At a university symposium on budō some years ago, I was sitting beside Meik Skoss during a lecture on the subject of the 13th 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.”
This was a succinct analysis of one of the critical obstacles in understanding the nature of Japan’s classical martial arts. It isn’t that we don’t have mortal enemies and so cannot really “relate” to the founders of the koryū, though there may be some argument to be made in this regard. Rather, it is that we modern individuals often perceive ourselves in a light that would have been utterly foreign to our ancestors.
We cannot put ourselves realistically into the mindset of a 16th century bushi. (I, for one, would have no wish to.) We are far too far removed from that era, the culture was so radically different from our own, to readily grasp their mentality and worldview. We do know, however, that the warrior class of pre-modern Japan did not have any sense of themselves as victims.
In sharp contradistinction, if you spend any time viewing or reading media, you must be aware of the pervasive attention focused on the notion of victimhood. Nearly the entirety of news broadcasts can be given over to a stunning multiplicity of stories devoted to the victimization suffered by a whole range of groups. (It is revealing that these stories are almost inevitably centered on groups: the specific details of victimization on an individual, when they occur at all, are always used as an example of what is purported to be on a far wider scope. A single person might attract some media attention. But the ink and lights will be directed towards groups, since the more widespread the victimhood, the more coverage it demands.)
The concept of victimhood arguably has its roots in the familiar Marxist dialectic, one that posits all of history as a woeful and inevitable tale of antagonistic interactions between the Oppressed and the Oppressors. History is a constant Struggle: the Good Guys and the Bad Guys; Victims and Victimizers. There are no movements, no incidents, no civilization, nothing at all that cannot be explained in these terms. It seems simplistic. Because it is. Which explains a good measure of its appeal. However, such a belief system is often frustrating for those who indulge in it, when they are faced with the complicated nuances of real history. American Indians are, for example, in the calculations of these individuals, the Victims, and European colonists are their opposite. When actual facts threaten the balance of that perspective: depredations by Indians amongst themselves, for example, well … The sordid history of Tibet’s harsh, nearly despotic theocracy before China’s invasion is an uncomfortable reality best left unexamined because it threatens the simple Good Guy/Bad Guy categories. The victim/victimizer dialectic knows no political or ideological boundaries. The “Sovereign Citizen” movement stars a confederacy of simpletons convinced the government is arrayed in a multilayered conspiracy against them. The KKK, Q-Anon, and a coterie of likeminded colleagues imagine themselves beset by Jews, Blacks, Asians, and mysterious cabals, all of whom they must stand bravely against. Despite its obvious limitations in logic, embracing this binary equation to explain both history and life itself has become enormously popular. For many individuals, it is the singular template through which they view their own lives, their country, their entire civilization and reality itself.
It is not my intention to disabuse those who embrace this mentality; far smarter people than me have made respectable arguments that this Victim/Victimizer concept is indeed the basic nature of social reality. Rather, my intention is to note that such an ideology presents a significant stumbling block to understanding a koryū. Simply put: if you see yourself as a victim in any sense of the word, you are going to have a very difficult time comprehending the mentality of a classical Japanese martial ryū. The historical reality is that no exponent of a feudal era martial art ever saw himself as a victim. He did not perceive himself as oppressed, even if, from our perspective, perhaps he was. Westerners have absorbed a mindset that is fundamentally hostile to caste systems. The idea of class struggle, however, never gained any traction in Japan until well into the modern era. There really isn’t any Japanese equivalent to France’s revolution. There was no religious reformation that so fundamentally moved the direction of civilization as did the one that swept through Europe in the 16th century.
To be sure, there were numerous politically motivated uprisings throughout Japan’s feudal era. Farmers rebelled, often violently and with much bloodshed, usually against what they considered excessive taxes. It’s important to note, however, that these events centered primarily on economic matters. They were not rebelling against the structure of their society. No one was calling on the Workers of Nippon to Unite. There was no Magna Carta in Japanese history, no social movement for civil rights. Confucianism had long ago been integrated into Japanese society. Class was established by Heaven itself.
Certainly it is incorrect to lump all Japanese into a completely monolithic mass. But it is vital in understanding this long era to factor in the overwhelming power of Confucian thought. The world was ordered; the world of man was ordered by relationships with others that were fixed. One had obligations and privileges depending on his status within his family, his fiefdom or clan. These were established by one’s caste. Questioning the order was as unthinkable as questioning gravity.
The bushi of the Sengoku jidai was not fighting for liberty, equality, fraternity; he was not charging into battle to earn his freedom or to protect his fief from tyranny or foreign invaders. He was fighting to protect the political interests of his fiefdom—or to impose the power of his clan or his army or his lord on someone else. There was no Japanese face-painted Mel Gibson screaming “Freedom!” on the battlefield. (The thoughtful reader would do well to ponder the circumstances concerning why such a distinction occurred in comparing civilizations.)
All this may seem obvious. But it is critical in grasping the mindset of those who developed the classical martial ryū,, whose task was to generate and promote a cohesive group engaged in predatory behavior. That does not suggest mindless or indiscriminate violence. Tigers do not run about slaughtering prey for no reason. They do not engage in posturing or needless threat display. Their violence is directed and contained by the limits of their goal: to feed themselves or to defend their territory. Likewise, the bushi manipulated violence in a similar fashion: for specific goals. The point is, the tiger does not ever see itself as prey or as a victim. It does not see itself as socially, politically or economically marginalized, or as the subject of oppression. The bushi saw himself more or less the same way as that tiger.
Japan’s classical martial arts are exercises in volition. The exponent is exerting his will on another. Indeed, those methods are a fundamental element of classical martial traditions.Those who are sincerely interested in the koryū would do well to give this point some very serious thought. The bujutsu have resonances upon one’s character. They are specifically aimed at organizing perceptions and neural conditioning. That’s why, to be frank, you’d better be damned sure of the character of a potential teacher, the other members of the ryū, and the nature of the ryū itself. Because absorbing that character and nature are not accidental byproducts of study—they are the raison d’etre.
With the exceptions of the Mongol Invasions in the 13th century, and the Shimabara Rebellion in 1638 (an aberrant local conflict involving a religious cult), the history of warfare in Japan is unique in that campaigns and battles were waged by parties that shared the same race, language, religion, ethos, and civilization. No one thought or behaved in dialectic mentioned above, that of Oppressor and Oppressed, Victim and Victimizer, when facing an enemy. The warrior in classical Japan did not wage war because of a belief in his supposed superiority in faith or righteousness or correcting a wrong based on ideology. In contrast, nearly every war in the West has been fought under exactly those circumstances. Really, the only impulse our wars shared with those in Japan was a quest for economic advantage, a commonality between the two civilizations that not incidentally would eventually bring on a worldwide mother of all wars.
The serious koryū adept must give this distinction much consideration if he wishes grasp the nature of his art. He must understand that the martial ryū did not seek to address class struggle or “social justice.” He must contend with the reality that the ryū approaches conflict in an entirely different context from that to which he is “civilizationally” accustomed. This can be a truly challenging task for even those who are not marinated in ideology. This reality is not merely academic. Self-identification as a victim has deep consequences in absorbing the true nature of a classical ryū. As I noted early, the mindset of the martial ryū member is predatory. It implies a certain cold-bloodedness. We can see this in the various kamae used in many ryū. Frequently a posture will mimic some sort of gap or weakness, an invitation to generate an attack. Even here, though, the intent is clearly one of “Come on, go for it and see what happens.” One may superficially appear helpless. The canny professional, though, would see through the veneer.
The self-styled victim in today’s society typically goes through life in a defensive crouch, simultaneously fearing and nurturing a frustrated anger to strike back. It is an attitude expressed somatically, in posture and bearing. The victim sees the world as a dark and threatening place, an environment where he or she personally is always under assault or the threat of it. They carry themselves as if their personae is a shield against daily, psychic bombs launched against them. They have a brittleness about them, a fragility. Their nature seems to be something like a porcelain figure trembling on a shelf during an earthquake, always precipitate on shattering. (Alternately they may adopt a pugnacious pose, constantly a-bristle.) They do not see themselves as predators. They are fundamentally prey even if—especially if—nothing is seeking to prey upon them.
Again, to make this observation is to expect remonstration from a host of those accustomed to thinking of themselves and their ilk as paragons of “correct” political and social positions, be they left or right or somewhere else entirely. This essay is not, however, an indictment of their perspective. Rather my aim is to note that classical ryū should be understood in their historical and social context, and imposing other, ahistorical values consciously or unconsciously, works mischief.
The task of suspending ideologies is demanding. The student who comes into a koryū bringing along the baggage of a victimhood identity, or who chooses to relate to the world through the prism of Oppressed/Oppressor has little chance of comprehending or acquiring the mindset of a classical system, one in which those dimensions did not historically exist. Just as there were no “victims” at the Sanjo Palace, there cannot be any in a serious koryū group. Yes, there can be some such individuals who achieve some technical proficiency, despite such a self-perception. They cannot, however, acquire the mentality that truly gives life to a classical martial ryū.