The Question of “Discrimination” in Japanese Martial Traditions

Some time ago, I was sent a set of related questions on licensure and succession within koryū:

• What are your thoughts on koryū that predominantly only give out one menkyō kaiden, essentially declaring that person to be sōke. Would that mean the rest of the senior practitioners are not allowed to teach or open their own school, since they didn’t achieve the highest possible teaching license?
• What’s your thoughts on those who stay for decades, even though they would never receive a full teaching license, or how about other schools that might take a person thirty, forty or fifty years to get a license. Is it fair to a practitioner in one of these schools who, even though they have already learned and mastered everything there is to know, they are blocked from teaching? At the same time,  they are unable to break away because they would lose legitimacy or recognition to be a certified instructor?
• How about those that face discrimination against them as foreigners, whether it is openly shown or not? In other cases, there’s clear favoritism, either to a family member, or to someone who plays the school’s political games–only Japanese people–or people the sōke or shihan likes–ever get promoted. What’s your thoughts on that?

In what follows, I address these questions as if talking to someone specific: “You.”  I do not mean the person who asked the initial questions whom honestly, I don’t remember (it’s been three years since I received the questions). It’s a rhetorical device only.

Definitions

First of all, the sōke (宗家 ‘head of the house/family’) may not be a menkyō kaiden. He or she may not even practice martial arts. The sōke is the lineal successor of a family enterprise. Strictly speaking, he or she should be a member of that family, either by blood or adoption; however, in some ryūha, particularly in modern times, this is pseudo-familial (there is no real familial relationship whatsoever). In that sense, the term has eroded from its original meaning in many ryūha to a generic term meaning ‘headmaster of the school.’

Menkyō kaiden (免許皆伝) is a ‘license of total mastery’ of the curriculum. This term means nothing outside the specific ryūha, as another ryūha or even another instructor of the same school may have different criteria in mind for such an attainment. Furthermore, many ryūha use other terms for essentially the same attainment. It is an abstract concept—there are no specific tests to pass in order to receive such recognition. Furthermore, the term ‘mastery’ itself is fraught, as what respectable person would claim it for himself or herself, and can another person really evaluate a person’s ‘mastery’ anyway.  It should mean that the individual has not only mastered the physical techniques, but also that which makes the school unique: its essential character, so to speak. In many schools, there was a blood oath that one not engage in duels before receiving menkyō kaiden or its equivalent – implicit in this, of course, is that anyone who receives this rank is an exemplary fighter who is expected to win his or her battles, and never shame the ryūha. 

Beyond this, this is considered to be a teaching license in some schools, with permission to set up one’s own dōjō, or in some cases, one’s own line. In other schools, however, one also must receive a specific teaching license, such as a shihan menjyō (師範免状), to be permitted to teach. In other words, you may be the best technician in the school, but you may not be trusted to pass on the tradition to others.

In many traditions, there was no sōke; merely one or more shihan, each with the authority to teach and pass down the ryūha as each saw fit. Other schools have both sōke and shihan. When the sōke does not teach (or in some cases, is not fully versed in the tradition), there may be one, among the shihan, who is designated as shihan-ke (師範家), the ‘house shihan,’ responsible for maintaining the line in the sōke’s home dōjō. Other shihan may teach elsewhere. Before modern times, when the membership and reach of various ryūha was much wider, shihan often had full permission to teach and pass down their own lineage in different locale – they were truly independent. In other schools, as the original questioner mentioned, there is only one teacher, be they referred to as sōke or not.

Most often, the sōke functions as a center of gravity, rather than the ‘head.’ Tōda-ha Bukō-ryū (戸田派武甲流) is an example of this: we currently are centered around our sōke-dairi (宗家代理) Kent Sorensen (also a holder of a shihan menjyō), and we have, in addition, five shihan, who each lead independent dōjōs. There are certain aspects where Sorensen sensei’s word or decision will direct us all. In most others, we are independent.

Koryū Are Hermetic, Closed Systems

Each koryū has survived by maintained itself as an ‘enclosed’ entity. By this, I mean that it is circumscribed not only by the martial techniques that it practices, but also by its traditions, including leadership structure, which enables it to be passed down, generation after generation. People are mistaken in assuming that this means that the ryūha has been utterly unchanged for hundreds of years, even though this is a claim that many koryū themselves make. In fact, each generation changes, yet claims that it hasn’t changed at all (and this can include leadership structure!). A perusal of films of Tenshinshō-den Katori Shintō-ryū (天真正伝香取神道流) ranging from 1930 through the present reveals a remarkable range of interpretations of the same kata; a perusal of this school’s various websites shows radical changes in administrative and political structure have occurred within the last several years, changes that ten years ago were unimaginable to most people.

Beyond this, many ryūha have radically altered kata, have even added kata and new weapons sets into their curriculum throughout their history. To cite a single example, one line of Yagyū Shingan-ryū (柳生心眼流) added sets of naginata kata to their curriculum within the 20^th century, using their extant bōjutsu kata as a template. Nonetheless, conservatism is an ideology necessary for these entities to survive, for better or for worse. If an autocratic, lineal succession, clinging to one family’s (or a ‘virtual’ family descendant’s) leadership, and squelching others from teaching, either independently or within the dōjō, whether that sōke or shihan is competent or not, is the mode of transmission, then so be it. Without it, there would be no koryū today – the proof is the dearth of extant European martial traditions, which died out because they did not have anything similar to koryū‘s method of transmission from generation to generation. If you do not know this entering a koryū, you’ve got no business joining in the first place – you are not suitable as a member. If your attitude upon entering is, “Wait until I get some authority – I’ll make some changes then,”  you are a threat to the survival of the koryū itself. It is like entering a marriage thinking, “This person is so remarkably unique! There is no one else like them and that’s why I’m so drawn to them. My mission is to destroy all of that, and make them into someone comfortable to me and my predilections.” By and large, I think such autocratic structures are a good thing. As stated above, through this, what otherwise would be lost, is saved. Furthermore, some people learn humility through submitting—just because they want something doesn’t mean they will get it. Through this process, they learn to function productively within a group.

What should we make of  those who train, knowing they’ll never be licensed, because that is the way the system is set up, because of prejudices of the teacher, or who ‘wait’ forty-fifty years, despite mastering the curriculum. What then? First of all, is the metric of the value of that person, either intrinsically or to the group, their own perception of themselves?  There are two ways to judge your competence. The first is that of the ryūha’s, as embodied by the head instructor(s), who judges what he or she believes best suits the ryūha’s survival. You may think you are competent, but perhaps you are not. You may be missing something profound, an essential understanding of either physical or psychological principles, that establishes that you do not, in fact, embody the ryūha (Read the saga of Komagawa Tarōzaemon of Komagawa Kaishin-ryū  for an example of this). On the other hand, you may not be as good as you think; you may be abysmally incompetent—a physical idiot. (I’ve seen this far too often, by the way, a misperception of one’s skill that approaches delusion, all too common in schools that have no ‘live training’). Or, you may be physically brilliant, but have character flaws or other deficits that would make you a detriment to the school, at least as far as your teacher is concerned.

Or you may be a remarkable martial artist and an estimable human being. What happens if you are a hot-blooded, independent, powerful young trainee? Please read my chapter on Honma Nen-ryū (本間念流) in Old School  or my chapter on Ukei Kato of Kitō-ryū in Hidden in Plain Sight for examples of how a martial tradition can do justice to such powerful individuals who, for various reasons, are viewed as not suitable to succeed to the leadership of the school. These chapters describe situations, historically, that went well. There actually are a number of options to find a way to keep this person within the orbit of the ryūha as a planet of particular gravity, even if they were not suited to a particular rank or position of responsibility within the school.

But what if such an accommodation could not be made, or would not be even attempted. The first alternative is to be a bitter, complaining, individual, who centers his or her life around his or her entitled resentment. No matter how skilled they are, their presence is destructive to the ryūha—and this is true even if, with theoretically better leadership, they would be properly recognized and everyone would benefit—or at least so the resentful person believes. On the other hand, they might be right, but that doesn’t change the situation at all.  In such cases, the problem may eventually be solved when such a person is expelled, known as hamon (破門); in others, the person remains, stuck for years, perhaps a lifetime.

The second alternative would be to accept one’s situation, and live with dignity. For an analogous example, consider a less than perfect marriage. One or both parties is committed to the marriage, for whatever reason and they resolve to live with the other person with as much respect and dignity as they can. They can imagine another life, but they choose this one. In this case, you endure, a virtue uncommon in modern times. You not only endure; you do so without complaint or bitterness. Frankly, this is a perfect embodiment, in microcosm, of one of the core purposes of martial training–facing the reality that, some day, you will die. You learn through the process of enduring, to live with integrity despite things being not to your liking. If you can live well with death inevitably waiting for you, then perhaps you can train for the sake of training itself, even if it is inevitable that you will not receive what you believe to be your due.

The third alternative would be to quit the school entirely, perhaps joining another faction, or even another school and starting over. Some people will quit budō training altogether.  This could be a superficial act: quitting at the first point of difficulty. It could also be an exemplary choice. You found the wrong school, the wrong teacher, and there, over the next hill, so to speak, is a school better suited to you–and you, better suited for it.

Going One’s Own Way

The fourth alternative is to go your own way, something that occurred with remarkable frequency throughout Japanese history, despite the ‘in for life, loyal to the death’ fiction that is so often claimed. Traditionally speaking, such a ‘young lion’ separated, perhaps forming his own branch of the ryūha, called  bunpa (分派) or even an entirely new school.  As indicated above, this could be done by mutual agreement between teacher and student, or it could be, in a sense, a kind of revolt. This is unlikely in modern times, and could seem to be quite an oxymoron: forming a ‘new archaic martial tradition.’ However, if you believe yourself to be powerful and knowledgeable enough to make such a claim and find no room to breathe, then stand up to the results— be it ridicule, challenges or the like—and earn your place. I am acquainted with a number of situations just like this in modern times: split-offs into bunpa that the headmaster—or even the larger koryū community–do not recognize or accept. This is rarely a smooth process. I fully comprehend both points of view, that of the core school, who may view the person splitting off as a traitor or worse, and also of the ‘young lion’ (sometimes not so young) who is suppressed by the character flaws of the teacher or institutional structure of the ryūha.  I often find myself in sympathy with both parties.

I have also seen people who are clearly incompetent in one way or another, or deficient in character. There are good reasons that they were never licensed to teach, and they pass on their flaws to their students. At a more violent, barbaric time, this was self-correcting. Their students would die in battles, and the teacher himself might be destroyed or shamed in a duel. These days, without such challenges, they do just fine: some even flourish, with large cadre of students, both in Japan and internationally. As one of my teachers put it, however, it is a waste of energy to worry about their students. They found the teacher that suited them; otherwise, they would not be studying with them.

By the way, those who decide to create a ‘neo-koryū’ in modern times, complete with new kata, almost always come up with something absurd. One reason is that the type of person who sets out to do this is often a fantasist, a life-action role-player, or someone who has a grandiose sense of their own genius. Even if the person who does this is not so inadequate, few are grounded in the overall knowledge necessary to create a true ryūha,  something far deeper and more comprehensive than a set of physical kata.  The essence of a  true koryū entails an understanding of the human mind in mortal hand-to-hand combat, and beyond that, a set of psycho-physical-spiritual teachings (kata) that create a particular type of human being, one who has an ‘operating system’ that influences their life twenty-four hours a day. It is one thing (a surpassingly difficult ‘one thing’) to learn, even master a tradition, much less split off with your own interpretation; it is quite another to create something profound and different that is the equal of a koryū that has stood the test of time.

Joining the School to Become a Koryū Teacher: A Corrupt Ambition

All I’ve written, however, is somewhat peripheral to another issue that I notice in the initial queries. Anyone who joins a koryū with the ambition of becoming a koryū teacher is not someone that I would be interested in teaching, nor I believe, will most who have responsibility for the survival of their martial tradition. How can one have an ambition to teach what they don’t understand? Far beyond attaining the physical skills, I am speaking of the essence of the martial tradition, that which makes one, for example, a Muhi Muteki-ryū man or woman – in this case, a staff tradition that emerged from a very rural area and embodies the kind of rugged ferocity of impoverished peasants who would throw themselves on the points of spears for the opportunity to bash your head in with a stick, and if they survived, win a meagre reward. What will it take for you, a privileged outsider, to truly grasp the fighting culture of people who mostly survived by wading up to their hips in muck and the human excrement used for fertilizer, taxed of the rice they grew to near starvation, and who maintained a sense of pride and dignity through their martial practice, despite their impoverished circumstances?

I never wanted to be a teacher. What I wanted to do was learn the martial tradition. I had one ambition: to equal or surpass the level of my teacher, and beyond that, to equal or surpass all of my predecessors all the way back to Araki Muninsai and Tōda Seigen. I still do. There is a body of knowledge in each of the ryūha that I study that is so profound and so deep—I was and am simply grateful and endlessly enlivened to have an opportunity to acquire knowledge almost lost in our current world. The arrogance of desiring to be a teacher before one has proven one has the capability of mastering the system is misplaced (NOTE: I am well aware of the loaded nature of the word, ‘mastery’ – it is an intent that never ends, not an attainment). Even though koryū are, on the face of things, archaic systems of combat (or pseudo-combat), the purpose of learning a combative system is to be able use it. Impeccably. As a kind of ‘pseudo-instinct,’ a trained response that emerges (often) without conscious thought. Do you live it, or is it just something you do (in other words, a hobby)? I absolutely reject the idea that these are merely ‘living cultural treasures,’ (mukei bunkazai). These systems can be much deeper than the knowledge of how to cut with a sword. They are – at least should be – still are of value today. For example, I have released a book (The Coordinator: Managing High-Risk High Consequence Social Interactions in an Unfamiliar Environment) with Robert Hubal, a cognitive scientist using principles I learned within my two ryūha to describe how to manage high risk social encounters for the military or law enforcement.

I have read an interview with John Danaher, considered one of the greatest Brazilian jiujitsu coaches alive. Being a coach was not his ambition, however; it is a default because his physical injuries have made him unable to compete. I may enjoy teaching—sometimes—but that’s not why I teach. I teach because someone taught me—the tradition only lives because it must be passed on to another generation. Teaching is a burden, a debt I must pay—but the moment I’ve ensured that the tradition is fully passed on, then I can stop, and continue my own training fully. My real focus is implementing and living the ryūha myself.

The teacher is (or must be considered) as the living embodiment of the ryūha. The student may believe himself or herself to have surpassed the teacher (and they may or may not), but the teacher must judge the student on what they contribute to the tradition itself. That tension is built in as part of the system of learning itself. When I consider my own students, I expect that some will be shihan (I’ve ranked one already). But I can look at others, who are incredibly dedicated, who, unless they radically change, will never receive from me the right to teach. Maybe another teacher in the tradition might disagree—those students can go to them and see what happens. But it is my Araki-ryū, my Toda-ha Bukō-ryū that I am passing on—but that ‘my’ is in each case, eighteen generations passing through me. Just because someone thinks they deserve a rank or a teaching license because they’ve put in many years of training, or because they (and maybe others) view them as highly skilled, means little to nothing to me. But I do see the possibility within them, whether or not they make the necessary – often radical – changes to accomplish this. That’s why I continue to teach them.

Why should one train? To become the ryūha —in my eyes, that is the only legitimate reason and one that clearly distinguishes koryū from modern martial arts (which, by the way, I love and respect on their own terms). As far as koryū is concerned, that entails accepting the consequences that the ryūha is not perfect, nor are its leaders. That tension is actually a necessary component to mastery. You struggle with yourself, you struggle with the teacher, you struggle with the ryūha itself.

But the Japanese Are not Fair to Non-Japanese!

This complaint answers itself. Of course not! As traditions that embody archaic Japanese culture, any foreigner is a threat. That we have been welcomed to the degree that we have is remarkable. The very fact that we are discussing ‘foreigners,’ is proof that there is a legitimate issue.  Non-Japanese can be incredible assets to a classical martial tradition; they can also be quite destructive to the social network that makes the school what it is and has been for hundreds of years.

In regards to prejudice and discrimination. Prejudice is an attitude; discrimination is actions. I’ve certainly experienced both. I was the first non-Japanese to be the lead representative of any ryūha at the yearly demonstration at the Nippon Budokan—Nitta sensei, my instructor of Tōda-ha Bukō-ryū,  had been ill for some months, so I was designated to take the lead. Some prominent individuals from other ryūha went to Nitta sensei and stated that they believed that my presence shamed Japanese budō, because onlookers would think that a foreigner was the best our ryūha could come up with. Nitta sensei told them bluntly that they had no business commenting on the affairs of another ryūha. She called me up the night before, and said that she didn’t care if I came down with a deathly disease or a broken leg, she absolutely wanted me to present the next day. She considered me of value–no higher honor can I imagine–so that is all there was to it.

Beyond those who are protective–sometimes overly so–for their traditions, there are also  racists and ‘culturalists’ among koryū instructors; some may be honestly concerned about the vitiation of their own tradition (though they have no business interfering in another); others are simply inadequate moral cowards. For me, the bottom line was this. I pledged loyalty to my ryūha and to my teachers–I sacrificed a tremendous amount in my life so that I could train. I gave as much as I could. A racist or otherwise prejudiced person would not have honored that–my teachers felt compelled to teach me because of my commitment.

I never experienced ‘discrimination’ from my own teachers, even though one of them, in particular, hated America as a country, and openly stated he didn’t like most Americans.  They taught me everything, because they ‘couldn’t not teach’ me. I confronted them with absolute commitment, an attentiveness to what they’d already taught so they didn’t have to labor at teaching me, repeat the same thing, or ‘argue’ with stubborn entrenched reflexes that I wasn’t willing to let go. Any teacher who doesn’t feel compelled to teach when the student is truly receptive to learning is not worth studying with. Your teacher must desire – or feel compelled to –  to teach you everything, if you are truly committed, so you can survive and flourish. This is requisite, whatever his or her personal reactions to your flaws, or his or her own prejudices. This doesn’t mean, however, that the instructor teaches you what you want to learn when you want to learn it–the teacher is the final, the only judge of teaching you when he or she perceives you are ready.

However, the question of whether you will receive a menkyō kaiden, receive a teaching license, etc., is somewhat different. If either of my teachers had told me that they never would allow me to teach their ryūha, I’d either never teach what they taught me and continue to practice, or I would formally split away: whatever I believed to be the correct thing for me to do. Again, this could mean, for some,  joining another faction of the same ryūha, but this would not have been an option for me. So, let’s say I split away, forming my own line,  and that someone (anyone from an individual to a martial arts organization to a scholar or my own teacher) questioned my right to do this—either I can defend my right to do so (morally, based on a proper understanding of tradition and culture, and physically, if so challenged, based on my skill) or I can’t. If I can’t, then I’m a fraud, even morally corrupt. If I am on solid ground, this means to be absolutely honest and accept the consequences, be they ostracism or physical challenge. If you cannot protect your tradition, be it the one you are bequeathed or the new line you are developing, you have no business asserting your right to anything in a martial context. You cannot protect yourself or your ryūha with a paper certificate; you protect nothing when you lack integrity.

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