A Critical Engagement With Piotr Masztalerz’s THE KINGDOM OF DUST

For those familiar with the martial art of aikido, there is a certain man, born in 1940, who had remarkable influence on many individuals, both positive and negative, and for many others, who had only peripheral contact with him, he assumes immense symbolic importance, far beyond many of his contemporaries. This was Chiba Kazuo.

I have practiced with many individuals who trained to be powerful in the service of their country or an ideology—they had a cause. I’ve practiced with many others who wanted to be powerful because it is, quite simply, a wonderful thing to be strong. I’ve practiced with many others who strove to become powerful because they had been victimized before, and they wished to either ensure that they could ‘stop it’ this time around, or more pervasively, transform themselves so that they no longer had a sense of personal identity with the helpless victim they once were.

Chiba was unique. He came from an abusive upbringing, far more violent than the harsh environment (by modern Western lights) of a typical Japanese home of the 1940’s and 1950’s. He told a close student, Bruce Bookman, that his memory of his father was watching him sitting in front of the hearth, tapping a fireplace poker in the palm of one hand, preparing to give him a beating. Like many young men from such an environment, he found the martial arts. However, instead of committing himself to something like boxing or karate, thereby offering himself an opportunity to turn internal rage and fear into a fighting sport contending against equals, or the military or police, where he could fight for country or community, he came upon aikido, an art that focuses exclusively on ‘pattern-drill’ training, both empty-handed and with weapons (sword and staff). He committed himself passionately, fully, to the person of the founder, Ueshiba Morihei, a ‘god-intoxicated’ man of extraordinary physical power and spiritual depth, and to the martial art of aikido itself.

Unlike his own teacher, a devout practitioner of neo–Shinto, Chiba was profoundly influenced by Zen Buddhist ideas, and through it, developed his own particular interpretation of this martial art. Just as the student of Zen sits in mediation, withstanding (and hopefully transcending) heat, cold, poor food, lack of sleep and for most, severe pain throughout one’s body, so Chiba’s students were led to accept a level of harsh training for the sake of training itself. Rather than conforming to sitting, one conformed to the demands of Chiba. I have often thought that his entire path was an attempt to face the iron fireplace poker of his father and become a man who was no longer hurt by it. Within his dojo, he recapitulated the unpredictable environment of an abusive home, that pervasive fear of making mistakes and subsequent brutal punishment at a father’s whim—and called it a path towards being a warrior and towards enlightenment.

Those who trained regularly with Chiba got injured, not only at his hands, but also in the very intense mutual practice among his students. But just to be clear, these were, in every case I’m aware, ‘peripheral injuries’: a joint sprained or broken, a nose bloodied, a mild concussion. I am not trivializing or recommending it—my point is that these were the kind of injuries one could easily get playing lacrosse or rugby. In just a couple of years playing basketball in high school, I had several broken fingers, damaged knees that still give me pain half-a century later, and a scratched cornea—not so different from what one might have experienced training in one of Chiba’s dojos. What made things different from a sports team, however, was a sense that everything in the world rested on doing things correctly. His psychological pressure was intense, and for some, it seemed unending. People were indoctrinated to view ordinary behaviors (washing a dish, drinking a beer, asking a question) as if they were actions on a battlefield, and Chiba, himself, was the sole arbiter of what was correct and what was not—and his rules could change at a whim. Furthermore, this extended far beyond the dojo; it included every action in every moment one had in his company. It is important to understand, however, that everyone was a volunteer who chose to study with him. Although his dojo had some of the trappings of a cult, one was always free. One could simply walk out and never return, saying goodbye in the process or not, as one chose.

For those who have read this far who are not familiar with Chiba, or who knew him and chose not to train with him, this probably reads like a singularly unattractive way to spend one’s years of study. I certainly felt that way, and chose a very different path from that of my friends who did follow him. But for those in the aikido community, he had and continues to have enormous symbolic importance, because there is no denying the following:

• He had as much or more commitment to training as anyone who ever trained the art. He put almost everyone else to shame in this regard.
• He made as much or more demands on himself than he did to his students, including a willingness to accept injury to himself
• His behavior was sometimes kind and supportive, but at other times, it was awful. Given that aikido is often believed to be a practice that includes spiritual and moral development, the fact that he was a close student of the founder (who is often regarded as an avatar or saint), makes people question the assumptions they have about the art . . . as in “Why was Chiba accepted by Ueshiba, the founder, beloved in fact, so much so that Ueshiba took him with him during his travels, trusting him with everything: his travel arrangements, his care of his health and well-being, even his physical safety?

In short, Chiba is a kind of a mountain that some chose to climb, some chose to engage at arms-length, and many chose to reject. But he looms on the horizon as one possibility of training at its extreme, and further, one possibility of what it means to commit to a teacher and to a particular interpretation of power and excellence. In other words, what price will you pay? And to what end, anyway?

For those of you who have read this far, you may be surprised to learn that I am not really writing about Chiba Kazuo. I merely needed this introduction to enter into the real subject of this essay, a wonderful book entitled The Kingdom of Dust, by Piotr Masztalerz, one so good that I will offer this review even though I have not yet finished it. The book was first written in Polish and an English translation is being published in installments that I look forward to with as much anticipation as I used to wait for the latest episode of The Wire or Lost. I can only imagine how beautiful a writer Masztalerz is in Polish, given the fluid English translation by some of his own students and friends. There are two other books published by students of Chiba Kazuo: one is dramatic and starry-eyed, the other is mundane—personally, I forgot them as soon as I closed the covers. Masztalerz has the soul of a poet, and at the same time, writes with a remarkable clarity. His images and language stay with me, haunt me.

This artistry enables us to return to the question of the last paragraph, this time with real concern, because we care about a man who writes so beautifully and thoughtfully. So again: why would anyone, particularly a man who grew up poor in Poland at the end of the communist regime, followed by the lurching cultural shifts of nascent democracy, chose to study aikido to begin with, and in particular, with such a man?

He writes:

Sensei was like a person searching for ambers on the beach. Among thousands of pieces of glass and grains of sand he wants to find a shiny amber. He grasps hundreds of pebbles and pellets in his hands, rubbing them, squeezing them – from time to time he encounters a shiny stone. In the meantime, he rejects the worthless waste, others he mashes to dust. In our unending longing for the perfect template of a human, we leave no space for weakness. Nobody is perfect, and this is who we most often look for in a fabricated relationship with a teacher. A stage of idealizing and fascination, as in love, takes over the true perception – and only when it is over can you make a real choice. Because only then you can see a real person. Sensei died. He became, for those who did not drink his poison, only a symbol.

I see such pathos in Chiba Kazuo, a man looking for himself through his students, finding flaws and throwing them away, or putting such psychological pressure on them that they are crushed. What I see in this passage is that in striving to teach others, he lost the opportunity to find that amber in himself. He found fault with everyone (and how could this be otherwise, because if one measures others by ideals that one does not perfectly live up to oneself, everyone will be flawed). The tragedy I see is that he sidelined himself from what is truly a solitary work, a dark night of one’s own soul. Had he faced his own demons and healed the flaws within himself, perhaps he could have become someone who did not have the need to turn quartz, malachite or common sandstone into amber, or crush them in the process.

It can be, however, that through a confrontation with such a man, one finds one’s own sandstone or malachite nature. I read something analogous to my own life in Masztalerz’s story. Once, at two in the morning, drinking whiskey after sake after beer with my own very harsh teacher, he said, “If only you had come here at sixteen, I could have made you into something worthwhile. You came here at twenty-three, already thinking you have a soul of your own. You are a waste of time.” Part of me was shocked and hurt, having yet again failed to measure up to his exacting standards; part of me gleefully thought, “Yeah! Hah, hah, muthafucka! I have a soul and there’s nothing you can do about it! You will never get me!” Masztalerz, in his various allusions to ‘poison’ throughout the book, a term Chiba himself used, is referring to Paracelus’ phrase, “All things are poison, and nothing is without poison; the dosage alone makes it so a thing is not a poison.” Masztalerz turned Chiba’s harsh teaching into medicine, though at times, it must have felt as bad as chemotherapy. The proof I see is in films of Masztalerz himself: fierce technique, warm heart, no abuse to be seen. He took what he was offered (he could have left at any time), and met it with a poet’s soul.

Aside from Masztalerz’s fine writing and beautiful character sketches, anyone within the martial arts community who has committed to a teacher, all of whom who have feet of clay, will find this book of merit, because Chiba Kazuo and Piotr Masztalerz’s relationship is an extreme of something many, if not most, of us have gone through. And it is through the harsh light of the extreme that we can illuminate the subtler shadows of our own path.

The book (so far) and further installments can be acquired on-line at.  The work (and thereby Masztalerz’s dojo) are supported by donations, so please do.

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