Excuse me, may I ask how exactly one can keep quiet in the face of persisting injustice and still can be seen as supportive?
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To the wider issue at play here, the best solution is simply to stick to human rights. In this case the negative human rights of free speech, free assembly and freedom of religion. Those monasteries who recognise said ordination and wish to perform them should be allowed to do so. Likewise those monasteries who don’t accept it should be allowed to prohibit it. That way everyone is happy. I doubt you will ever get everyone to agree on this issue, and it’s not a good idea to suppresses the rights of one over the other (to suppress anyone’s rights to be exact). After all, freedom is always and invariably freedom for the person who thinks differently.
Just my thoughts on the issue.
Let’s face it, it’s hard to always speak up against injustice, especially when the personal cost is high. But in truth I don’t have much experience with Myanmar. @Vimalanyani, are you able to shed some light on this?
Or is your question rhetorical? Although I do think it is understandable, I do not wish to make any excuses for monks remaining quiet. The point of my post was to merely show that what may appear as solid opposition to bhikkhunīs or bhikkhunī ordination is in fact no such thing.
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I was told about this by Chi Kwang Sunim. I’m guessing any of the bhikkhunis who spent time in Korea would know about it. But I’m afraid I can’t recall any further details.
@adhimutti Hi Ayya what’s up?
Well, indeed.
I think it’s important understand that in different contexts, actions have different consequences. I’ve never lived in Myanmar, and I have only barest idea of what it is like to like under such repression, especially under repression that lasted multiple generations. So I can understand why people prefer to stay quiet.
The problem is, of course, that no matter how bad the repression might be in the case of monks, for nuns it is a thousand times worse.
But the sad fact is, if you call out injustice, you’ll always be told that you’re wrong. It’s the wrong time, you’re saying it the wrong way. Strangely enough, it always seems to be the right time to commit injustice.
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Hi Bhante @sujato, you mean what’s up in Myanmar?
About the topic of direct and indirect forms of communication and support - I think this article may be helpful in the general mix of our discussion.
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(I just got an automatic message from the D&D system to stop posting on this thread because apparently others don’t get a chance to engage. Not sure if I’ll get cut off or what… 
)
Yes, it’s difficult for us to understand but in my experience, the monastics in traditional Theravada countries are not as independent as those in the west. The sangha hierarchy has a lot of control and disobeying them can have very serious consequences. Even the famous monks that lead large communities often don’t have the authority to make certain decisions for themselves.
Here’s a case that was discussed on D&D a few years ago:
If famous monks like Pa Auk Sayadaw can’t even decide on alms bowls for their nuns, how could they make a decision on bhikkhuni ordination?
Myanmar was a military dictatorship for a long time (and it seems is turning into one again now), so openly challenging authorities is not that easy.
We can’t judge them by western standards. If we speak up, we don’t face the risks that they might face. Also, in their cultural context, chances of success might really be better if they do things in a less confrontational and more roundabout way.
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Dear Ayya Vimalanyaani, completely agree - often in this context indirect is more effective and safer. One has to flow with things, and redirect them subtly rather than making a splash.
I have been incredibly supported at times over here, the support has been very real, and I have felt much security and gratitude arising - but it’s certainly expressed indirectly.
I must say, it took me some years of being in Asia to appreciate this mode of communication and to be able understand it (and I’m still a klutz) In the past I thought people should just tell me, if something was up. It took kindhearted Asian friends spelling things out for me, and years of bumping up against things to get it through my thick skull that much communication was going on, but in a subtle, nuanced, read between the lines way.
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No, just generally, I haven’t heard from you in a while! But you seem good.
Don’t worry!
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Hello, yes it’s true - I’ve been thinking to catch up with you sometime. But, yes, things are going pretty well.
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Thank you for your comment, Ajahn. No, I sincerely try to understand why more Buddhists get away with oppressing women. And why in general all religions get away with it. And why as a woman, I would still want to be a member of any religion oppressing women.
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And thanks for your reply!
There is no way I can give an answer that does full justice to you concerns. But perhaps I can give a sketch to a solution, or at least a partial solution.
To me the critical issue is whether the Buddha himself oppressed women. Even raising this may seem like blasphemy—if we had such a thing in Buddhism—but I do think it is a valid question. There are two aspects to this: the Buddha’s personal behaviour and the pressures exerted on Buddhism by society at large. If we are to follow the suttas and we have confidence in the awakening of the Buddha, then we have to conclude that he did not personally oppress women, or anyone else for that matter. At the same time, it is obvious that the Buddha lived in a certain cultural context. It is impossible, even for an awakened being, to fully extract oneself from that context. A typical example is the laying down of monastics rules, which was often done at the behest of the lay people. Many of their complaints were about decorum or non-Buddhist ideas that were generally accepted by the population. In a society that was strongly patriarchal, it is to be expected that some of these social norm were oppressive for women. I am not sure if it would be possible for the Buddha simply to ignore them all and still have the Dhamma thrive in ancient India.
Let me give some examples. Bhikkhunī-saṅghādisesa 3 is rightly considered discriminatory towards bhikkhunīs. There is no similar rule for bhikkhus. In brief, the rule states that bhikkhunīs cannot travel or stay by herself. If she does, she incurs a saṅghādisesa offence, which is a surprisingly heavy penalty. To understand why such a rule came about, all we need to do it look at the origin stories. Every one of them is about sexual violence. In fact, when you read the Vinaya rules for bhikkhunīs, it is hard not to get the impression that sexual violence was widespread in ancient India. One way of dealing with this is to make sure the bhikkhunīs always are accompanied by someone. In the present day this seems discriminatory, because surely it is up to the bhikkhunīs themselves to decide what is an acceptable risk. Yet at that time it was probably uncommon for women to travel on their own at all, and so the current social norms may have affected the nature of this rule. This is no more than an educated guess, but I think the general principle for how rules sometimes came to be laid down is correct.
Another example is bhikkhunī-pārājika 8, which prohibits bhikkhnunīs with a penalty of expulsion for doing a number of “seductive” actions, which for a bhikkhu would be at most a saṅghādisesa offence. Again, we can only speculate, but this may have come about because women at that time and place had very little outlet for such seductive activity. Actions that may seem trivial now would, I think, have been considered scandalous then. So the sexual mores of that society would have impacted on the formulation of the rules. The Buddha may have felt he had no choice if he was to protect the good name of Buddhism.
There are heaps of examples such as the ones above. Most such rules can be abandoned at a stroke if we accept, as I argue we should, that the minor rules can indeed be abolished. But I chose the above two rules precisely because there is no easy way of getting around them. They are both heavy rules (garukāpatti) and there is little evidence, so far as I know, that they were laid down after the Buddha. So unless such evidence is forthcoming, the bhikkhunīs will have to find ways of accommodating these rules, except if they decide on truly radical solutions, which I personally would caution against.
How can such rules be accommodated? Again, there is no fully satisfactory answer short of abolishing them. Yet the reality is that all rules can be read in a number of ways: there are readings that (1) focus on the content of the rule, that (2) accept all the canonical Vibhaṅga material as authoritative, that (3) accept all the commentaries as authoritative. Then there are strict readings where everything is interpreted in the strictest possible way, natural readings where the rule is interpreted according to the most obvious meaning, or “compassionate” readings where alternative interpretations are explored. In the case of the bhikkhunī Vinaya, in my opinion, we should use this whole range of interpretative tools to our advantage, so as to end up with practical applications of these rules that are as acceptable as can be. If at this point the rules are still not considered acceptable, then we need to look at alternatives, if such can be found.
Again, let me sketch how this would work. For any given rule one would look at the phrasing of the rule, the content of the canonical commentary (Vibhaṅga), and the commentarial interpretation, and one would choose whatever is the most reasonable. Which text to give preference to would vary from rule to rule. People have argued with me that such an approach is inconsistent and arbitrary. Yes, it is. But that is precisely the point. We are dealing with texts that came of age in a very different society. To get a reasonable reading, we have the right, I say, to choose the one that comes closest to match our modern ideals. The fact that the texts vary just shows that there have always been a number of possible interpretations. When it comes to gender discrimination, we should use the one that is most acceptable.
And we shouldn’t stop there. We should then analyse the rules through the compassion filter. Word and phrases, especially words, can generally be interpreted in a number of ways. We need to ask what possible meanings are derivable from the standards meanings found in the canonical texts. As we do so, new understandings of these ancient rules tend to open up.
Perhaps all this seems far-fetched and radical. But it isn’t, really. This is the way the Vinaya has always been interpreted. It is just that with gender discrimination we have to apply these techniques quite consciously to arrive at results that are as satisfactory as possible.
You know, in recent years I and others have gone against the common Theravadin approach of trying to seal all the gaps in the Vinaya and produce some sort of final and authoritative interpretation of all the rules. I think this is wrong-headed. An interesting aspect of the Buddha’s allowance to abolish the minor rules is that it gives a lot of autonomy to the Sangha, as a Bhante Sujato points out. This autonomy may have been granted precisely because the Buddha knew that the Vinaya was culturally bound to ancient India. He may well have foreseen that it would be less suited to other times and places. I don’t think it is far-fetched to think that the Buddha decided to trust the future Sangha to make reasonable adjustments so as to ensure the longevity of the Dhamma itself.
But if such autonomy was granted to in regard to the minor rules, would it not be natural to think it was granted also elsewhere in the Vinaya? Surely that is the case. I think it is possible, even likely, that the Buddha purposefully left the Vinaya vague in certain places, allowing for a variety of interpretations. Instead of trying to fill in all the gaps, as the commentaries sometimes seem bent on, we should be grateful that the gaps are there so that we have greater scope for adapting the rules. I would argue that our interpretations should vary from time to time and from place to place, in effect making the Vinaya an living document. The commentaries, including the Vibhaṅga, should best probably be regarded as interpretations that were relevant to ancient India and Sri Lanka, but not as authoritative statements for all eternity on how the Vinaya should be read. In this way we end up with a Vinaya that is never archaic and outdated, but instead adapted to the needs of any time and any place.
My point is that there is more inbuilt flexibility in the Vinaya than it is sometimes given credit for. We should be guided by the Buddha as far as possible. And we should remember that the Buddha did give us a fair degree of autonomy. We should not abuse this autonomy, but use it judiciously to make the Vinaya an instrument fit for present purposes. How far we can take this is hard to say. We need to continue laying the groundwork. But I have no doubt that we can move to a state of far less gender discrimination within Buddhism than we have at present. The Buddha’s teachings are magnificent and powerful, and we should ensure that they are made available to everyone as equitably as possible.
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I haven’t looked at parajika 8 in any detail, because it’s quite an irrelevant rule in practice and chances of breaking it are very slim. But sanghadisesa 3 is quite a big issue, so I just wanted to point out that there is in fact plenty of evidence that it is a late rule:
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There’s an unusually large variance between schools for this rule. Other rules in the category of “heavy rules” tend to be much closer.
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It’s totally contrary to the lifestyle of nuns shown in early sources, such as the Therigatha and the bhikkhuni samyutta. Clearly it wasn’t in place at the time the events in these texts occured.
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There’s some tension between this sanghadisesa and pacittiyas 37 and 38 (and their parallels). The pacittiyas make a (single) nun travel with groups of merchants through dangerous territory and don’t mention a companion bhikkhuni. This seems to me to be an early attempt to mitigate the risks associated with traveling alone for women. If this is the case, then traveling alone would have been fine in areas that weren’t considered dangerous. This would fit much better with the picture we get from the Therigatha and the bhikkhuni samyutta.
I recommend chapter 3 of Bhante @Sujato’s Bhikkhuni Vinaya Studies for anyone who wants to look deeper into this issue. This is from page 92f:
Here [i.e. in pacittiya 55] it is quite clear the nun was traveling alone and visiting houses alone. The case is far from unique. In fact, the Vinaya constantly depicts bhikkhunis walking into the village for alms alone, visiting houses alone, or traveling through the countryside alone. In only a cursory survey of the Dharmaguptaka and Mahāvihāravāsin Vinayas, I have counted around thirty such cases, where the bhikkhuni is, or at least seems to be, alone. This is not confined to the Vinaya tradition, for similar situations occur throughout the Therīgāthā. For example, Subhā Jīvakambavanikā is chatted up as she enters Jīvaka’s mango grove, being asked: ‘What delight is there for you, if you plunge into the wood alone?’ (kā tuyhaṁ rati bhavissati, yadi ekā vanamogahissasi). Particularly striking is the case of Jinadattā a ‘Vinaya expert’, who comes, apparently alone, to a lay household, and sits to take her meal.
As a verse collection, the Therīgāthā is light on background details and offers more insight into the psychology of the nuns than their lifestyle. Nevertheless, in most cases where lifestyle is referred to, it sounds as if the nuns are frequenting woods and secluded spots, even if it is not clear that they are alone. For example, we have reference to a nun ‘wandering here and there’, ‘entering inside the wood’, going to the mountains for meditation, or, having wandered for alms, sitting at the root of a tree for meditation.
The Bhikkhunī Saṁyutta, which consists of short suttas involving bhikkhunis, throughout depicts bhikkhunis dwelling in the solitude of the forest. Each sutta depicts the bhikkhuni walking for alms in Sāvatthī, returning for the day’s meditation at the ‘Blind Man’s Grove’. It seems clear enough that they are alone, both when going for alms and entering the forest. In certain cases this is confirmed: Āḷavikā is said to be seeking seclusion (vivekatthinī); Kisāgotamī is taunted for being ‘alone in the woods’ (vanamajjhagatā ekā); Uppalavaṇṇā is teased while ‘standing alone at the root of a sāla tree’ (ekā tuvaṁ tiṭṭhasi sālamūle). This evidence is very weighty, for this Saṁyutta is one of the few major early collections of literature concerning the bhikkhunis, and in fact constitutes the major document concerning the bhikkhunis within the four Nikāyas/Āgamas. No doubt these examples could be multiplied by a more thorough sampling of the literature. But the quantity is already enough to raise a serious question mark over the meaning of the rule.
(my emphasis)
Personally, I think the evidence that it is late is so convincing that it would be justified to set it aside. I even believe that we have somewhat of a duty to set it aside, because the Buddha asked us to preserve the Dhamma-Vinaya as he has laid it down and not to impose new rules.
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Hey thanks for reading my book, Ayya, it makes it all worthwhile.
One bit of context that I think is easily forgotten.
It’s not at all obvious that the Vinaya rules, in general, are meant to be lived and kept in a literal way in modern times. From the EBTs it’s pretty clear that no-one was thinking of them applying at such a far-distant time. And in every Buddhist culture, without exception, the norm is that most monks don’t actually keep the Vinaya in a rigorous way.
Now, this is a dynamic and complex situation in Buddhist cultures, and there are always reform movements popping up that call for a return to the roots. My background, in what is known in the west as the Thai Forest Tradition, was one such reform movement. Its founders took the Vinaya texts and manuals and applied them in a very rigorous way. Sometimes these things were based on more culturally-received understandings, but for the most part the emphasis was on strict adherence to the rules.
That these rules can be kept in this way is somewhat of a surprise and a challenge to the mainstream. And as these things go, it doesn’t take long for the strictness to either be abandoned or to be re-interpreted. And then you need another reform!
My point here is that, even within the monks rules, it isn’t the case that there is this monolithic idea that everyone must keep all the rules. I remember at Bodhgaya once, something about a rule came up, and the Sri Lankan monk I was with just said, “Do you think the Buddha really wanted everyone to keep all those strict rules? Wasn’t he kind?”
I’m not saying one way is right or wrong, just trying to be realistic about what actually happens in monks’ circles.
Now, all of this is the case, even though the monks rules are far more clear and far less problematic than the nuns’. And even though the monks get unquestioned and 100% support for what they do.
Currently, it is usually the case that the nuns keep Vinaya more strictly than the monks. So much so that the same Sri lankan monk I was chatting with, when I asked him how the bhikkhunis were doing in Sri Lanka, he said, “Good. Actually people prefer to invite the bhikkhunis for dana, because their practice is better.”
I think that is only natural that as time goes on the bhikkhuni communities will figure out their own relationships with Vinaya.
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Lol, I’ve read it many times and really enjoyed it. Thanks for writing it. 
One thing I’ve been thinking about your line of argument (that I quoted above) is that I’ve heard a few times that the last four poems in the Therigatha are somewhat later then the rest of the collection. Clearly, there’s some truth to that, because for example, we find references to the six realms there, when in the suttas, there are only five (asuras don’t have their own realm in early texts):
Thig 16.1
Four lower realms and two other realms
may be gained somehow or other.
But for those who end up in a lower realm,
there is no way to go forth in the hells.
The two examples you have given above about nuns being alone are from these last few (somewhat later) poems:
Although they seem a little late, they still show nuns traveling alone. So sanghadisesa 3 must be even later, which also explains why there’s so much variance between the schools. It can’t have been laid down during the Buddha’s time.
(Also, I’m wondering if anyone has a reference to a work that establishes that the last few poems of the Therigatha are somewhat late. Would help to put my argument on a more solid basis. I know I’ve read it somewhere, but I don’t remember where…)
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Yes, I’m not sure about that, I haven’t looked into it in detail. But it makes sense that the more developed ones are also the ones with more narrative context. But if that is true, as you say, what it really shows is that the reality of independent nuns survived the Buddha.
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Yes, IIRC, there were multiple lines of reasoning why they should be considered somewhat late. Something about the Pali metre and choice of vocabulary, and then doctrinal reasons such as six vs five realms. Also the cities that are mentioned in Thig 16.1 (Mantāvatī and Vāraṇavatī), and then the long past-life story in 15.1, which is more of a theme of later (apadāna-style) literature. There might have been other reasons as well, it’s been a long time since I read it.
If anyone remembers this and has a reference, please let me know.
Edit: And of course, Pāṭaliputta in 15.1. That’s a pretty obvious give-away.
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Thank you, Ajahn Brahmali and thank you all for your visions and ideas!
The very fact you’re all deeply listening to each other, is admirable.
And a seldom thing.
For that reason, equality must be somewhere close-by.
At the very heart of your religion, waiting for the dawn.
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Thanks for making these points. Keep them coming! And I should really have another look a Bhante Sujato’s book.
I suspect it will always be a mixed bag, but hopefully there will be some pockets that are more progressive.
This may sound strange, but I don’t really see myself as religious, at least not in the ordinary sense of the word.
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No, it doesn’t sound strange to me - and - that’s already off-topic - I would like to listen to how you see religion & how you see yourself.
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I came across this essay by my preceptor Ayya Gunasari yesterday. She is a Burmese bhikkhuni and describes her path to ordination and the reaction of monks.
I thought it was a very touching story and highlighted the problems in a very relatable way. She tells of a famous Burmese monk who was forced to disrobe merely because he was supportive of bhikkhunis in theory (he didn’t carry out any actual ordinations). After that, Burmese monks were no more able to speak up in public. Ayya Gunasari also explains how monks secretly taught her Pali and the Vinaya, the many difficulties she had to go through without support and without a place to stay, and how challenging the situation was for monks when she became a bhikkhuni and they didn’t know how to relate to her.
Determined to Do It
Bhikkhunī Guṇasārī Therī
My Background
I was born in Burma in 1932 during the Great Depression. My family was very kind to me because I was the firstborn. I got my early education, but it was interrupted by the war with Japan. My parents were worried about the bombing in Rangoon, so we moved to a faraway village where my uncle was a monk. My grandfather was so generous that he would feed fifty families during this time of scarcity, and so we had little food for ourselves.
When the war ended around 1945, I was able to continue my education. Because of the years I missed school, I had a double promotion three times so I could be with the other students my age. I was good at math and able to catch up, but I was poor at history and other subjects. At the time of matriculation, I took mathematics and physics. I decided to become a doctor because my grandfather was an Ayurvedic physician and my uncles were all doctors. My mother and aunts did not agree because they thought it was not a suitable profession for a woman. They thought I would have to behave in an unladylike fashion. I became a doctor nonetheless.
At medical school I met my future husband and eventually got married. I had two children while I was in my final years in medical school in Burma. My husband wanted to move to the United States. I stayed back with my two children for the first year, but then followed my husband to the United States. At that time, I could not bring my two young children, who were one and two years old, with me. It was a very upsetting situation for me, but my mother thought it would interfere with my studies if I brought them. After four or five years, we tried to bring the children over, but the Burmese government would not allow it. They feared brain drain and thought Burmese professionals should return to their own country. Each time we applied to bring the children over, we were refused.
Finally, after my father passed away, my daughters, aged fourteen and fifteen, came to the United States. I thought that since at last the family was together it would be perfect, but it didn’t turn out that way. My older daughter was bitter about being left behind for all those years. She couldn’t understand why I left her at such a young age, even though I explained it to her. It was a difficult time for us. This is when I began to question, “What is life? What use is money? What is happiness?” We had five children whom we loved, but life became chaotic. Every day I was crying when I went to work. It was because of this unhappiness with my daughter’s situation that I had doubts about what leads to happiness and stability in life.
This eventually led me to meditation. A few years later, Mahāsi Sayadaw came to the desert in California. It was his first visit to the United States and I didn’t even know who he was. A friend told me he was coming, so I traveled to the desert with my children. That’s when I got my first taste of the desert—thorns and all. When I was introduced to Mahāsi Sayadaw, he just looked at me very seriously and didn’t say a word. I was scared. Later I would meet him, along with Sayadaw U Sīlānanda. When I heard Mahāsi Sayadaw talk about satipaṭṭhāna practice, that’s when I decided to meditate.
After Mahāsi Sayadaw left, I started meditating with Sayadaw U Sīlānanda, who stayed in California. For the first few years, I was not so good with meditation. During the walking time, I liked to sleep—I was a bit lazy.
When I was young, I knew there were thilashins, eight- and ten-precept nuns. As much as they were quiet and meditative and doing what they needed to do, they didn’t get the respect they deserved. If a woman wanted to become a thilashin, people thought it was because she had no financial support, or because she was old, or because her husband had died—that sort of thing. Young girls rarely became thilashins unless they were orphans or from financially deprived families. I only remember one thilashin in our clan, a distant relative whom we supported. At that time, thilashins weren’t highly regarded, so becoming a thilashin never occurred to me. So even though I wanted to be a serious practitioner after meeting Sayadaw U Sīlānanda, becoming a thilashin was never in my mind.
By 1989, I was very serious about meditation, going on longer retreats totaling three months each year. I would make time for my meditation even while I was still working. I read Bhikkhu Bodhi’s work on the Samaññaphala Sutta and the Brahmajāla Sutta. My mind changed totally. I was sure there had to be something besides thilashins. I knew that during the Buddha’s time there were bhikkhunīs, but I had never heard of bhikkhunīs while I was in Burma. I was determined that I would ordain somehow, although I didn’t know how.
One day I went to the Bodhi Tree Bookstore in Los Angeles and saw Venerable Karma Lekshe Tsomo’s book on bhikkhunīs. On the cover was Guruma Dhammawati Mahātherī from Nepal. I recognized Daw Dhammawati because she was well-known and loved by the Burmese people. She ran away from Nepal at age fourteen, following an old monk into Burma. At first, she didn’t know Burmese, but she learned when she became a nun and eventually earned her Dhammacariyā degree. When I saw that picture, my mind was shaken up. Although she was still wearing the thilashin robes, Daw Dhammawati had become a bhikkhunī. I also saw in that book there was a bhikkhunī association started by Venerable Karma Lekshe Tsomo, Chatsumarn Kabilsingh, and Ayyā Khemā. That made me determined to find out more.
For the next thirteen years, I plunged into my research. Without knowing how to operate a computer, it was hard on me, but I bought the books and read all the articles I could find. The reason it took thirteen years was my husband became sick and couldn’t work, so I had to work to put the last three of our children through college.
While working and meditating, I researched this topic. I recalled speaking with Sayadaw U Sīlānanda about what I had discovered. He told me the lineage of bhikkhunīs had been cut off and the Burmese monks believed that it couldn’t be reconnected. I said I would continue to do the research nonetheless. That’s when I saw stories of Ashin Ādiccavaṁsa and of Mingun Jetavan Sayadaw. Jetavan Sayadaw was the teacher of Mahāsi Sayadaw, but after he wrote Milindapañhā Aṭṭhakathā, he was criticized by the monks for wanting to help the bhikkhunīs. In 1934, Ashin Ādiccavaṁsa’s disciple, U Thittila, became the first Burmese monk to come to America and England. Even though Ashin Ādiccavaṁsa was famous, he was forced to disrobe because of what he wrote about bhikkhunīs.
I showed my research to Sayadaw U Sīlānanda. He said he knew about these older sayadaws who supported the bhikkhunīs, but even so he couldn’t help me or he would suffer the same fate as them. He said that it was not the right time to go ahead on this matter. He did not say I should ordain or that I shouldn’t ordain; rather, he left the decision up to me. He only asked me one question: “What would you do if you didn’t have someone to give you these precepts?” I answered that I would do as the lay disciples and go in front of the Buddha statue and take the precepts myself. Knowing he could not help me anymore (he had suffered a minor stroke), he picked up the phone and called Bhante Piyananda, asking him to help me to become a sāmaṇerī. In this way, he helped me while remaining in the background.
After I decided to go ahead with the sāmaṇerī ordination, many monks who knew me came to try and dissuade me from doing so. They told me I would starve, there wasn’t enough support, and there would be no place for me to stay. They felt it was not even possible to be a thilashin in the West, let alone a bhikkhunī. Instead, they recommended that I wear the white clothes and determine for myself how I would live and practice. I decided to ordain nonetheless, even if I would starve. I was really determined that just like in the Buddha’s time, women should have the opportunity to live as bhikkhunīs.
Finally, the monks left me alone. In 2002, before I ordained as a sāmaṇerī, I was still practicing at the Tathāgatha Meditation Center in San Jose when Sayadaw U Sīlānanda suggested I spend four or five months in Burma continuously. I had known Sayadaw U Paṇḍita since 1984, when he started teaching in the United States, so I applied to stay at his place in Yangon. It went smoothly at first because I was a layperson. Then I became a sāmaṇerī with Bhante Piyananda. I had to write back to Sayadaw U Paṇḍita and let him know about the change. He did not tell me not to come, so I went there in my rust-colored robes. Only after I got there and met with Sayadaw in person did he say, “Oh, the monks will be shocked. Please, for my sake, will you listen to me?” He requested that I take off the robes I was wearing and replace them with the robes of a thilashin. I was heartbroken, very upset, but I had no choice. I had applied to be part of this retreat for two and a half months. I have never been back to Burma since.
The mind was changed after becoming a sāmaṇerī. Ever since the day my head was shaved, I have thought, This is it. I will take no other position in life. This is what I want to do. With each stroke as the hair went down, I felt a coolness in my heart. I knew I was in the right place. Even more than when I became a bhikkhunī, becoming a sāmaṇerī was very striking for me. I was really happy as a sāmaṇerī and was so eager to learn about monastic life, but my preceptor, Bhante T. Dhammaloka, head of the Amarapura sect in Sri Lanka, along with Bhante Piyananda, decided that due to my long-time experience as a meditator, I should take my bhikkhunī ordination before two years elapsed. So on February 28, 2003, I became a bhikkhunī in Sri Lanka.
My Time as a Bhikkhunī
My first year as a bhikkhunī in Sri Lanka, I spent learning Pāli at Kelaniya postgraduate studies and with Dr. Lily de Silva at her home. In 2004, I planned to go to Birmingham, UK, to study Abhidhamma under Sayadaw Rewata Dhamma. Unfortunately, right after I bought the ticket, the Sayadaw passed away. Since I was already prepared to go, I went to Birmingham, but I wasn’t allowed to stay or study there because I was a bhikkhunī. The board members at his organization decided it was improper to accept a bhikkhunī at the monastery.
As I was stranded in the UK with no place to go, a friend, Dr. Leo Kyawthinn, searched for a monastery where I could spend the Rains Retreat. Luckily, I was allowed to stay at Ajahn Khemadhammo’s forest monastery in Warwick, and my time there went well.
During the period of 2004 to 2007, some kind Burmese sayadaws quietly taught me Pāli and Vinaya and my friend Ayyā Uttamā and I attended the University of the West to study Pāli under the late Dr. Ananda Guruge. Despite this helpful instruction, those years were unstable and hectic. Without a permanent monastery to live in, I moved frequently. I moved from Riverside to Monterey Park, and then to Joshua Tree. Finally, I settled at Mahāpajāpatī Monastery in 2008 after it was established by Therese Duchesne, and I have been the abbess there since October 2008.
Even with a stable location, my life was not stable. Setting up a new monastery is challenging. I looked for suitable bhikkhunīs to come live and work with me, but as there were few bhikkhunīs in the United States, they were hard to find. So besides looking for women who were already ordained, I tried to support others in their wish to train in monastic life at Mahāpajāpatī Monastery. However, as is to be expected when people are exploring a whole new way of life, anāgārikās came and went. In addition, those who became sāmaṇerī did not always stay either. One bhikkhunī whom I ordained and who lived at the monastery with me for several years died suddenly of cancer. The Buddha admonished monastics to live together “like milk and water,” which blend seamlessly when mixed. This is not always easy. However, I now have another bhikkhunī, two sāmaṇerī, and an anāgārikā at the monastery, and we are developing our community. As it is the eighth year of growing Buddha’s daughters at Mahāpajāpatī Monastery, hopefully these precious seeds will sprout and mature soon, through effort, courage, confidence, and loving-kindness.
Besides working to develop the community at Mahāpajāpatī Monastery, beginning in 2008 I started to support the ordination of other bhikkhunīs. I arranged for one bhikkhunī ordination to take place in South Carolina in 2008. Then in 2010, I helped arrange for the ordination of five bhikkhunīs and was one of the chanting bhikkhunīs who questioned and supported the candidates during the ceremony. In 2012, I did the same thing for four bhikkhunīs. Finally, in 2016, as I had the twelve vassas required to act as a preceptor, I was the preceptor for two bhikkhunīs who were ordained at Bhante Piyananda’s temple, Dharma Vijaya Buddhist Vihāra. It has been my greatest joy to help other women become bhikkhunīs—something that I myself struggled so hard to do.
My Relationship with the Bhikkhus Outside of Burma
I knew many bhikkhus in the Los Angeles area for thirty years before I ordained. As a layperson, we were like brothers and sisters. But when I ordained, it became very awkward. As much as they liked me, they didn’t know how to behave or communicate with me now that I was a bhikkhunī. There were four or five bhikkhus who tried to teach me Pāli and the rules of monastic conduct. All I had known before was meditation, so I appreciated that. As they pointed out, experience in monastic life is quite different than experience as a lone meditator. I loved studying Pāli. On the whole, the monks were very kind to me, but it took many years for them to be relaxed with having me around. Now I can go to Paṭṭhāna chanting with no problem. It took many years to be accepted, as it did with Sayadaw U Paṇḍita. It took nine years for him to even recognize me as a bhikkhunī.
The History of Bhikkhunīs
I am interested in the history of bhikkhunīs, particularly the latest records of bhikkhunīs in various countries. There are many records of bhikkhunīs on the Indian subcontinent and in “greater India” up to the fifteenth century. In Burma, it was originally thought that bhikkhunīs disappeared in the thirteenth century, but recent research by Peter Skilling shows there were bhikkhunīs into the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. I feel it is very important to trace the archaeological findings, such as the inscriptions at Pagan discovered by Professor Than Tun and Dr. Luce to understand the historical presence and movement of the bhikkhunīs.Venerable Bhikkhu Anālayo asked me to translate three booklets of his on the legality of bhikkhunī ordination into Burmese. Thus, in addition to doing my own research, I completed the last of those translations in early 2016. It was a great gift to be able to contribute to the understanding of these issues.
Advice for Women Who Are Considering Taking Ordination
First, they must be honest with themselves. If it is an attempt to escape difficulties in relationships—husband, boyfriend, parents—it will not work. They must have a genuine interest in Buddhism. That’s why when women come to me, I try to help them gain a general knowledge of the teachings. There are many things we do not know, but we should be willing to learn. It’s so important to know at a deep level if this is really what they want to do. If they just get into the glory of the robe and like it when people bow down to them, that is not coming from the right place. At first, my idea was to become a recluse because I had become so disenchanted with life, but being a bhikkhunī is not only about meditating. When we become part of the Saṅgha, it differs from being a solitary yogi. For example, as bhikkhunīs, we must communicate and reciprocate saṅghakamma with our brother bhikkhus and our sister bhikkhunīs at other monasteries. Accordingly, we attend Kaṭhina, Vesak ceremonies, Paṭṭhāna, and Paritta chanting ceremonies, and Buddhist monastic gatherings and some Buddhist social programs, such as Bhikkhu Bodhi’s Buddhist Global Relief. To fulfill our duties toward laypeople, we attend funeral services, visit sick patients at hospitals, and provide inspirational Dhamma talks and chanting. I do not want aspirants to have the same misconceptions as I did. I encourage them to visit many monasteries and learn from their experiences. Every place has its strong and weak points. An aspirant must ask herself why she wants to become a bhikkhunī. She should search inside herself to understand her motivations. I have seen monastics who have dedicated themselves to one monastery and then when something happens that causes them to feel they can’t stay there, they have nowhere to go. By making a commitment too soon, they may find out that it isn’t what they wanted and then be left without support. This is why I try to make sure my aspirants take their time to consider carefully before they commit. We must be realistic about things. Nowadays there are many good lay teachers. Many people are suited for lay life whereas others are suited for monastic life. We must know for ourselves what we are best suited for. This is why it is important to take sufficient time to try things out, first as an anāgārikā, then as a sāmaṇerī. It is better to take the time to find out during the earlier stages than to feel stuck in something later. In the beginning stages, it is important to stay in one place because that is where the groundwork is developed. Community life is difficult; it requires a lot of patience. I have found meditation and seclusion much easier. It was my first choice, but somehow I found myself going down this road instead. My suggestion to younger people is to see whether they can fit into community life by practicing with patience.Coming into monastic life as an older person is not easy either. The energy is low and many habits are hard to change. I wish I had started when I was younger. But it was my kamma to finish what I needed to do in my family life. Looking back, I could see that lay life was not for me. Although I like freedom and solitude, I also like the restraints of being part of a community. It inspires me when we all get along as a saṅgha, show concern for each other, and go through challenges together. Also, I enjoy giving to others in the Saṅgha, including those outside my immediate community. Although we may have personality differences, we belong to each other. We are sisters; we are one. The whole thing is Saṅgha. It is not complete on our own.
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