The Spirit of Place
Several months ago, I was interviewed by Shibumi Magazine, a Spanish publication that focuses on traditional Japanese martial culture. The interview, in its original form, is soon to be published in Spanish translation. I have somewhat edited it for English language publication
In his “Spirit of Place,” the great Lawrence Durrell wrote that man is the son of the landscape. The cultural niche in which the bujutsu schools arose is far from the current one. The times demand immediacy, a priori, practicality. Do you consider that, being as we are so far away in space-time from that primitive culture, we can arrive at an understanding of the depths of its philosophy, its reason for being, its most intimate essence?
Your question takes some things at face value that are not exactly true. Anything embedded within a culture is eminently practical—it is only when something is grafted into a culture as a fascinating alien subject that it is—or seems to be—unrealistic or impractical. The classical bugei were always pragmatic—just not in the way that people might imagine. What the reader should understand is that the bugei (these days referred to as koryū) were never the primary training methods for training military personnel for fighting in war. The Japanese, in the period that the bugei first appeared, fought in set-piece battles: mass-formations complete with fortifications and siege-craft. Their primary weapons were bow-and-arrows, spears and guns. Military tactics schools, which described how to train troops and outlined battlefield tactics, were separate entities from the bugei, although some of the older ryūha included limited elements of military tactics in their curriculum. Also, contrary to latter periods, the Japanese in the Muromachi and Azuchi-Momoyama periods were innovative rather than conservative, incorporating new technology as soon as they had access to it, both that developed within Japan as well as that made available from the West. For example, plate armor and gunnery were incorporated without hesitation, and before the country shut-down, the Japanese eagerly learned Western ship-building methods.
If the bugei were battlefield arts, as so often has been claimed, why, in the 16th century and afterwards, did they focus on archaic weaponry such as the kamayari, nagamaki and naginata that were rarely used on the battlefield even in the 14th century? Why did they include chained weapons in their curriculum that were not even suitable for mass conflict? Finally, and most importantly, why was the sword the primary weapon of the majority of the bugei, when it was, at best, an auxiliary side-arm? Some may cite the number of ryūha with spears within their curriculum, but even when training with such weaponry, the majority of ryūha used the sword as uketachi (senior, teaching role) when practicing pattern drills (kata).
Rather than direct military training—though they would certainly assist in making a person skillful with hand-held weaponry, primed to be trained in whatever methodology best suited the needs of an army—bugei were actually the means of training individuals, comprehensively, in a social role: that of a bushi. It is a mistake, however, to translate this word as a “warrior.” Rather, it means “person of the warrior class,” a phrase that encompasses far more than functional battlefield skills. Rather, it denotes a caste of individuals who have a duty to serve their feudal lords, and rule the rest of the populace, both by force of arms and as an exemplar of certain values.
As a matter of fact, most of the bugei were not created in a period of war—they were developed in the Edo period. Even those who claim roots in earlier era were substantially changed in successive generations, something that is usually glossed over even by historians of classical martial arts, much less by the members of specific ryūha.
As society changed, so did the bugei. Increasingly, the bushi were expected to fulfill a role of armed bureaucrats, functionaries of feudal domains who retained power by controlling their citizens’ lives through a rigid Confucian social structure, maintained through almost total control of the means of violence. When one has such control, there is little impetus for innovation. There was, at that time, a much greater emphasis on the sword, particularly focusing on the potential for unarmored combat: duels and street brawls among bushi. Skill with a sword was also believed to be sufficient to maintain control over other elements of society, most of whom did not have access to swords, much less weapons of war. (During ikki, ‘peasant insurrections, when swords were not sufficient, the bushi retreated to the castle armory, and broke out stored muskets, which they kept in the thousands, to suppress the starving, overtaxed peasants, who were armed with farming implements).
As the Edo period waxed, however, more and more non-bushi were admitted to the bugei, both to accumulate social capital on the part of the students and for blatant economic reasons on the part of the teachers. In this period, kata practice, the mainstay of the bugei was increasingly regarded as lacking. It did not resonate so strongly with the more socially crude members of the peasant and merchant class, and in general, provided young men with no means to measure their power against others (which is the main interest of most young men). Competitive fencing developed and more and more, became the primary method of training—this suited the needs of the peaceful, authoritarian society within which the bugei were ensconced. What this means is that martial studies were both an emanation of the society in which they were embedded and a support of that society. Considering martial arts in the West in this light, the most clownish McDojo, the most utilitarian MMA gym and even the koryū dojo, all located in countries far from their origins, are one and the same, as each, in different ways, supports the same culture within which they currently exist—if they did not, they would be revolutionary, a threat to that culture, and would be eradicated (or irrelevant and ignored).
Let us take this question from another perspective, however. Bugei, these days, are alien, not only to those training in the West, but also those in Japan. We do not have the same bodies: few walk or ride long distances, we do not eat the same foods, suffer from and endure the same illnesses, nor do we labor with our hands. The meaning of life-and-death is quite different to us—we no longer have public executions, much less tortures. In previous era, the primary definition of immortality was one’s reputation and the continuation of one’s family line; a besmirched name destroyed one’s family and legacy. Social interaction, therefore, meant something profoundly different to those in medieval Japan than it does today. Finally, customs such as formalized etiquette and innumerable other rules were not, as they are now, something one adopts—they were as natural as breathing. We, on the other hand, don these behaviors like putting on clothes, removing them once we leave the dojo. In fact, were we to “act like bushi” outside of the dojo, we would appear to any sensible person to be a “live-action role-playing” simpleton, much like Don Quixote.
And yet there is a third perspective—everything in the bugei is relevant today, if one trains through to the essence. It is as if one penetrates a first shell, assuming the training and mind-set of an alien culture. At a certain point, you will penetrate an inner shell, where the principles and values are universal. To give one example, I cannot divorce the study of a traditional bugei with that fact that we are studying, at least in part, how to maim and kill others for the purpose of survival. I have viewed myself as remiss while teaching my European students Tenshin Buko-ryū, because the school focuses solely on long weaponry that would be illegal to carry outside one’s home, at least with the intention of using it as a weapon, and anyway, many of the dangers one will face in European countries are at close range, very likely when one is unarmed. Therefore, I developed a cognate discipline, which I call Iimori-ryū, basing it on the body-mechanics and tactical principles of Tenshin Bukō-ryū. It is a pure pugilistic system. However, rather than a “new” stand-alone martial art, it is intended to be integrated within one’s karate or aikidō, or other hand-to-hand modern martial art, so that there is a seamless connection between Tenshin Bukō-ryū training, and what people already do “hand-to-hand.”
In Praise of Shadows
In his In Praise of Shadows, Junichiro Tanizaki emphasized a no less important issue: the blinding light of the West is contrary to that which traverses the traditional shoji—neon disturbs the secret that should only be revealed together with the filtered light. The writer was not mistaken in his premonition: today everything is out in the open, access to previously secret information that was guarded with zeal, is now easily accessible. The mystery has been revealed. From this perspective, we would like to know your opinion about the “democratization” of Budō, its overcrowding, its expansion and globalization, what Gilles Lipovetsky and Jean Serroy defined as a dichotomy between elite culture/mass culture in their book: World Culture: Answer to a Disoriented Society.
I certainly do not wish to minimize Tanizaki’s dichotomy of light and shadow. The West, with its turn since the Renaissance towards “en-lightenment”—not the Buddhist concept of satori—rather, bringing to consciousness, awareness, daylight, explicit knowledge: all that is in one’s ever expanding view. It is certainly true that there is implicit knowledge that not only doesn’t require description or exegesis, and this is a particularly powerful trait within Japanese culture. Too much light can sometimes destroy. I can recall walking through dimly lit temples, with the subtle beauty of evening shades, and then someone turns on an electric lamp to reveal shabby tatami, water-stained wall hangings within the glaring light.
All these traits of “shadow” certainly exist within traditional Japanese martial arts—in its curriculum, its methodology of transmission and the multi-layering of information within a single technique. The goal of study is to penetrate to the depths, as opposed to ascending to different levels, as if climbing a flight of stairs, or broadening one’s knowledge in ever-expanding concentric circles. Still, when it comes to the traditional martial arts, the idea of “democratization,” watering down, the revelation of secret knowledge that withers in the light as a phenomenon that originates with a collision with Western culture—as in my response to the previous question, I believe that the distinction is too stark. This trend [overcrowding, expansion and globalization] started hundreds of years ago. The bugei were originally sectarian groups, not exclusive to bushi, but certainly dominated by them. This changed by the mid-Edo period, with the rise of capital, associated with rich merchants and so-called peasants (many of whom were, in fact, well-to-do landowners). A number of people from these social castes began to train in martial arts to acquire prestige, in hopes of possibly marrying a child into a bushi family, or as part of a process with the aim of attaining bushi-rank themselves: all of these aspects nonetheless accompanied a genuine desire to achieve excellence in martial practice. Like any human activity, therefore, practice within the bugei was an amalgam of estimable and mundane, even tawdry motivations. The bugei became, to some degree, commercial enterprises, exponentially expanding their curricula to acquire more students, through lavishing them with an ever expanding compendium of kata, accompanied by more-and-more certificates of attainment, each meriting a fee to the teacher.
Yet as the Edo period progressed, with the bugei flourishing in ever greater numbers, there was a parallel trend towards homogenization using competitive practice with shinai. Japan was well-aware of the encroaching West long before Perry forced his way into the country. Japan’s response was to begin the process of modernization to survive. As part of this trend, some feudal lords saw the need for more universal military training. Some explicitly ordered the various ryūha in their domain to consolidate; some had their instructors go to Edo to learn more modern systems such as the offshoots of Ittō-ryū, and bring back their methodologies to incorporate into their own systems; still others ordered various teachers to train more and more non-bushi, creating militias, thereby increasing the number of wieldy citizens (even if they were woefully unprepared to respond to modern Western military tactics and equipment, they were easily trainable once those methodologies were introduced into Japan). State Shintō was established as an ideology intended to unified the various feudal domains into one nation, and this corresponded with the creation of modern budō, accessible to any citizen with the same rules and criteria throughout the state. Therefore, what has happened to bugei, the classical arts, began to occur partly in reaction to the West, but also as a natural outcome of a transition within Japan from a feudal to a neo-capitalist society.
Of course, the bugei do represent the most conservative side of martial arts in Japan. At least as an ideal, one should train to be pervasively inculcated in the values and techniques of the school, in a lifelong pursuit of excellence and mastery. However, many,, if not most, people today, in Japan as well as the West, train as a hobby—an activity, one among many, that enriches their lives. Rather than something that pervades every moment of one’s waking hours, it is something one does in the dojo for a few hours a week. They do not enter a bugei regarding it as a comprehensive training of physical technique, mindset, and ways to interact with other people, even direct them to your will. Many more people have access to training, if they so desire, but that which makes one an elite is not the goal of most.
We are also mistaken in the idea that these arts were pristine entities who rather suddenly met modernity with the admission of Western students. In fact, in the early Meiji period, these arts were almost abandoned as antiquated, useless activities, in comparison to Western military science. Interest in kenjutsu and jujutsu were reignited in Japan when such eminences as Dr Erwin Baelz, began training in the former, and became a sponsor of the latter. In the later Meiji period, these almost lost martial traditions were incorporated, along with the new modern martial systems, in service of the state through the Dai Nippon Butokukai. Still, by the 1930’s, so few Japanese were interested in the older martial traditions that it was necessary to create the Kobudo Shinkokai (“The Society for the Preservation of Traditional Martial Arts”). This latter organization organized something new in Japanese martial history: group exhibitions of a number of bugei together (enbukai) to foster public interest in the traditional arts.
We see an arc of development, from separate sectarian groups that simultaneously developed and preserved martial techniques (both physical and psycho-spiritual) for the purpose of establishing and consolidating the identity of the bushi class through such training. In this process, they developed individuals who were brilliant swordsmen (or experts at other weapons). These martial traditions became embedded in the culture of Edo Japan, at first supporting the social strata as it was. With the development of capitalism in Japan, this social structure was threatened on many fronts, and power shifted from the military class to both landowners and merchants. These two castes joined these martial traditions in ever increasing numbers, many becoming the senior members, if not leaders of various schools. The values of the warrior class—including loyalty, the following of established forms of behavior, stoicism and sacrifice of self for one’s family and one’s feudal lord—began to diffuse throughout society. However, increasing numbers of men (and some women) now trained in combative techniques (pattern drills) with no outlet. This led to the development of sparring—competitive practice using safety equipment. This in turn led to the homogenization of the techniques of the previously separate schools, because all increasingly prepared to compete against each other within the same rulesets. The impending threat of Western intrusion increase the impetus to consolidate training methodologies to be able to function en masse. Once the West entered Japan, in part by threat of force of arms, Japan abandoned its traditional arts. They revived, in part through the interest and admiration of important Western figures living in Japan, and then became a kind of “physical ideology” to support the development of the nation-state.
‘What is Positive Is Also Negative; What is Shade is Also Sun
This description is perhaps somewhat brutal—it is certainly in jarring contrast to that of Tanizaki. However, it is due to the perspective described by Tanizaki that the martial traditions survived Japan’s defeat in the Second World War. A rationale to preserve these arts to support the nation-state was untenable. It was the existence of the most subtle, most refined knowledge within the traditional arts that drew people to them after Japan’s defeat. Among them were Westerners who saw something in these arts that did not seem to be present in Western combative methods. This knowledge to which I refer is aesthetic in part; it is also among the most sophisticated understanding of what happens within oneself when facing the potential of death in hand-to-hand combat; it is also the knowledge of how to affect another in such situations. Some of the physical education—both techniques and body training—are superlative, but beyond that is the systemization of this knowledge that enables it to be transmitted generation after generation. The finest of the teachers of these arts saw in some of the Westerners who vied for entry exactly the same spirit possessed by those who created these arts.. As one of my teachers said to me, “I hate Americans. But I looked in your eyes and saw that you were a very strange American. Being a strange Japanese, I thought it might be interesting having you around.”
The seeds of destruction also lie within this same set of circumstances. It is as if you have an isolated valley where flora and fauna develop intact. When that isolation ends, there is the possibility that something new enters that adds strength to the entire ecosystem. Starting with such men as Donn Draeger and Doc Gordon Warner, this occurred within Japanese traditional arts. Without a doubt, however, the equivalent of weeds enter as well. Some traditional martial arts have indiscriminately accepted tens, even hundreds of people from all over the world, people ill-suited to truly training in a Japanese martial tradition.
This has always been the history of Japanese martial traditions. They changed, for better and for worse with their dissemination among other social classes; they changed, for better and for worse, with the advent of safety equipment and competitive practice; they changed, for better and for worse, with the collision with the West; and finally, along with the admission of non-Japanese who were exemplary students came far more people for whom this is merely a wonderful avocation, a hobby, an experience. The arts are more widely spread, and perhaps this is good, because their values can possibly influence societies far from their place of birth, and some schools have been privileged at the entry of people of exemplary character from all parts of the world, revitalizing training and even serving as a kind of moral influence to not let any aspect of the tradition die. The arts are more widely spread, and perhaps this is bad, because their deepest values can be lost, without the sectarian pressure-cooker environment necessary to make a student an embodiment of the knowledge the founders strove to pass down the generations.
To Be Valued In Fair Measure
With few exceptions, the consideration that Western society has of the martial arts is partial, and its contents are undervalued. Such a perception may have its origin in the lack of pedagogy, in a lesser perspective on the part of teachers, in the tendency to equate them as sports or in the simple difficulty of incorporating these disciplines into our cultural heritage and social model. We ask ourselves how to make ourselves understood by the social environment, how to be valued in fair measure, and by self-criticism we question what we have done wrong to have reached such a point
When it comes to classical martial traditions, these are not my concerns. I start with the premise that I am doing something unusual and alien, yet eminently worthwhile. I certainly attempt to communicate what I find of merit, but it is not my concern to change my practice to make it more appealing or acceptable to a greater number of people. In fact, I would regard myself as having done something very wrong if what I teach—at least in so far as the classical martial arts—appealed to more than a few. That of value will be valued. And what is defined as valuable is always conditioned by the values of those who would acquire it.
As for how a cultural activity enters another culture, there are two ways to import an activity (be it art form or combative system). The first is to adapt a suitable portion so that it best fits its new cultural milieu. For example, Picasso’s incorporation of a few elements of African masks in his initial development of Cubism; Debussy’s incorporation of a tonal scale in his music after hearing Balinese gamelan; African combatives and dance influencing boxing, where before, boxing’s roots (in stance and movement) were in Western fencing. Conversely, muay thai, when they shifted from hand-wraps to gloves, integrated a lot of the methodology of Western boxing. Over one thousand years ago, Buddhist priests went to China and returned with such sects as Shingon, Tendai and Zen. These sects were adapted within Japanese culture—they were no longer mere Chinese rituals (just as Chinese Buddhism was an amalgam of Indian Buddhism and Taoism, Japanese Buddhism incorporated elements of Shintō and even shamanism). In regards to martial arts in the West, this has happened, both for better and for worse. Much is lost in such incorporation, and some of that is (was) quite wonderful, but some of what is dropped or pared away is irrelevant to the new culture within which it finds itself. Furthermore, some aspects have to be innovated or created to make it acceptable to its new home, in this case, the West.
On the other hand, the virtues of martial training can go far beyond the activity itself. I have probably trained tens of thousands of individuals on tactical communication—managing aggressive individuals, calming those who are mentally ill or otherwise out of balance—and most of what I have taught is based on principles I learned within classical martial arts. And as those I’ve taught then influence others, it is fair to say that a tincture of Araki-ryū and Tenshin Bukō-ryū now permeates American society, even though few people know that I exist, much less know anything about the martial arts I train.
One might also attempt to import a tradition in its entirety. However, this is quite difficult. Let us consider a traditional ryūha. It is anti-democratic, and founded on social hierarchy. Seniority is very important, and so is social class. The role of a human being—his or her responsibility to others, his or her reason for living—was viewed quite differently in medieval Japan. For example, how likely would a practitioner in a classical martial tradition today be ready to kill himself or herself, if one’s teacher stated that he or she had dishonored the martial tradition or negatively affected the teacher’s reputation?
The method of teaching, too, was quite different. A traditionalist expected his/her students to learn by ‘osmosis,’ using a term, ‘steal the technique.’ Most people in the West, however, need to have things explained, demonstrated, broken down and reassembled. In addition, a teacher in Japan, even today, is viewed as having far more authority over his or her students than we accept in the West. For example, what should a traditional teacher do if a student posts political views on social media, particularly if those viewpoints are different from the teacher’s own, and particularly if the person is known as a student of the teacher? In Japan, at least until modern times, all that would need to happen is that the teacher made the slightest comment—even facial expression—that indicated disapproval or disagreement, and the student would pull down all of his or her posts without hesitation. A Western student would likely be offended at such an expectation. In short, learning sword techniques is the easy part—what will you do if part of training is to subsume your identity to that of the teacher/ryūha, that without such self-abnegation, you will never achieve the transcendent function that the ryūha potentially offer, at least if studied to their essence?
Personally, I regard the bugei as the equivalent of genetic isolates. The world has gone past them, and they only maintain their identity by sectarian isolation, as well as a clear separation between outsiders and insiders. Thereby, principles and values lost in the larger population can be preserved. Only if maintained in this manner can they can still be ‘tapped’ to re-invigorate the larger culture. I have done this, using principles derived from koryū bujutsu to teach warfighters, police and the general public in my books, The Coordinator and The Accord Agent.
Popular acceptance and widespread dissemination of these alien, traditional arts, intact, is impossible. This has becomes very clear to me when observing the vitiation of tradition in certain koryū that have become widely practiced, both those within Japan and even more so, internationally. Many of the practitioners are quite adroit in their performance of kata and some of them quite meticulous in their enactment of formal etiquette. But most of them are doing a form of role-play—and this includes modern Japanese as much as those in the West. The mindset of a man or woman of the Meiji Period, much less the Edo or Sengoku periods, is alien to them.
My definition of true success of a bugei, would be a very small group, practicing with hermetic intensity, where it is both fiercely traditional in mindset, yet put in the context of the country within which it resides. That absolutely pure transmission is enacted with such integrity that, through quality alone, it influences the society within which it exists, even if most of those in that culture are not aware of it.
A Razor’s Edge
In his work Good Entertainment, the Korean writer Byung Chul Han expresses the dichotomy between mundane art and transcendent art. The first considers art as an end in itself and through the exercise of it, man develops its potential. Transcendent art is undertaken to achieve an end located beyond oneself. We can observe this parallelism in relation to the arts budō (transcendent) and bujutsu (mundane). You have written a lot about this opposition. We would like you to go deeper for us in this regard.
This does not really do justice to my perspective. Personally, I view the alleged dichotomy between budō and bujutsu (transcendent and mundane) as a misunderstanding—the two worlds overlap like shadow and shade. Donn Draeger pioneered this formula in the West—Donn was very much a black-and-white thinker, and he managed information through binary oppositions, something alien to Japanese ways of thinking about things. Consider the following nuances:
- From their very inception, bujutsu (martial arts believed to have focused primarily on how to defeat opponents in combat) had both transcendent and mundane concerns. As I stated in previous sections of this interview, they were not—definitely not—simple methodologies for warfare. The mundane concerns in the original martial traditions were to effectively study weaponry and its use within combat, while supporting the founder and his successors’ theoretical construct of how combative engagements (should) occur, and how a man or woman should maintain himself or herself with the possibility of either dying at the hands of another or taking their life. However, there were transcendent concerns as well—primarily as a means of inculcating, on a physical, psychological and spiritual level, the essence of being of the bushi caste in Japanese society. Furthermore, these schools uses extremely sophisticated methods of meditation and other ascetic practices to tap into the remarkable possibilities inherent in human neurology and athletic potential.
- In the Edo period, when most ryūha were actually created, new schools flourished, concerned with combative engagements within a civil, largely peaceful society. Physical postures changed, based on social role and circumstance. (Compare the basic stance of Muhi Muteki-ryū and of Ono-ha Ittō-ryū, two schools developed for people of very different social station). Many schools referred to themselves as budō rather than bujutsu, but it is actually hard to distinguish between schools who use one or the other appellation. For many, the words are almost interchangeable, and some practitioners would ever refer to their own school using these words interchangeably. I recall one of my instructors, who not only practiced a very brutal martial art, but often lived a brutal life, referring with complete contempt to another martial art that he considered weak: “あれは武道 じゃない！”That’s not budō.” On the other hand, I read a statement by the famous 20th century swordsman, Kunii Zen’ya where he referred to budō as egotistical, because it was, he said, based on self-perfection rather than self-sacrifice and commitment to one’s ryūha as a whole, which, he stated was the concern of true bujutsu. in short, there was—and is—no one definition, and in fact, different people of equal creditability can hold almost diametrically opposite views.
- During the Edo period, the same transcendent concerns existed as in earlier era, except now, by admitting large numbers of non-bushi, the goal, increasingly became to imbue an ever larger portion of society with the values of service and submission to authority that were previously believed to be the purview of the bushi. (This achieved its peak in the Meiji Period with State Shintō, embodied in the Imperial Rescript on Education.) In addition, the Edo ryūha were influenced by both Zen philosophical ideas, regarding achieving enlightenment through repetitive ritual enactment as well as neo-Confucian ideals to put any such spiritual attainment in the service of society/the state. In this, aesthetics and politics became two of the additional pillars of the bugei.
- In the later part of the Edo period, a there increasingly arose a split between gekkiken (“aggressive sword” – competitive matches and training using protective equipment and split-bamboo sword replicas), and kata Since the closest thing to combat that most people experienced were these non-lethal matches or in the case of jujutsu, grappling, there naturally developed, within Japan, a sportive, competitive training. Kata either began to be distorted to conform to what one tried to achieve in shiai, or it became increasingly divorced from the requirements to win such matches. Paradoxically, transcendent spiritual explanations became more important in both wings. For example, why, in iaidō (drawing the sword from its scabbard in a variety of practical, flamboyant and idealistic methods) is a deviation of one millimeter in stance considered improper? With an explanation (actually, a belief) that this training is for spiritual forging, and every millimeter of movement is a calibration of the perfection of spirit, one can accommodate grueling training, with less and less concern for the mundane. On the other hand, many instructors imbued competitive practice with transcendent concerns as well—for example, establishing a kind of rite of passage to face one hundred opponents in succession, until one either collapsed or broke through all physical limitations to a state of mind where concerns of life and death disappeared.
In short, I see concerns about the mundane and transcendent, in varying proportions, within all Japanese martial arts, and they have been so from their creation.
Unprecedented, Unstoppable and Irrevocable
In your book Dueling with O-Sensei you put your finger on controversial issues that a martial artist must be aware of. You encourage a healthy critical spirit. This work is, in our opinion, a must-read for anyone who wants to see more clearly the environment of today’s budō. Among the many issues that the work reveals—and others that arise from its reading—we would highlight: mythomania, fear of freethinking, spirituality based on inconcrete testimonies, etc. Why is there a rejection of technique, of rigor, of practicality, of basic, elementary, direct concepts? Why this other drift towards subtlety, elegance, avant-garde, aesthetics?
All of the critiques you have enumerated have always been problems within martial arts. There is little difference between a folk tale, such as Cú Chulainn or Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar: El Campeador, and early stories of the founders or heroes of bugei, such as Saito Hangan Denkibo Katsuhide of Ten-ryū, or Matsumoto Bizen-no-kami Masanobu of Shintō-ryū. When we view a figure such as Ueshiba Morihei, the founder of aikido, the only thing that makes him different is that he was alive only a few years ago, and one can flesh him out, beyond his legends (such as he dodged bullets, or that he could teleport himself to the top of a flight of stairs). Accounts of his disciples also include his being the most panicky backseat driver in a taxi that one could imagine, yelling at the driver to watch out for every moving object in his peripheral vision, or in his elderly years, eating spicy ramen with mucus pouring from his nose into the bowl, then offering the other half for his student to eat (and one must ask—was he, at that point, a bewildered senile old man or sadistic, knowing his student couldn’t refuse?). And regarding this second example, how many Western students would willingly accept that bowl and drink it down? Ueshiba may be, in some ways, an extreme case, but first-hand accounts of any of the great warriors of the past would reveal such human, all-to-human, aspects.
The model of learning in budō, where one submits to the authority and will of another, accepting being imprinted by them, naturally leads to fantasy and myth making. In other words, if my teacher is wondrous, super-human, I can psychologically accommodate my submission to him or her (and may also bask in his or her reflected glory). The greatest practitioners of martial arts (those who truly merit praise) are those who can walk a razor’s edge between respect and even idolization of their teachers, yet are still able to distinguish between metaphor, fact, and wishful fantasy. Beyond that, one can never equal or surpass one’s teachers unless, at a certain point, one questions anything and everything one is taught, even if only to find that one’s teacher was right all along.
The world is embarking on an unprecedented, unstoppable and irrevocable technological revolution. Human movements begin with a revolution, advance by perfecting themselves, continue to flourish, and end in splendor, decadence and decline. Perhaps this panorama turns out to be bleak, but in view it is that it can be considered at least wise. Being a long-term student of these forms of culture, we ask you: How do you envision the future of these cultural manifestations in the medium and long term?
I truly do not know. Looking at my own culture in the United States, there is a loss of the ability to use critical thinking; there is also no education in—and hence no understanding of—rhetoric and debate. Without an understanding of rhetoric, we are at the mercy of charismatic politicians, or any idea that people in our social circle have adopted. The American education system has become a morass of ideology, intended to rework our concepts of humanity in a profoundly destructive way, with emotions/feelings as a touchstone rather than thought.
As the reader will have gathered by now, I am quite traditional in my views on martial training, but not as living antiques. Rather, I believe that even the most traditional arts must contribute to the larger society. But I am also a phenomenologist—I wish to see things are they are, even things I love, not as I wish they would be. In that sense, I believe I am using what I have learned within koryū bujutsu to fight the destructive culture within which I live. In addition to my teaching of de-escalation tactics and my writing that is abstracted from such principles, I have been involved in a program entitled Budō Accelerator, which attempts to bring traditional martial principles to young people, regarding budō training as an embodiment of human interaction and values, and how to maintain those values while under stress, criticism, even assault. This is accomplished not only through enrolling them in martial arts practice, but also teaching them principles that they can study both within their practice and out in the world. How does one choose kamae (‘stance,’ used to either manifest or conceal intent) in a job interview? Can one observe in-yo dynamism (the balance of overt and covert expressions of power) in human interactions? How can one maintain zanshin (an omni-directional awareness, so that one is not ‘blindsided’ from anything, be it physical attack or emotional assault) within one’s social circle, where the wrong phrase may lead to social ostracism, or when pressured by a mentor whose authority you believe you are supposed to trust and accept? What is stunning to me is that when I speak with young people and present the concept that true courage can be resistance to things you find wrong, regardless of how that resistance makes others feel, the young people I speak with light up in wonder, as if they have may have had such thoughts, but did not dare speak them aloud. Dignity and integrity are concepts unvoiced, but intuited within them—but they have, so it seems, few elders in their lives to embody these principles. And one of the most important things in Budō Accelerator is that none of the instructors teaches their own ideological values—we teach principles of bujutsu/budō only: the goal is to provide young people with the tools to assume a leadership role, as well as how to interact with others who are in a position of power, regardless of what ideology, whatever values they may personally hold. (Otherwise, we adults are simply usurping the young people’s time to push our values on them). Beyond all else, budō has something unique to offer people, a way to practice and experience situations that require courage, respect, and intuition. Traditional martial art practice offers the experience of having a weapon thrust into one’s face, for one example, or having someone exert heavy pressure with a knee in ground work, and this mirrors the cross-roads one faces over and over in one’s life. More than anything else, this is something budō can offer to young people in the West, and if so conveyed, it deserves to survive.
The assessment that we can make of the publications that deal with budō is clearly improvable. You have written a lot about the medieval traditions of Japan and have published numerous essays on it. From your experience: What elements are necessary for these works to have greater prestige among the public? Can you tell us about your projects in this context?
These days, I am most interested in writing fiction, trying to bring more art and more free imagination to my writing. All of my fictional writing concerns violence and love, with vivid descriptions of combat, yet also the transcendent concerns of which we have spoken, not only of the bugei, but of any human who strives to be moral in the face of evil. I have written three novels: The Girl with the Face of the Moon, set in the cusp of medieval and modern Japan; Lost Boy, set both in West Africa and the United States, and Little Bird and the Tiger, set in Japan, Korea and Primorsky Krai, during the Meiji period. All these books concern moral injury: what happens when one enacts violence, for whatever the cause; and how one survives or recovers one’s soul in such circumstances.
Moral injury is something that we are far too casual about in martial arts studies. Clive Nicol, the great karateka and explorer, told me that he worked, for several years as the chief protector of a huge nature preserve established in Ethiopia (Haile Selassie was still king). The people who had lived on this land since time immemorial were forbidden to hunt and kill the increasingly threatened animals that still survived there. From their perspective, however, they were hunting to help their family survive. Beyond protecting the animals himself, Clive saw as part of his mission trying to educate people to conserve the animals in their area for long term survival; the people, impoverished and exploited by ‘big men’ who ran their lives, tended to see him as just another ‘big man,’ whatever his aims. He ran into considerable resistance. Once, he was alone in the mountains, and was attacked by a ‘poacher,’ (just a man trying to feed his family–both perspectives were true) either with a knife or olive wood staff, and he, wearing heavy hiking boots, countered with a round-house kick to the man’s chest. At least one rib broke and pierced the man’s lung. Clive was half a day’s walk from even a village, much less a hospital, and the man slowly died over the course of a day, the two of them helpless in their own ways, staring at each other over a vast gulf, breathing the same air, yet living in two different worlds. Clive was haunted by the man’s death, and upon his return to Japan, he went to one of his senior karate teachers, a famous luminary in the karate world, and told him the story. The teacher, who had worked as part of Japan’s genocidal occupation of China in World War II, brushed him away with near contempt, saying, “He attacked you. You survived. He didn’t. What are you upset about?” It is ironic that the study of violence—martial arts, combatives, what have you—provides so little preparation for what one may feel, should feel, will feel, upon maiming another or taking their life. I consider Clive, who was haunted by a terribly ambiguous sense of guilt, having done the right thing and the wrong thing in a single act, to be a far greater man—and martial artist—then his dead-souled teacher. I hope that all my activities in the martial arts world, (including my writing) provide what I believe is perhaps the most important missing piece in our training in these arts of violence.