Several decades ago, my friends Phil & Nobuko Relnick, high ranking members of Shinto Muso-ryu and Tenshin Shoden Katori Shinto-ryu were traveling in Portugal. They visited a school of jogo do pau. Phil and Nobuko wanted to pay proper respect to the school they were visiting, and in proper Japanese fashion, asked, “Who is the instructor.” The older men looked puzzled, conferred with each other and pointing to one man, said, “Probably him. He’s the oldest.”

Martial arts rooted in a locale, be it a village, a hunter-gatherer band, or a faction in  a city, often did not have ranks, in the sense that we imagine it. Rather, the people with the most skill (of any age) were treasured and respected for their utility and elders were respected for their knowledge, their history and their authority as elders. This certainly is true of Japan. For thousands of years, villages and hunter-gatherers protected themselves, and they organized using the same hierarchical systems that kept the rest of their society intact. Skill and valor gained one accolades, and age and past actions gained one authority. Even after the central Yamato government coalesced through building a conscript military,  there were warrior bands in the frontier areas that eventually developed into the  bushi. They had leaders, to be sure, but within their bands, seniority (both age and entry into the group) carried considerable weight. This still applies within Japanese martial arts today. Senpai have authority simply by being there first.

I could easily write at length about the problems that such a system can foster; the Japanese high school and university club systems are rife with abuse, and the horrifying level of atrocities the Japanese committed in World War II, turning areas of China into an open-air Auschwitz, were fueled, in large part, by the perceived impossibility of defying one’s seniors’ demands. But let us leave such discussions for another time. Particularly when talking about martial culture, which concerns violence first-and-foremost,  one can easily focus on the worst. Within that same martial culture exists some of the best aspects of humanity, and that, too, is fostered in part, by a natural system of seniority.

Let us speak, specifically, about the role of seniority within koryu bujutsu. There are two aspects to seniority: who joined the ryuha first is the most obvious form of seniority; the second is who joined a specific dojo first, because, led by different shihan, dojo can have different cultures, and different hierarchies within which a guest from another dojo, a ‘semi-outsider,’ must fit. A perfect example of the complexity is shown by one of my former students, GM, who began training in Toda-ha Buko-ryu  at the Athens Hokusei Dojo. He moved to Japan, and when this proved to be long-term, he officially joined the Nakano Dojo of Kent Sorensen sensei, soke-dairi of the ryu, becoming his student. In terms of years of training in Toda-ha Buko-ryu, I believe he was somewhere among the middle-to-senior members of the Nakano Dojo, but in another sense, he was the most junior member of the dojo at the moment of his entry. So he had to find his proper place.

It’s even more complex, because one’s certification (shoden, chuden, okuden, or mokuroku, menkyo, inka, to call up two ‘sequences’ of rank) all plays into this. So how does one ‘calibrate’ these somewhat overlapping, slightly conflicting designations of seniority? Kan (勘) ‘intuition,’ something based on cultural knowledge, an observation of the way the dojo head treats each individual, and the way that the person in question integrates himself or herself within the dojo culture. And if it’s not working out, the senior members of the school (and rarely, the shihan) help the new member to re-calibrate to properly blend in.

A question could be raised: shouldn’t the school have a rule book, a behavioral manual that is handed to the student upon entry? Well, there may be, but only in the most general of terms. In many schools, one gives a kishomon (blood-oath), that gives a few general conditions for entry. (See Old School for a fine-grained analysis of such oaths). The kishomon gives only a few conditions, however, whereas we are speaking here of a very complex array of values and behaviors, the sum total of Japanese archaic martial culture. Note that phrase: ‘martial culture.’ To truly survive in high-risk encounters, one has to develop an exquisite sensitivity to other people, both one’s own allies and one’s enemies. The development of kan is essential. How can one develop the ability to intuit the level of confidence of one’s own people, or the intent of one’s adversaries, unless it is a part of training? To be on tenterhooks, to be concerned that one might mortally offend one’s teacher or dojo seniors, requires that one develop an acute moment-by-moment sensitivity. Paradoxically, the successful student learns to relax while on tenterhooks, something I have referred to elsewhere as ‘wolf-pack etiquette.’ A set of rules, memorized by rote, will, first of all, be enacted in an artificial way, and secondly, will rob the student of an opportunity to develop what is really important: reigi (formal/proper behavior), in fact, is the royal road to kan. 

What, specifically, are the responsibilities of the senior (senpai)? Generally speaking, the senior is responsible for maintaining the culture of the school, often speaking for what he or she believes is the wishes of the teacher. One easy way to think of the senior’s role is of an older sibling. Even if the younger sibling has made a much greater success in their life, job, etc., the older sibling’s words should still have weight. Let us give some examples:

  • A newer student has poor hygiene—his or her keikko gi is foul smelling, their breath smells terrible, or the clothes he or she comes to practice in are filthy or disarrayed. The shihan of the school should NEVER be placed in a position where he or she must tell this student to clean up. The dojo seniors speak with this person and tell them to address the problem—they are tactful and polite. If it continues, they become firm. Finally, if the problem still continues, they can, conceivably, tell the errant person not to return until they fix the problem.
  • An  individual  begins to talk over or teach students in front of the instructor without permission (being delegated by the teacher to instruct others). Even if lesser in rank to the talkative person, a senior can and should remonstrate with the other individual, stating that he or she attends the dojo to study with the shihan and “Your talking means that sensei does not teach me because you are taking up the air.”
  • A young vital student is practicing too vigorously – perhaps dangerously – with other students. It is the responsibility of the senior(s) to inform him or her that s/he must dial things back. In an ideal situation, the senior can, if needed, physically overwhelm the vigorous individual,  but even if that is not possible, the senior still must step up to set things aright.  Only if this intervention (by one or more seniors) does not work should the shihan be involved.

What are the responsibilities of the junior (kohai) student?  As a younger ‘sibling,’ his or her responsibility is to pay attention to one’s older brothers and sisters for guidance as to the dojo culture and proper behavior both in training, and in social interactions outside the dojo. However, an objection could be raised,  based on my brief allusion above to the potential abuses of the senpai/kohai system. Do we still need this system? Absolutely. It is through this system that  koryu bujutsu has been sustained over many generations. Without it, we would be fundamentally changed in a way that would threaten the future of such a martial tradition as a genuine koryu.

Nonetheless, such a system can conceivably become corrupt.  We, both Japanese and non-Japanese, are also autonomous human beings of the 21st century, and we should never accept anything abusive or immoral in the name of following this archaic system. If that were to occur, it is incumbent on the kohai  (or senpai) to stand-up and object, ideally doing so first to his or her own seniors: and do so with dignity and strength. Hopefully, such an objection will change something toxic in the dojo culture. Only if this fails should the shihan be involved (or even, in some cases, be informed of the problem–in an ideal situation, the shihan might not even be aware that such an incident occurred.) If you fail in this remonstrance, you come to a crossroad: perhaps you stay, accepting the situation (and sometimes you realize that  that what you once found so objectionable is something that, over the course of time, you see differently); perhaps you find it intolerable and you must leave (or are expelled). So be it.  In such an extreme hypothetical case, you would lose your membership, but retain your integrity. But this scenario is a worst case situation, extremely rare in any school.

To return from the dramatic worst case situation to real-time day-to-day, a ryuha is like a family – and our older siblings, at best, guide us, and our younger siblings strive to surpass us, all the while offering respect.

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