Author: Ellis Amdur Page 3 of 12

In the tapestry of martial arts, I Liq Chuan (意力拳) emerges as a distinctive thread, weaving together the ancient and the modern. I Liq Chuan draws from a wellspring of principles often associated with the so-called “internal arts,” with its roots in two rare styles of Xingyiquan (鳳陽形意拳) and Baguazhang (如意八卦掌). Not much is known about either, and both appear to be extinct except what little remains embedded within I Liq Chuan’s partner training methods. 

Referred to as the “Martial Art of Awareness,” it has gained a reputation for revealing the secrets of the old masters. Emphasizing mindfulness, the integration of mind and body, and an almost scientific exploration of self, I Liq Chuan’s curriculum is logically structured, allowing for a systematic progression in learning. Through unique training methods and a focus on tangible and measurable results, it offers an approach that reaches people from all walks of life, particularly those seeking a deeper understanding of movement, balance, and the nature of what it really means to be a human being. Under the watchful eye and guiding hand of Grandmaster Sam Chin, the popularity of I Liq Chuan has surged. With schools now operating in more than 20 countries around the globe, GM Chin’s gravitas inspires practitioners across continents, transcending borders, cultures, and languages.

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On 26, Rue d’Enghien, in Paris, a plaque indicates that here is practiced: Boxe Française, modern savate, stick, cane, umbrella, fencing and weight training. In my earlier years, I crossed the porch and arrived in a courtyard, then took the well-polished wooden staircase to go up to the second floor. The master was sitting behind his desk,  waiting to introduce my son and me to the place. On the left was a room for massage, and on the right, the training room with its impeccable parquet floor. At the back, to the right, was the room dedicated to weight training, equipped with dumbbells and apparatus made by Jean Lafond himself. In the annex were the changing rooms with a shower and a sauna, also self-made. A curiosity decorated the locker rooms: old black suitcases with the names of the regulars who stored their boxing gear there.

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At a university symposium on budō  some years ago, I was sitting beside Meik Skoss during a lecture on the subject of the 13^th century scroll, the “Burning of the Sanjo Palace,” given by an Asian Art professor who knew a great deal about Asian art, but nothing whatsoever about historical Japanese martial arts or the culture of the bushi. The professor pointed out a detail of the luridly illustrated scroll, a warrior who was, she noted, “clutching a couple of the heads of his victims.” Quietly Meik said to me, “They’re not ‘victims.’ They’re enemies.”

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Partly because of my just released novel, Little Bird and the Tiger, which, among other themes, explores the tension between tradition and modernity in the Meiji period, the thought of Amur (Siberian) tigers come to mind. They are the largest big cats – growing up to 400 kilos. As you surely know, they live in the far north, surviving comfortably in weather under -50 degrees centigrade.They hunt and kill brown bears (!) When they attack, they simultaneously bite and also clamp down with their spread armed fore-paws, both teeth and claws penetrating the body of their prey as if it is one giant set of jaws. Such an attack has the spread of the bite of a tyrannosaur.  They are rare, they are marvelous, and may soon go extinct.

Classical martial traditions are such an Amur tiger. Within each such art, there are developments and changes from generation to generation, including reworking of some kata, or studying a principle in greater depth. Some may even develop new forms, new training methodologies, or even new fields of study to be congruent with changes within society. When this is properly done, however, it is for the purpose of enhancing their essential “Amur tiger nature.” There is knowledge within each traditional martial art that only exists because it is still traditional. To be sure, some of the information held within a specific martial tradition can be relevant beyond the precincts of the school itself, and in terms of their role in society, this may be among the most important reason that they should continue to exist. This includes some of the world’s most sophisticated psychological understanding of what it means to be in direct confrontation with an armed individual who intends your death.

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Some light reading, and the comparisons between martial cultures they evoke, lead to some self-reflection.

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Recently, The Secrets of Ittō-ryū (Vol 1) by Sasamori Junzo was published in English translation by Mark Hague, a senior practitioner of Ono-ha Ittō-ryū. The history of this remarkable martial tradition is described within, in great detail. One topic of note includes the claims that the founder, Itō Ittōsai, defeated famous swordsmen Kamiizumi Ise no Kami and Tsukahara Bokuden in duels, and that his successor, Ono Tadaaki, defeated Yagyu Munenori upon meeting him, thus securing his post as instructor to the shōgun.

There are some English translation and summaries of chapters of the famous Honcho Bugei Shoden available at JSTOR.org, where several famous ryūha and swordsman are described. Those duels from The Secrets of Ittō-ryū are not mentioned in this neutral, non Ittō-ryū source. I find them, therefore, somewhat suspect. I would like to cross-reference Sasamori’s statements against the history of fencing written by Yamada Jirokichi, but this will have to wait for that work to be translated.

I think there is a small lesson here, that each style will have its own internal stories about its founders and past practitioners, and those might serve an internal almost mythical function, indicating the quality of martial virtue or skill its adherents still aspire to. In addition, each art is itself also a political entity, and not immune to viewing itself in comparison to other approaches. We see this even in the Ono-ha Ittō-ryū, one of the most illustrious styles of Japanese fencing. So, one way to gloss the official Ittō-ryū history is that the art views Kamiizumi, Bokuden, and Yagyu Munenori as having been excellent swordsman, worthy of mention, worthy to measure oneself against.

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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 16^th 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 14^th 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.

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After my publication regarding teaching Baduanjin in a youth detention facility, I’ve received inquiries about the general subject of teaching  martial arts to young people in either detention facilities, or group-home type settings. Some, aikidoka, are interested in providing training to help these kids in reconciling conflict; some, taijiquan teachers, see a potential for moving meditation/mindfulness/centering, in their practice; some, BJJ practitioners, see their training as potentially teaching controlled self-defense (with rules), to help kids channel their natural aggressive drives in a sports context.. Teaching such kids, though, is not easy. As Geoff Thompson wrote to me after reviewing a 1st draft of this piece: “I have only worked a little with kids in youth detention, but I concur with everything you have said here.  I found it easier to work with murderers and drug barons in Cat 1 high-security prisons than with kids in detention.”

What follows are a list of ideas and criteria, things to think about if you intend to do such work. If you ignore any of these, at “best,” you will be of little help, and very likely, the kids will chew you up and spit you out.

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I was recently afforded an opportunity to talk to a collected group of specialists about my experiences adapting classical martial principles, training, and even technique to modern policing applications. The audience included a few others who have a foot in both classical training and modern policing, and I am very thankful to Ellis Amdur, my koryu instructor, and to Mr. Liam Keeley for that opportunity.

 Ellis’ teacher demanded that budo be applicable not simply in everyday life, but in “moving the world” in ways of consequence, and Ellis feels the same. As do I. Picture the tiger in the wild, not in a cage, and certainly not stuffed and displayed as a museum piece. This approach may be regarded as somewhat outside the norm in the larger koryu community. Some might ask how archaic martial arts, with whatever small bits any particular tradition may preserve of an actual combative curricula, could apply in any practical sense in today’s world, particularly when many practitioners themselves don’t see things that way.

 One word: Uvalde.

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