The Sunken Place of American Buddhism

White Silence, Gaza, and the Horror of Disembodied Dharma "Practice"

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a Zoom gathering hosted by a sangha that isn’t my own. The subject was Gaza.

I was invited by a few sangha members to support them as they try to help their community understand that equanimity without action—and a stance of “not taking sides”—is not an acceptable Dharma response to the genocide of the Palestinian people.

The invitation email they forwarded to me read:

“There is one contingent we have not looked at clearly yet: people in our own practice community who have wanted a stronger response from Plum Village… and who feel unheard by, even unwelcome by, the Sangha.”

And then the warning:

“This is not meant to be a ‘venting session’... The emphasis will be on ways of practice, not on why Plum Village ought to take X view.”

The tone was clear: you can grieve, but only gently. You can speak, but not too loudly. You can name the effects of suffering, but not its cause.

It was, unmistakably, premeditated tone policing. A setup designed not to address the Sangha’s moral silence, but to manage the emotions of those hurt by it, to protect the institution from being held accountable, and to neutralize sacred rage.

When the Zoom started, the first thing I noticed was the facilitator’s smile.

Gentle. Practiced. Controlled.

As if the genocide is just another “teaching moment,” and “maintaining equanimity” matters more than calling something what it is.

As if moral clarity is a breach of decorum.

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White Buddhism is the Sunken Place

In Jordan Peele’s horror masterpiece Get Out, the Sunken Place is a psychic abyss where Black characters are forced to watch their bodies move through the world, puppeted by White liberal “hosts.” They can see. But they cannot act. They scream. But no sound comes out.

It’s not death. It’s dissociation. And it’s horrifying.

I thought I was joining a dharma conversation. Instead, I found myself in the Sunken Place.

As Peele himself explained in interviews:

“The Sunken Place means we're marginalized. No matter how hard we scream, the system silences us.”

That line is about racism, yes, but it’s also about powerlessness masquerading as inclusion. It’s about being “invited” in, but only on terms that keep the host culture intact.

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“I would’ve voted for Obama a third time.”

The Violence of Spiritual Niceness

Like the smiling White characters in Get Out, many convert Buddhist communities wield kindness as a form of control. They don’t yell. They don’t insult. They just slowly, softly erase the urgency of the moment with phrases like:

• “Let’s focus on suffering, not positions.”

• “How do we stay with our dissonance?”

• “This is a place to practice, not to protest.”

It sounds reasonable. It sounds peaceful. But it’s actually violent.

Because to center White discomfort in a moment of mass death is not peace, it’s white supremacy.

It’s choosing tone over truth. Calm over clarity. Spiritual comfort over the actual lives of people not protected by whiteness.

As cultural critic Soraya McDonald put it in her review of the film:

“The true villainy of the Armitage family lies not in their overt cruelty, but in their smiling liberalism... their ability to weaponize politeness as power.”

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“A mind is a terrible thing to waste... I think you’d be a perfect candidate.”

Appropriating Liberation While Avoiding Risk

In Get Out, Black bodies are used to host White minds. In many sanghas, Asian teachings are used to soothe White emotions.

We chant in Vietnamese, we praise Thích Nhất Hạnh. But when it comes time to be like him at his best, most realized bodhisattva moments—radically antiwar, publicly moral, politically clear—we retreat into “practice.”

We love the image of Avalokiteśvara (Kuan Yin), the Bodhisattva who hears the cries of the world. But we fear the social cost of saying what those cries are.

As Peele noted in a 2017 press interview:

“The movie is a critique of the people that think they’re beyond racism because they’re not Trump supporters. They’re the ones who think they’re the ‘good ones’ but who would still put you in the Sunken Place.”

That’s exactly how White sanghas are behaving in the face of genocide: not as hateful bigots, but as liberal curators of containment.

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“They’ve been abducting Black people and brainwashing them.”

Who Is This Sangha Really For?

The email asked: How can we help those who find it hard to take refuge right now?

But help us how?

Help us accept the unacceptable? Neuter and neutralize our righteous anger at how complicit our spiritual communities have been in the horror unfolding before our eyes?

Help us spend our energy in this insincere container so we have less to fight for Palestinian lives?

I don’t think so.

As Angela Davis says:

“I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I am changing the things I cannot accept.”

Some of us don’t want to take refuge in a sangha that chooses neutrality over truth. Some of us don’t want to adapt. We want the sangha to do better.

If “practicing with dissonance” becomes code for stop asking us to speak,
then what you’re offering isn’t refuge. It’s sedation.

As critic Angelica Jade Bastién wrote in Vulture:

“The true horror of Get Out lies not in the abduction itself, but in the forced compliance—the smile that demands you play along, or be cast as ‘ungrateful.’”

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Breaking the Spell

In the end, our main character, Chris, escapes the Sunken Place not by meditating. Not by softening his tone. Not by breathing into his discomfort.

He fights. He acts. He refuses to be quiet. And so must we.

The Bodhisattva Vow is not a passive posture. It is a radical one.

So if your sangha centers tone over truth, if it invites you to feel better while people starve, then it’s not a refuge. It’s a smile masking violence. It’s the Sunken Place.

In spiritual solidarity,
🧿 Constant Craving ✨

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