In July 1934, the Second General Conference of Pan-Pacific Young Buddhists’ Associations was held in Tokyo and Kyoto. Despite the event’s grand scale, with roughly a thousand participants attending from across Asia and North America, and its aspiration to use Buddhist solidarity to promote international goodwill, only a handful of delegates represented the Republic of China. The general absence of Chinese Buddhist leaders was due to widespread anger over the conference organizers’ treating Manchukuo, Japan’s puppet state in Manchuria, as an independent nation in conference materials. Yet conference attendees (including Japanese, Chinese, and others) were not necessarily collaborationists who supported Japan’s imperial expansion, as some used the platform to criticize Japanese imperialism and the conference’s normalization of Manchukuo.

This article uses this 1934 conference as a lens through which to examine the complex relations between Buddhists from Japan and China (and elsewhere) and Japan’s early wartime empire. It argues that many occupied a kind of ‘grey zone’ between collaboration and resistance, hoping that Buddhist institutions could promote genuinely peaceful international relations, but also aware that their involvement in Japanese projects could be used to help justify Japanese imperialism. It first provides an overview of the colonial and anti-colonial politics of international Buddhist conferences in the early twentieth century (with particular attention given to the First Pan-Pacific Young Men’s Buddhist Associations Conference held in Honolulu in 1930) before closely examining the organization of the second conference, especially the controversies that developed around the Chinese delegation that led to a near-boycott by Chinese Buddhists.

After the Japanese colonization of Taiwan in 1895, various Japanese Buddhist sectarian traditions arrived in Taiwan and those bringing them actively approached local Buddhist monks and monasteries for cooperation. After 1915, Taiwanese monks separated into two factions: one faction headed to mainland China to study, and the other to Japan. At the same time, indigenous Buddhist traditions in Taiwan gradually developed into four sectarian groups, whose founders all shared deep ties with the Yongquan Temple of Drum Mountain (Gushan) in Fujian province on the mainland. Japanese Buddhists targeted them in particular for co-optation. Venerable Shanhui, who is the focus of this article, was the founder of one of these lineages. Venerable Shanhui was inducted into the Japanese Sōtō Zen sect and was appointed as the abbot of the Lingquan Temple by the head priest (kanchō) of the Sōtō sect in August 1907. Between 1911 and 1939, Venerable Shanhui was active in various chaplaincies in mainland China and Southeast Asia. In December 1933, he returned to Taiwan from Singapore via Hangzhou, where he became president of the Hangzhou Sino-Japanese Buddhist Society. In August 1939, Shanhui accepted the invitation of Narita Hōzui, then abbot of the Sōtō Zen temple Chōtokuin in Shanghai, to leave Taiwan and perform missionary work at temples in central China. This article also examines the existence of two different Hangzhou Sino-Japanese Buddhist societies and Shanhui’s relationship to them.

This article discusses the activities of three Buddhist monks: the Japanese Fujii Sōsen (1896–1971) and Kanda Eun (1901–1948), as well as the Chinese Daxing (1900–1952) in Second World War-era China and how their paths intersected. Daxing, who remained in the area occupied by Japan, has been accused of having been too accommodating towards the Japanese forces. However, while Daxing did indeed interact with pro-Japanese Buddhist organizations, his actual relationship with the occupation was a lot more ambiguous, as shown by his lacklustre involvement with Japanese-sponsored initiatives. Fujii and Kanda were deeply involved in Sino-Japanese Buddhist exchange from the late 1920s and were two of the few Japanese Buddhists who also became fluent in Chinese. While they remained highly sympathetic to the plight of the Chinese people, they also continued to work with the Japanese occupiers. Thus, the space occupied by Daxing, Fujii, and Kanda is not easily covered by either ‘resistance’ or ‘collaboration’, but falls uneasily between the two. The article uses the example of these three figures to delineate this ambiguous space and examine how Buddhists sought to navigate the treacherous terrain of occupied China.

This article discusses the activities of the Sino-Japanese Society of the Study of Esoteric Buddhism, which was active in North China from the early 1930s until the end of the Second World War. The organization was founded by Yoshii Hōjun, a young priest of the Japanese Shingon sect. It attracted the support of a wide range of actors, including a range of former Beiyang government politicians, Japanese diplomats, as well as prominent members of the Japanese community in North China. It had contacts in the Japanese military that have garnered the Society the reputation of having been a front for Japanese intelligence operations. This article critically investigates these claims and seeks to understand the relationship between religion and politics manifested in the Study Society for Esoteric Buddhism. Its history reflects the fraught relations between the two nations as well as between the various interest groups on both sides and thus provides a window into the complexities of pre-war North China in the 1930s.

This article examines the activities of the Japanese Buddhist priest Ueda Tenzui (1899–1974) in wartime Thailand and Burma. Ueda initially went to Southeast Asia to pursue his studies of Buddhist precepts. During the war, he joined a pacification team of the Japanese military in occupied Burma and, as part of this role, became the headteacher of a Japanese language school. He was later ordained and served for some time as a monk in the Burmese Theravada tradition. Since the 1970s, research on Japanese Buddhist involvement in Japan’s wars has focused on criticizing those who cooperated with the war effort and praising those who resisted. In this regard, Ueda is unquestionably a ‘collaborator’. Yet, his case demonstrates the importance of the concept of the ‘grey zone’ between the two extremes of collaboration and resistance. While we have to acknowledge that Ueda acted in support of the war effort at the request of the military, he was also a scholar and a practitioner who deepened his understanding of Theravada Buddhism through personal experience. Ueda criticized the war after Japan’s defeat and also came to actively appreciate Burmese Buddhism’s strict adherence to the precepts. At the same time, he never showed a critical attitude towards Japanese Buddhism. Ueda’s thinking is characterized by his ability to find commonalities between Burmese and Japanese Buddhism without ranking them according to some hierarchy of superiority and inferiority, while also recognizing the differences that exist between these two branches of Buddhism.

Dominant historiography in Singapore celebrates Sinnathamby Rajaratnam as one of the city-state’s founding national fathers, and the intellectual superintendent of state-sponsored multiculturalism in what has been characterized as an ‘illiberal democracy’. Little attention, however, has been paid to the extensive periods of Rajaratnam’s life in which he was not in governance with the People’s Action Party, and thus had considerable intellectual autonomy. This article examines the first of these periods—his sojourn in London from 1935 to 1947—marked by connections with overlapping communities of anti-colonial intellectuals drawn from Africa, the Caribbean, and East and South Asia. Close reading of Rajaratnam’s London lifeworld, his published fiction and journalism, and the many annotations he made in the books he read reveals a very different intellectual history than the one that we think we know, and allows us to better understand his lifelong uneasiness with capitalism and racial governmentality. Re-reading Rajaratnam as an autonomous intellectual disembeds his early intellectual life from the story of the developmental state, enabling a focus on the role of affect and form in his writing. The process also offers new insights into Singapore today, where the legacies of state-sponsored multiculturalism are increasingly challenged, and where citizens, residents, and migrants seek new forms of solidarity in and across difference.

The partition of India caused an unprecedented exodus of Hindus and Muslims to the new nations designated for each group. Amid the tempestuous Great Calcutta Killings and the corresponding riots in Noakhali in 1946, many Bengali Hindus living in Noakhali left for Calcutta, leaving their properties behind in what was soon to be the new state of Pakistan. Though many of them longed for home, I argue that displaced Bengali Hindus’ hopes of returning died in the mid-1950s. The article begins by examining the condition of the village of Lamchar in Noakhali at the time of the riots, partition, and afterwards. I then consider Noakhali within the larger historical context of laws relating to properties settlement in East Pakistan and the introduction of passports from 1948 to 1956. Finally, I examine a rare family archive of letters exchanged between Jogendra Roy, a Hindu landowner who fled Noakhali, and Oli Mian, his Muslim neighbour who remained behind. Twenty-six letters sent from Jogendra to Oli document his desire to return home to Noakhali and his later disappointment when this hope was never realized. This dying hope coincided with the East Pakistan government’s decision to take possession of the lands left by those displaced through the East Bengal State Acquisitions and Tenancy Act of 1950. This article concentrates on the complex relationship between Hindus and Muslims, exploring issues of nostalgia, identity, property, and hope, revealing the slow acceptance among displaced Bengali Hindus of the (im)possibility of return.

This article analyses how the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) created and spread new forms of subjectivity and social belonging in the formative years of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) (1949–present). Specifically, it examines how the CCP blended medical and emotional discourses to foster communal hatred of narcotics users and promote social cohesion. Building on scholarship that conceptualizes hatred as a way of producing and animating subjectivity, the article argues that the CCP saw it as a key tool of unification, bringing people together to commit acts of emotional and physical violence against drug users and traffickers. Propaganda officers and police forces worked hard to persuade people to hate drug users and traffickers, writing anti-narcotics songs, plays, and skits to make hating an entertaining and interesting activity for audiences. The article underscores how the CCP encouraged mass participation in the ostracizing and killing of narcotics producers, consumers, and traffickers to spawn a shared social hatred of them, and shows how people responded to state efforts to incite hate. To conclude, the article considers the unlikely agency of some accused drug criminals who resisted the tides of public and state pressure, and challenged their accusers.

This article investigates the developments of hawker discourse and movements across the Malay(si)an peninsula in the first decade of independence. Looking at news coverage and municipal records, it examines the contingent, gendered, and egalitarian qualities of hawking as labour which led to its adoption by people experiencing hardship, and influenced the ways in which municipal authorities and the public discussed hawkers. In effect, hawkers, long significant to the historical and cultural systems of Malayan trade, were recharacterized as vulnerable subjects at the urban margins. The article then explores how local administrations understood and regulated hawkers through categories of location, race, and food, shaping the politics and governance of hawkers in public spaces. To engage with such governance, hawkers formed associations that protested against injustice and established dialogue with municipal and town councils, impelling authorities to consider a more significant inclusion of hawking in street planning. Throughout the period, the potential and limits of hawker inclusion in post-colonial public spaces became subject to significant debate between municipal authorities, political representatives, and hawkers. As local administrations eventually deepened their commitment to support hawkers, they also expanded their regulation, signifying a cautious imperative to legitimate hawkers and influencing the logic of post-independence planned spaces.

This article examines, for the first time, a significant aspect of Bangladesh’s Liberation War in 1971: the fate of ‘stranded Bengalis’ in West Pakistan during and after the war. The war ended with over 90,000 Pakistani prisoners of war (POWs) captured in East Pakistan-turned-Bangladesh, who were then transferred to Indian custody. The government of Pakistan responded by holding hostage roughly the same number of Bengali military personnel, civil servants, and their dependants in West Pakistan as leverage for the return of its captured POWs. Neither group would return home immediately in what arguably became one of the largest cases of mutual mass internment post-1945. Drawing on a wide range of untapped sources, both official and personal, this article traces the trajectory of this crisis of captivity in which the Bengali officials and officers—hitherto serving the Pakistani state—found themselves as rightless citizens with ‘enemy’ status after December 1971. Their wartime experiences, more than half a century after the war, warrant recognition in widening the understanding of 1971, not only in the history of regional and global politics but also at what was arguably the home front—a thousand miles away from the ‘war zone’ in East Pakistan.

This article is an attempt to understand the vexed question of how the Boros of Assam have come to define and realize their ‘traditional’ religious identity amid contemporary assertions of Hindu nationalism in India. Since the early twentieth century, shaped by colonial anthropology and the consolidation of Hinduism, there have been attempts to categorize the Boros as either Hindus or animists. Subsequently, there have been efforts on the part of the Boros themselves to assert and consolidate their ‘traditional’ religious practices into a unified religion called Bathou.1 The process has continued in the complex arena of Boro identity assertion. As this article demonstrates, contemporary efforts at the consolidation of Hinduism by the Sangh Parivar and of Bathou by the Boros have often coincided and, at times, collided with each other, therein producing intricate transactions between traditional religionists and the votaries of Hindutva.