Can Study Groups Work for Koryū?

Traditionally Speaking

There is an image today of koryū as small isolated groups of a few students, headed by one headmaster, engaged in a many decades-long pursuit of martial perfection. Something like this can be true today—many people remain students of a teacher for almost a lifetime. I know of individuals who have trained for fifty years without ever receiving certification of full knowledge of the school or a teaching license. But I do not think that this is true to the original nature of koryū bujutsu. Of course, in the aforementioned case, the students in question may simply be incompetent or not suitable, in their instructor’s eyes, but it may also be due to something else—a fundamental change in the nature of martial ryūha within Japan.

It is undeniable that classical martial traditions are best taught by direct, personal instruction from a master instructor (shihan). However, shihan were not so uncommon in the past—there was (legitimately) ‘one on every block’. Remember all the word really indicates is a ‘certified instructor.’ Not only that, there were often many shihan of a single ryūha.

Ryūha Were Not Hidden Away Hermetic Cults

The concept of a ryūha taught in one location by one person, the only individual competent to pass on the essence of the school, was rather unusual in the past. Before the Meiji era, instructors’ primary goal was to teach as many worthy students as possible, and thereby spread the influence of their own school. It made political sense—and it was profitable. Remember, the ryūha were commercial ventures: were one to achieve an official position in a feudal domain, one received a salary. If one opened up a machi-dojo (‘town dojo’), one earned a living. Bushi received a kind of continuing education credit when they achieved each certification, thereby increasing their rice stipend from the domain. Commoners accumulated social capital—something one still sees today in kuro meishi (name cards covered with black ink – the enumeration of each martial arts certification).

On the shihan’s side, by increasing the curriculum, one also made money by selling each rank. In this process, various ryūha created many fully certified people, who could then go elsewhere and teach the same material, starting their own lineage of students, often losing all contact with their own teacher, other than putting the instructor’s name on their own lineage chart. Nonetheless, even though ‘graduated shihan’ did not send money home to their teacher, his or her name spread along with the ryūha – in feudal Japan, an honor-based culture, one’s name was the most important capital one owned.

To be sure, there were some martial traditions that were so attached to an area or family that their reach was limited, but even such schools as Maniwa Nen-ryū focused, by definition, around Maniwa village, had subsidiary dojo in other locale, even in Edo. Maniwa Nen-ryū even managed their ‘overflow,’ people who, for one reason or another, they didn’t wish to place in a leadership position within their own school, by sanctioning the development of off-shoot schools. These off-shoot schools might, as in the case of Honma Nen-ryū, remain full allies, but at minimum, they were bonded by common ancestry. By the later part of the Edo period, there was a lot of cross-training between different ryūha, particularly those such as the various off-shoots of Ittō-ryū that shared a common ancestry.

For another example, consider this account by Sugino Yoshio and Ito Kikue, in their book,  Tenshin Shoden Katori Shintō-ryū Budō Kyohan concerning the 16^th generation soke, Iizasa Morishige. Some in recent decades have made the fallacious claim that TSKSR was always located in one area, headed by one soke (with the possible addition of one shihan per generation). They also asserted that TSKSR never was employed by any feudal domain. However, Sugino and Ito (both shihan of the TSKSR, by the way) note that the art was taught to individuals who were employed by a variety of feudal domains: “More than 80 licenses [menkyo] were given to these warriors and the art became highly popular in the country.”

Modern Times: Rivals Banding Together to Survive

Things changed in modern times, as Iizasa Kinjiro, the 19^th generation soke, wrote in the same book: “However, after the Meiji restoration when the time of feudalism ended and a new civilization arose, we stopped appreciating the old spiritual beauty. We enclosed ourselves in Katori and sealed ourselves off from the outside world. We paid no attention to the fact that we were excluded from society. . . .Since the Nihon Kobudo Shinkokai has been founded in the spring of the 10^th year of Showa [1935], society no longer allows an individual to think only of his own style and remain isolated.”

The implications of these two passages are as follows: up through the end of the Edo period, what we now call koryū were vital entities, that strove to build themselves up and disseminate themselves widely. Records of a variety of ryūha show that people received teaching certification in what is, today, a very short period of time: five to seven years was not unusual, sometimes even less than this. However, with the inception of the modern age, these martial traditions truly fell by the wayside—few Japanese had any interest in them. No longer useful for war, and unsuitable, for the most part, as a means of civilian self-defense, martial traditions, even in the 19^th century, were considered about one-step removed from the kind of ‘Civil-War re-enactors’ we have in America. Sakakibara Kenkichi of Jikishinkage-ryū, tried to revive interest in martial traditions through his gekkiken kogyo, exhibitions of different ryūha showing kata, kenbu (a stylized form of dance with martial themes), and freestyle matches (some staged, some honest). Here is a passage from my novel, Little Bird and the Tiger,  showing (at least in my imagination), Sakakibara’s logic:

Sakakibara held up a hand in apology. “Let me get to the point. These are terribly hard times. Since the beginning of the Emperor Meiji’s reign, and the dismantling and rebuilding of our country, and with the feudal domains no more, we martial arts instructors have fallen. Everyone seems to love the West, all these new things, and most of all, guns and modern warfare. Yet what created Japan, what made it a country superior to all others, if not the sword? Now people are walking in the other direction. What will become of us? If we put down the sword, we will cease to be Japanese. And, to be blunt, if we teachers starve, even if people someday become interested in the sword again, we will not be there to teach them.”

He noticed her doubtful look, as she surveyed the thriving dojo. “Yes, even here. I pay for the upkeep of two thirds of these young men. To my embarrassment, I’ve had to open up an inn – to become a merchant – to keep this dojo open!

“So I have an idea. Perhaps it lacks dignity, but there must be some way to excite people’s imagination again. They are impressed by marching peasants, wearing French-made uniforms with guns on one shoulder. Why? Because that’s the most powerful thing they have seen. What if they saw the power of our own martial virtue? We are not legends. We are not dead! To be sure, the sword, alone, cannot win a war anymore, but men with the spirit of the sword are a different breed than peasants drafted off the farm and drilled on a parade ground.

“I am organizing a gekkiken kogyo, a stable of fighters. We will present exhibitions of various martial traditions, and, I dare say, we will take money for it. It is awful that we have sunk so low, but there are no daimyo to support us anymore. The public will become our feudal lords, sad to say. At any rate, after our presentations, we will invite people to try arms with us. How can people know the power of our Japanese traditions if they don’t see it – more, if they don’t feel it? To be sure, there will be merchants and farmers, and maybe yakuza and sōshi, those gangs of political thugs you see everywhere these days, but they will be no problem. There will also be former samurai in the crowd: think how glorious it would be for them were one of them to win, and think what attention it would bring, the idea that anything could happen, a ronin from some unknown ryūha stepping on stage, revealing himself to be something of a master himself.

Sakakibara’s plan, however, was not realized. Any popularization of a traditional art soon sinks to a low common denominator, and the gekkiken kogyo were no exception. The authorities viewed them as a threat to public order, and in a few years, they were shut down. In the end, they were often paired with stage and circus performers—literally so. I’m seen programs from 1905 that list famous kenjutsuka followed by clowns balancing themselves on balls. The gekkiken kogyo did provide a significant service, however, ushering in the development of modern kendō. However, this negatively impacted traditional martial arts even further, as it encouraged the amalgamation of martial arts into martial sports. The Japanese of the late Meiji period onwards, if they even thought about it, believed that the most important thing—‘the spirit of the sword’—could be maintained through martial sports, and done so in a manner far more interesting than the sterile repetition of kata in a traditional dojo. This way of thinking was quite similar to that of England, exemplified by the phrase uttered by the Duke of Wellington while observing a cricket match, “The battle of Waterloo was won here.” In other words, competition breeds fighting men.

By the 1920’s and 1930’s, the ryūha were regarded as anachronisms, and Iizasa Kinjiro’s statement is evidence of the parlous state to which they had sunk. Things were so bad that an organization had to be created to help preserve these martial traditions, many of which had been reduced to only a single dojo or a single teacher. This organization, the Nihon Kobudo Shinkokai (and other similar groups, developed around the same time) primarily fostered public awareness of its members by organizing enbu – public exhibitions. Until modern times, enbu were confined to a) honō enbu, offerings to a Shinto shrine (the gods being pleased or entertained by a presentation of the ryūha’s art); b) presentation before a feudal lord, either as a kind of ‘employment interview,’ or ‘recertification’; c) dojo celebrations, such as kagami biraki, the New Years opening ceremony, that might include one or more other ryūha that were friendly to that dojo. What was new was the phenomenon of group presentations—a variety of schools demonstrating together in one venue. Through the Kobudo Shinkokai, a circuit of enbu (public demonstrations) were organized—often at shrines as before, but also at a variety of public venue, including auditoriums and stages in local parks. To a considerable degree, the center focus of training for all too many ryūha became enbu—and this is certainly true today. Exhibition of one’s art became an end in itself, to such a degree that in a court decision of 2018, a judge proclaimed that “the primary purpose of kobudō is enbu.” Lest there be any misunderstanding, I do not blame the judge for this–if the practitioners of koryū had not created this impression, the public, embodied in the person of this court official, would not hold such a viewpoint.

This organization of koryū as a kind of association of groups, rather than independent rival entities, did lead to somewhat of a revival during the build-up to the 2^nd World War, as people practiced with the intention of connecting with the ‘spirit of the sword’ to help them survive on the battlefield with courage, as well as withstand all the horrors of war that gradually, but inescapably, came home to Japan. A number of ryūha offered training within the secondary school system to prepare children to this end.

Slowly Dying

After the 2^nd World War, the martial traditions of Japanese once again slowly, but inevitably began to die. Many ryūha became extinct. An obvious reason for this was the death on the battlefield and on the home front, from bombing and fire, of a large proportion of the cadre of mature males who otherwise would have been the ‘next generation’ of most ryūha. After the restrictions on martial arts practice imposed upon Japan by the occupying Allied forces were lifted in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, the ryūha revived, somewhat, but several components were missing. One, perhaps surprising to many readers who believe that training in koryū was exclusively kata was ‘live practice,’  (practice of any kind that has random elements, rather than mere pattern drills.) By the latter part of the 18^th century, and certainly throughout the 19^th, the majority of what we now call koryū included competitive practice within their dojo, often wearing protective equipment in the case of most weapons arts. In fact, koryū used to be a vernacular term—not to designate martial traditions created before the inception of the Meiji period, but rather, old fashion schools, so out of date that they only practiced kata. However, few classical martial traditions postwar included any sort of live training (—they either never had it, or it was abandoned.

The vast majority of schools now only practiced kata—and many asserted that they never engaged in freestyle training, much less tameshi-ai (‘testing competitive matches’), used intra-school or inter-school to mutually improve one’s skill. This is not to say that the latter was totally safe, but the goal was to measure and improve oneself, as opposed to taryū-shiai, were the goal was the defeat of the other, or even the destruction of the other’s social capital. Both types of shiai were so rare that those who tried were usually regarded as brutes rather than exemplars of a glorious tradition, many centuries long.

A tremendous knowledge base was lost due to the death of so many in war, and given the terrible conditions post-war, few people could devote more than a little borrowed time for training. Many ryūha began paring down the curriculum—some so-called sogo bujutsu, that historically trained with a variety of weapons, gradually eliminated the practice of all but the sword. Some of the most historically renowned schools lost much of their curriculum.

A final phenomenon that paradoxically contributed to the decline of koryū as living entities was the appellation, on either a prefectural or national level, of one or another koryū as mukei-bunkazai (‘intangible cultural treasure’). This seems to be a great honor, but it serves to encase the art in question in amber, so to speak, a ‘living fossil,’ that by definition, cannot evolve. This meant that degenerated ryūha that had lost much of their curriculum were constrained from attempting to revive it.

All of this was conflated with the ‘cult of the soke,’ the idea that a within an immutable family lineage lay the secrets of the art, something that could be transmitted only within the family line. As the ryūha, for the most part, were very small, this meant that a single individual held both the history and future of the ryūha tightly within his or her grasp. There was no way around that person, so to speak, and whether they were brilliant or incompetent, they defined the tradition. All of this together led many of the koryū further towards extinction, or at best to a tiny group in a single dojo.

An Influx of Foreigners Countering Decline- And Causing It As Well

A leading factor countering this entropic decline has been an influx of non-Japanese who, for a variety of reasons, found Japanese martial traditions to be of compelling interest. Many of these individuals—Donn Draeger being the exemplar—were remarkable men and women. Unlike most Japanese practitioners, who could treat training as an enjoyable hobby, these foreign practitioners gave away years, some of them decades, of their lives to live and train in a foreign land. Their presence was a challenge to their Japanese dojo-mates to train harder and for their teachers to ‘reward’ their intensity by genuinely teaching them. For example, I think of one ryūha where, due to his students’ apparent lack of interest, the head instructor had dropped most of the curriculum and only taught kenjutsu and iaijutsu. One, then two more non-Japanese joined the school, and because of their questions and, more important, their commitment and intensity, the instructor once again revived the teaching of bōjutsu, sōjutsu, naginatajutsu and yawara. If not for the presence of these non-Japanese students, this information would have died with that teacher.

Some of these non-Japanese were also writers—a few, in fact, academics and scholars—and they have produced a number of works on Japanese martial traditions that have galvanized the imagination of readers outside Japan. Some of these senior practitioners returned home. Some needed permission from their own instructor to open a dojo; others, myself being an example, were freely licensed to teach. In either case, we opened up dojo in our home countries.

We licensed instructors were a minority. Many more individuals returned to their own countries in a limbo state—they were somewhat skilled, but uncertified as instructors. And without permission or authority to open a dojo of their own, they could not legitimately develop students. Their hard-won skills were doomed to extinction in a single generation. In other cases, an individual might visit Japan and become enthralled with one or another koryū and the teacher who was its head. The non-Japanese students would eventually request that a shihan come to their home country at teach. In both cases, an individual might receive a kind of provisional permission to pass on and foster what they had learned, to teach some (or perhaps all) of the ryūha to a few training partners within a study group. Some study groups are rather small – others have become a kind of franchise, and some ryūha have tens of schools all over the world, with hundreds, even thousands of students.

In most cases I am aware, the shihan (or his or her representative) might visit once or twice a year, for a relatively brief time – at most a week, and often just a couple of days. This has ‘internationalized’ koryū. However, can the members of such study groups truly learn koryū? The dilemma is that even with meticulous instructional videos, learning koryū must be body-to-body, and one develops a powerful, albeit circumscribed, intimate relationship with the living embodiment of the martial tradition–one’s teacher. Each koryū is merely not a compendium of techniques, of oral tradition, of tutelary deities and incantations to acquire power—in its essence, the koryū is the instructor. One undergoes what I tend to regard as an ‘infection’ by the ryūha. It is also, simultaneously, an ‘infection’ by the instructor, something that can be problematic if the instructor is corrupt in any way, or if the student is not strong willed enought to simultaneously maintain a subtle but real distinction between the instructor him/herself and the ‘ryūha as embodied by the instructor.’ With all the positives and potential negatives of this form of knowledge acquisition, how is this even possible when the instructor very likely does not speak your language nor you his or hers, AND, more important, she or he does not even know your name?

Sadly, some shihan have become ‘koryū merchants’—harvesting money from study groups becomes a major, if not their main source of income. In this case, there is no longer the rigorous probationary period where a student’s character is weighed and measured—rather, the study group is merely a ‘back yard produce field,’ that one occasionally visits, waters fertilizes, and then harvests the ‘green.’

But let us leave what is clearly a corruption of the martial traditions and consider those with honorable intentions. How can knowledge offered by the instructor in such ‘study groups’ be acquired and retained by the students who only see the teacher once or twice a year? In the usual ‘model,’ there is a senior member who is responsible for running the practices—they become a de facto instructor, whether or not they actually have enough skill to be placed in a teaching position. They may still have quite a few mistakes of their own that need to be corrected. Furthermore, they may not have the eye to see their fellow students’ mistakes, or know how or in what order to correct them. They may not be able to discern what they should leave alone, because it is merely a quirk of movement or character that doesn’t really impede a particular student’s development. And finally, and perhaps most important, their memory of what the teacher taught is limited—if they recall something in error, their fellow students will have half a year or even a year to engrain those mistakes. Once ‘burned in,’ these are very hard to eradicate and learn anew.

In a traditional dojo, there would be both shihan (master instructor) and senpai (a number of highly skilled intermediate and advanced students). The shihan was usually parsimonious in his or her direct instruction. Whenever he or she was moved to demonstrate or explain something, students would engage with all of their senses, as if their life depended on every nuance–in older generations, this might actually be true. A true student strives to embody his or her instructor—not knowing which nuance is important, the student tries to absorb everything. This is classically referred to as ‘stealing the technique.’

As described above, within most study groups the teacher comes and teaches a several day seminar, and after he or she leaves, the senior student or students are expected to remember what was taught. Without the intense, harsh intimacy I have described, there is none of the struggle to derive every drop of knowledge from every action and utterance of one’s teacher, while struggling to maintain one’s personal integrity while pledged in loyalty to both the school and the teacher. Rather, one goes to a workout led by a senior’s imperfect memory.

Is There a Way to Maintain a Study Group Without These Flaws?

In 2005, one of my books, Dueling with O-sensei,  was published in a Greek translation. The publisher invited me to Greece to present an aikidō seminar. Beyond aikidōka, there were practitioners from a number of other arts, and during the seminar, I showed a few minutes of Araki-ryū and separately, of Bukō-ryū. After I returned to the states, I was contacted by two participants, one who hoped to study Araki-ryū and the other, Buko-ryū. My first impulse was to refuse, based on the perspective I just wrote about, that I could only convey something superficial. However, I was faced with a dilemma: my teachers in Japan each taught me because of my sincere desire to learn–their kindness in doing so changed the course of my life. I had incurred an obligation that I could only fulfill by ‘paying it forward.’ And these people were serious! So, I proposed the following: the two men should each find a group of serious people, at least six in number. I would come to Greece for three weeks, and teach each group four hours a day. I would teach them, without holding back, as much as I could. Then I would leave, returning in six months, with the following stipulation. “When I return, you must be ⅔ as good as if I was here every day for the last six months. If you are less than that, I will leave and you’ll never see me again.”

We started in 2007. Who knows how to measure ‘⅔?’ But I was satisfied that they accomplished it . . . whatever it was.  I kept returning. After a few years, two weeks instead of three, and I split it up, one intense week for each ryūha. At this point, fourteen years later, I have certified one individual as full zegoku menkyo in Araki-ryū, and two as inkajō; and two individuals as shihan-dai in Tenshin Bukō-ryū. As far as I’m concerned, it’s been a success–my people are at least the equal to anyone trained on a regular basis under a full instructor, be it in Japan or another country.

What made this work was the following:

1. I taught without hesitation. I held nothing back.
2. I was often harsh. I didn’t care if people quit, and if they all quit, that was because they were all unsuited, as far as I was concerned. I taught in the same manner I was taught.
3. I did not want humble people who were simply happy to learn from me. I did not want people who had an ambition to be an instructor, I only wanted hungry people, who wanted to surpass me.
4. I took no money–they merely paid my expenses. Because it was not a job to me, I “owed” them nothing–there was no obligation, explicit or implicit that I had to accommodate them in the slightest. They were not ‘customers.’ To be quite honest, in one sense, they were a burden, an obligation, but that was only true as long as they practiced with true commitment–they must train out of an inescapable need, not because it was a hobby (however fascinating that might be).
5. For many years, I did not allow any filming of anything I taught. They had to remember through their bodies, through movement, through memories (and arguments about memory), not visual cues.
6. A natural hierarchy developed, based on a combination of seniority and skill. They had to work out how these somewhat contradictory aspects manifested themselves, particularly as I was not present to guide them, much less referee any disputes. I left all of that to them.
7. And most important–in fact, here was the key that distinguished what we were doing from ordinary study groups–there was no senior who was the “keeper of memory.” Rather, they were expected to have a collective memory. In this area, seniority, rank, and skill meant nothing. Any member, including the newest, was expected to speak up, without deference: “I think I recall Ellis saying . . .” He or she could be correct, the only person who remembered that nuance. They could be incorrect. Also, some, with limited skills, could misinterpret what I said or did.” The dialogue–sometimes the argument–that followed established a creative synthesis, like a sailboat tacking in the wind, swinging from one side to the other, thereby coming closest to a straight line. As I put it–“All of you should be one memory, one big brain.”

In Araki-ryū, there is an essential teaching: ichi-koku, ichi-den (“one country, one tradition”). Through this way of teaching, I was able to achieve this with for both schools, and thereby, to satisfy the obligation I had to my teachers: that what they taught me was passed onwards to another generation.

How Is This Relevant to Your Study Group?

The reader may wonder about the last section. Given the sectarian nature of koryū, how is the process I described for my groups relevant to those of another ryūha, whose teacher may have a different perspective on things than I do? Here’s a story to explain. I studied piano when I was young. My mother was a pianist but she knew she couldn’t teach me, so she sent me to study with Mr. C.  My instructor was a bitter man who hadn’t made it as a concert pianist, and he openly disliked teaching kids. He’d frequently spend the first fifteen minutes of my lessons in the kitchen, having told me to play something while he slugged down a glass of vodka. On other occasions, I’d show up to his studio and there’d be no one there, so I’d start practicing and he’d quietly come down the stairs with one of mothers of his other students, with the explanation “I was showing her the rest of my house.” Being seven or eight years old, that made sense to me . . . it was a few years later when it hit me: “Ohhhh. OHH! That dog!”

Anyway, he was bored and burnt out–and so was I. He was assigning me different lessons, which were exercises, and I found them easy. Because I was so bored as well, I wasn’t progressing. He had no idea that I had anything more to offer than the money I carried to each tedious lesson. One day, I opened some of my mother’s music at random and liking the name of one piece, decided to learn it. I taught myself to play Beethoven’s Turkish March, something that was far above the level he had me studying. The next lesson, Mr. C was in the kitchen again, slugging down another glass of vodka. I walked into his studio, sat down at the piano, and started playing (Ok, not as good as Evgeny Kissin). He came out, glass in hand, asking “Who’s there?” He saw me at the keyboard and stopped dead. After I finished, he demanded, “Who taught you that?” I replied, “I did myself.” And from that day on, he taught me sincerely. Thanks to him (and to myself), I won a regional piano contest, before martial arts training captivated me and swept me away to another world. Despite his burn-out, his frustration and utter dislike of his station in life, he felt forced to teach me because I confronted him with my commitment. (All too frequently, I hear Westerners say, “The Japanese won’t really teach us the real goods.” I never had this problem–my instructors, one of whom hated Americans–felt forced to teach me in the same way that Mr. C., that vodka-slugging, housewife-tupping burnout did as well).

Consider this: A study group is not a dojo. Not really. Instructors can set them up for a variety of reasons, but you are largely on your own, but for a few visits a year. Consider the enumerated items I listed above. Some are demands that the instructor (in this case I) makes on himself. But the others are totally on the student, and those are under your control. And you have to go ‘first.’ Why should the instructor take you seriously if you do not take the ryūha seriously yourself?  The instructor will not encourage you, making a “supportive learning environment.” He or she should not lose a moment’s sleep at your lack of progress. It’s up to you to prove that you are more than either a training fee on two legs or an excuse to travel and experience some interesting days with some <surely> interesting people. You can complain about how little instruction you receive, you can, by rote, run through what the instructor taught during his or her last visit, or . . . you can sit down at the keyboard, and at the next visit, make an implicit demand that you are taught with as much depth as is possible. You confront your instructor with something unexpected: the product of intense training where all of you, as a true study group, collectively remember and collectively learn. Yes, there can be a leader to organize things, but you remember and train as a team. There is nothing to hold you back from learning everything your teacher offers–not only the sequences of the pattern drills, but the gokui as well. The instructor cannot help betraying the essence of the art when he or she moves, but you will only see them when you pay attention, and you will only be able to perceive with this depth when you train as they once did in Japan–as if your life depends on it. Any instructor who does not respond to such integrity and offer you more is not worth calling your teacher.

Purchase Books By Ellis Amdur Here

NOTE: IF ANY OF THE READERS HERE FIND THEMSELVES GRATEFUL FOR ACCESS TO THE INFORMATION IN MY ESSAYS, AS WELL AS THOSE OF MY GUESTS, YOU CAN EXPRESS YOUR THANKS IN A WAY THAT WOULD BE HELPFUL TO ME IN TURN. IF YOU HAVE EVER PURCHASED ANY OF MY BOOKS, PLEASE WRITE A REVIEW – THE OPTION IS THERE ON AMAZON, AS WELL AS GOODREADS, KOBO OR IBOOK.