, 247–248; as sīmā marker, 12, 26, 282. See also udakukkhepa-sīmās

Index387 water-pouring ceremony, 307, 308, 323–324n74 Water-Splashing Sīmās. See udakukkhepa-sīmās Wat Mahathat, 51–52, 127 Wat Norea, 164 Wat Phothinimit, mahā-sīmā, 118, 119, 120, 124n33 Wat Phra Dhammakaya London, 23 Wat Phra Kaew, bronze sīmā markers, 111, 111 Wat Rachathiwat, 112–113, 126, 127, 128, 133–134, 135, 139, 142n6 Wat Rajapradit Sathitmahasimaram: inscriptions on stone slabs, 116–117, 123n29; mahā-sīmā, 112, 113–116, 114, 117 Wat Ratchabophit Sathit Mahasimaram, 118 wats. See Cambodian temples Wat Si Tat, 46 Wat Somanas, 113, 123n30 Wat Somanat Wihan, 135, 138, 145– 146nn51–52, 147n66 Wat Suthat Dhepvararam, 57

Wat Unnalom, 270, 272–275 Western Prasat Top temple, 59 wilderness, 157, 217, 244, 250 Win, U, 307–308, 322n60 women, human sacrifices, 213, 214, 216, 226n52. See also nuns Wright, Michael, 156 Yāy Deb, 232, 233, 234–235, 236, 239–241, 247, 250 Yijing, 74, 76; Great Tang Chronicle of Eminent Monks (Da tang xiyu qiufa gaoseng zhuan), 85–86, 90–91; One Hundred and One Karman of the Mūla-sarvāstivādins (Genben shuo yiqie youbu baiyi jiemo), 86–88; ordination platforms described by, 85–87, 90–91, 93, 94 Yon Seng Yeath, 273, 274, 275 Zanning, Abbreviated History (Da song seng shi lue), 76–77, 78, 82–83, 92 Zhu Daozu, 79 Zhu Fatai, 83, 84