Aikido and Competition

With the exception of Tomiki Aikido, competition is largely absent from the practice of Aikido. what is that? 

At Aikido Sangenkai, there is a fascinating article about this and this history of aikido. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Kenji Tomiki, Morihei Ueshiba’s first 8th Dan in Aikido, often referred to the famous famous rising dragon story when discussing competitive practice:

Randori practice, sparring practice, is something that is done to give life to, and demonstrate the real power of, those techniques that were first learned by the student through kata. That is to say, randori provides the means to complete a painted dragon by filling in the eyes.

The reference here, if you’re unfamiliar with the story, is to the story of the famous Chinese artist Zhang Sengyou, who painted four dragons on the walls of Anle Temple in what is now Nanjing around the year 500.

He painted the dragons completely except for the eyes, believing that the paintings were so realistic that if he drew the eyes, they would come alive and fly away.

Responding to people’s disbelief at this assertion, Zhang then painted the eyes of two of the dragons, and they immediately flew away to heaven riding on clouds and thunder. This became the famous proverb, “to paint a dragon and dot in the eyes” – 画竜点睛 (“Garyou Tensei”, in Japanese).

Of course, this represents one of Kenji Tomiki’s motivations in creating a competitive form in Aikido – to bring life to techniques trained in the classical Kata format (which he did not abandon) by applying them in under live resistance.

The second of Kenji Tomiki’s motivations was that he believed that competition could be a unifying force in the Aikido community, providing a standardized technical framework under which all Aikido students could meet and train, even if they normally employed different training methodologies at home, a commonly agreed upon neutral ground upon which Aikido students from many different traditions would be able to meet and train together.

He was not alone in conceiving of a useful place for some form of competition in the training pedagogy.

Minoru Mochizuki, for example, whom Morihei Ueshiba asked twice, one before and once after the war, to take over his art, instituted sparring and competition in Yoseikan Aikido.

In another example, Koichi Tohei, Morihei Ueshiba’s only 10th Dan to be promoted through official Aikikai channels, created a form of competition more like “figure skating” with annual Taigi Competitions.

It’s worth noting that this type of competition is also frowned upon by the Aikikai, and has been the cause of some controversy in the past:

The IAF holds a general congress every four years and the official reason for holding it in Japan is to allow the instructors residing overseas to visit Japan and recharge their cultural batteries, so to speak. An exception was made in 1992, however, when the Congress was held in Taipei. I was IAF General Secretary and it was my responsibility to organize this vast meeting with Paul C N Lee, who was President of the Republic of China Aikido Association (ROCAA). At IAF Congresses it is customary to have aikido training seminars and to hold a demonstration in which representatives from all the member nations participate. The arrangements for the aikido seminars and the demonstration were the responsibility of the host country, in this case the ROCAA. During one meeting at the Hombu, attended by Mr Lee, Fujita Sensei and myself, Kisshomaru Doshu had appeared and urged us all to exercise great caution, but to me his warning was about as obscure as Dumbledore’s warnings to Harry Potter. Fujita Sensei was a close friend of Mr Lee and fully understood the very difficult conditions under which the ROCAA was operating, but I had no idea of these conditions and was unprepared for the explosion that was about to occur.

After the arrangements for the Congress had been publicized, certain Japanese overseas instructors sent fax messages to the Aikikai requesting the dismissal of two officials, on the grounds that they were responsible for organizing competitions in aikido, at a congress that was about to take place. One official was Fujita Sensei, who was the Hombu Dojo Secretary; the other was myself, the IAF Secretary. These fax messages were received by Fujita Sensei in the Hombu office, who promptly sent copies on to me.

The Congress took place and the atmosphere can best be described as taut. The wa, so important at international aikido meetings was certainly there, but underlying this was a tension that sometimes appeared at meetings as straight conflict. I was in a very difficult position, however, for I had discovered independently that the condition imposed by the local Olympic committee in Taiwan for the operation of aikido by the ROCAA was that they had to hold aikido demonstrations that could be seen to outsiders as competitions, with judges holding up scorecards after each demonstration. The Aikikai had known about this condition for several years, but had remained silent and it was only now, with an impending demonstration that would be attended by officials of the local Olympic committee, that it had become an issue. I happened to have lunch with Doshu one day and warned him that I had no intention of resigning and that I would have to explain to the entire Congress that the Aikikai had known all along about ‘competition’ aikido in Taiwan and had done nothing about it. This lack of action would certainly be construed as approval and would cause a conflict that might have the same consequiences as Tohei Sensei’s departure from the Aikikai. Doshu pursed his lips and answered that he did not want any explosion at the Congress (the problem of wa arising again), but he added that ‘Fujita does not understand international matters.’

Both Fujita Sensei and the present Doshu, who was Hombu Dojo-cho at the time, gave up their positions in the Hombu to ‘take responsibility.’ I had also been pressed to do this by the instructors who desired my dismissal, but I refused: I was not a Japanese and did not intend to be treated like one in this instance.

“It Had To Be Felt #50: Masatake Fujita: When is a Hombu Deshi Not a Deshi? When He’s the Secretary“, by Peter Goldsbury

Be that as it may, Kisshomaru Ueshiba made the choice after the war to strictly prohibit any form of competitive practice within the Aikikai (eventually, but that will become clear later on).

Note that I say Kisshomaru Ueshiba, and not Morihei Ueshiba.

It is quite common to hear assertions that any form of competition was prohibited as a kind of “heresy” by the Founder himself, Morihei Ueshiba, and that the “heretic” (namely, Kenji Tomiki) was cast into the outer darkness, but that’s not really the entire story.

Ueshiba did not, apparently, see himself as betraying Deguchi by striking out on his own path (nor did Deguchi, from all statements we have), nor was Ueshiba, apparently, overly concerned with his students who went theirs. Shioda Gozo described visiting Ueshiba four days before his death. Ueshiba awoke and said, “It’s you, thanks for coming. I’m riding on a winged horse around the heavens. I can see the earth. Shioda, what is [Kenji] Tomiki doing now? I’m watching.” Of all the people to ask for on his deathbed! Many, including Ueshiba Kisshomaru, considered Tomiki to be the ultimate apostate— aikidō’s first 8th dan, a modern, practical, and educated man, who tried to meld aikidō and jūdō, and even ‘worse,’ established a competitive form of aikidō. In many people’s fantasy, Tomiki would be the last person that Ueshiba would want to see. But as far as Ueshiba was concerned, Tomiki, as much as anyone he taught, lived out his mission in this world—and that is all he was required to do. Tomiki’s students, too, despite their separation from Kisshomaru’s organization, were still practicing aikidō, still contributing their energy to Ueshiba. All, therefore, was well.

“Hidden in Plain Sight: Esoteric Power Training Within Japanese Martial Traditions; Tracing the Roots of Ueshiba Morihei’s Power“, by Ellis Amdur

Just as discussed above by Ellis Amdur, Morihei Ueshiba was rarely concerned with the direction that his students chose to go in their training, leaving them free to make their own choices.

In fact, he specifically refrained from establishing the kind of authoritative structure that would have supported that type of regulation over his students, stating that “there is no Soke in Budo”.

Morihei Ueshiba himself established no clear succession for his passing, once again leaving things to his students to figure out on their own.

After Morihei Ueshiba’s passing Kisshomaru’s authority and title were the result of negotiations among the remaining parties, which would lead to some difficulties – such as Koichi Tohei’s “declaration of independence” in Hawai’i recounted by Ralph Glanstein.

It was only after his father’s passing that Kisshomaru Ueshiba began to implement a kind of “iemoto” (家元) system within the Aikikai – an organization based around a family authority.

It is, however, quite common to see people appeal to authority in order to justify their own assertions.

I started presenting my koshinage in the All Japan aikido taikai. Arikawa-sensei told me to stop. He said it wasn’t aikido. I told him that until Osensei told me to stop, I’d keep doing it.

In Memory of Kuroiwa Yoshio – 黒岩洋志郎 — 1932- 2010

Morihei Ueshiba never told Yoshio Kuroiwa to stop.

He never told Kenji Tomiki to stop, either.

Morihei Ueshiba himself retired in 1942 , stating in his own words that he “left it all to Kisshomaru”, and remaining essentially a figure head where organizational matters were concerned. Actions and negotiations between Kenji Tomiki and the Aikikai were conducted and managed by Kisshomaru Ueshiba, not Morihei, as we will see below.

Additionally, the first competitions in Kenji Tomiki’s Aikido didn’t actually occur until the 1st All Japan University Student Aikido Competition on November 11th 1970 – more than a year after Morihei Ueshiba’s passing.

Morihei Ueshiba himself was opposed to competition, in general, but this was quite normal in his time.

His contemporary, Jigoro Kano, expressed reservations about competition in Judo.

Another contemporary, Gichin Funakoshi, opposed all competition in Karate.

Today those are both Olympic sports.

Competition in Kendo was still a relatively new idea, gaining popularity with Sakakibara Kenkichi – recently enough that he was said to be one of Sokaku Takeda’s own instructors.

Morihei Ueshiba himself practiced an art that already had no competition – Daito-ryu Aiki-jujutsu, and that art is still without competition to this day.

More importantly, Morihei Ueshiba himself rarely discussed competition at all, it wasn’t really on his radar, wasn’t an issue of major concern. On the rare occasions when he did discuss it, his objections were largely technical, the same types of issues discussed by Jigoro Kano and Gichin Funakoshi, rather than the ethical or moral issues often cited today by Aikido students.

Morihei Ueshiba spent much, much more time discussing other matters, at great length, most of which are largely ignored today.

This is important because the official statements by the Aikikai often cite phrases such as “immutable principles of the Founder”, leading us to ask what those principles would actually consist of, and if they’re “immutable” then how some (such as competition) can be cherry picked while others are ignored.

For example, Morihei Ueshiba’s statement in 1960 of the first (and presumably most important) principle defining Aikido – a right wing ultra-nationalistic form of Emperor worship, is not (we would hope)very popular today.

What actually happened, however, was less a matter of principles, immutable or otherwise, than it was a matter of the branding and marketing of Aikido in the post-war Aikikai by Kisshomaru Ueshiba.

The branding of Aikikai Aikido was initially spurred on by pressure from the rise of the Yoshinkan.

Cheng Man Ching 37 Taijiquan Form Circa 1946 Photos

 

A good find. 

This is an AI enhanced video of photos used by Cheng Man Ching promoting his "simplified" 37 form in a newspaper. 

 

Islands in the Stream

At Budo Journeyman there was an interesting post about how karate might have evolved from China to Okinawa to Japan. The full post may be read here. An excerpt is below.

In this piece:

· The original ‘Three Islands experiment’.

· The results.

· My view on where it might take you.

· How that can apply to karate in Japan, and particularly Wado.

· Did master Otsuka get it right?

I like this idea. I came across it on a UK karate podcast (‘The Karate Kitchen’, previously ‘Opinionated Bastards’). I contacted Robert Davis and Andi Kidd to gain their permission to present the theories – full credits at the end of this piece. I hope I get it right. But, anyway, here is my spin on it.

Introduction.

I have seen and read so many theories, assumptions and guesswork, centring around the transmission of Okinawan karate through the vehicle of solo kata.

Some of them are just wishful thinking, others are designed to bolster the pet projects of enthusiastic (and entrepreneurial) karateka who operate on the fringes, but are driven to prove that they are right and everyone else is wrong.1 But, nobody wants to admit that they just don’t know.

I do find myself pleased that there are some serious researchers on the ground in Japan and Okinawa, who are trying desperately to unearth the true historical facts, but, boy, what an enormous challenge. My fear is that the horse has long departed the stable, and all you are left with is the traces of what the horse left in in the stall, good luck in picking through that.

(Anecdotes from westerners who have been over to Okinawa suggest to me that the remaining indigenous ‘masters’ are busy backfilling the vacuum).

Anyhow; here is the ‘Three Islands’ project. What a great idea!

This came out of a seminar, an experimental project to set up a real and theoretical ‘Stanford Prison’ style project, relating to kata transmission.

Island number one.

This is the very beginning, where the team, the controllers, design a new short karate kata, something not seen before, concocted in secret.

This first ‘island’ is the origin location of this theoretical kata and the home of a kind of ‘master creator’. This originator supposedly comes with a huge conceptual framework in the fighting arts. The kata is used as a mnemic, or a kind of crib sheet for his students to learn the full comprehensive system from. The kata is, in part, a distillation of the system’s principles and a set of crunched-down pre-packaged lessons. The students are taught the kata inclusive of the Henka, Ohyo etc.

I don’t know how they organised this bit, but in the later developmental time-line the students become fractured and have to work on their own, and drift into their personal preferences, playing to their strengths, resulting in bits getting lost or (if they were not fully understood in the first place) overwritten. With no access to the original master/creator it’s an imperfect transmission.

Island number two.

On this island, a student turns up who learned the original kata, but not the applications or the logic of the master/creator. The form/kata develops some traction and is widely taught, but a crucial point is that the inhabitants of this island haven’t been living in a vacuum, they have their own take on fighting logic, perhaps gleaned from their own historical circumstances, so they are not ‘babes in the woods’. All the same, this imported form/kata holds enough attention for them to develop it and refine its practice. Basically, mould it into any utilitarian purpose they want (e.g. aesthetic or athletic).

What they did with the kata, and what it turned into, created a high degree of formalism within an exercise format. They also leaned into an urge towards standardisation, where it would be easy to say that someone was not doing it ‘differently’, they were doing it ‘wrong’, no space for flexion or interpretation.

Island number three.

As we island hop, this is where it really starts to happen. The kata is exported to yet another island location and is again greeted with enthusiasts wanting to explore this ‘fighting form’. But, they feel compelled to give the individual sections of the kata some meaning and so, from scratch, they start to reverse engineer; to work out how the movements might be interpreted as fighting sequences which are effective techniques against potential aggressors. They are making it up. However, like with the previous islanders, they have some ideas they can inject into the mix based upon their indigenous defence arts.

In the final rounding off…

In this theoretical island world, the original kata, complete with the entire cultural context, with the full encyclopaedic knowledge, is presented side-by-side with what the final island came up with. The comparison between the two couldn’t be more extreme. My guess is that all the subtleties are bleached out, and that final islander’s ideas are simple clip-together answers that are reluctant to move beyond the literal form. Also, consider the group who only knew the form!

Koryu Budo

Over at Peter Boylan's excellent The Budo Bum substack, there was recently an article on his thoughts on training in Koryu Budo, old Budo; before the advent of Judo, Karatedo, Aikido, etc. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

I practice Shinto Muso Ryu Jodo and Shinto Hatakage Ryu Iai Heiho. I also practice Kodokan Judo. Kodokan Judo was founded as Japan made the leap from a rural, agrarian, preindustrial society to an urban, mechanized, industrial powerhouse. The differences between practicing the old arts and the new(er) ones are remarkable.

Kodokan Judo was founded during an era of incredible transformation in Japan. The Tokugawa Shogunate had just been overthrown after some 266 years of peaceful rule and replaced with a constitutional monarchy. The founder of Kodokan Judo, Kano Jigoro Shihan, replaced the classical menkyo teaching licensing system with a series of dan (steps). Adapting European teaching pedagogies, he designed a system of teaching that could be used in public schools for mass education. Under his Kodokan Judo, you could go anywhere in the country and train without having to learn a local set of techniques and customs. Your rank was recognized all over the country.

Koryu budo, on the other hand, are not taught as competitive sports, or even as cultural practices for the general public. They are taught in the same way that traditional crafts are taught in Japan: slowly, carefully, from one teacher to one student. I can train judo under one teacher, and still freely go to train in many different dojos. That’s not the case in koryu. Even if there are many other dojos doing the same koryu in your area (highly unlikely), you are learning your teacher’s art; not a generalized, public set of skills, but a highly individualized art. If you go around to other dojo, you’re going to get lots of input that is different from your teacher’s, which could slow down, not speed up, the process of internalizing the lessons your teacher is giving you.

Koryu budo, like traditional crafts in Japan, are learned through imitation of the teacher, including rigorous thought by the student about why the teacher does particular things in a particular way. A good teacher will give students time to figure things out, and will emphasize particular lessons through their actions rather than their words. The teacher will lay things out where the student can see them. It’s up to the student to develop the observational skills to pick up the lessons when the teacher makes them visible.

Those observational skills aren’t easy if you don’t come from a culture where they are expected from birth. My learning growing up initially revolved around the teacher laying things out and showing us how to ask questions about the things we didn’t understand. Learning to ask questions was a big part of the education process. Observational skills were not a noticeable part of the process.

Koryu budo, on the other hand, are not taught as competitive sports, or even as cultural practices for the general public. They are taught in the same way that traditional crafts are taught in Japan: slowly, carefully, from one teacher to one student. I can train judo under one teacher, and still freely go to train in many different dojos. That’s not the case in koryu. Even if there are many other dojos doing the same koryu in your area (highly unlikely), you are learning your teacher’s art; not a generalized, public set of skills, but a highly individualized art. If you go around to other dojo, you’re going to get lots of input that is different from your teacher’s, which could slow down, not speed up, the process of internalizing the lessons your teacher is giving you.

Koryu budo, like traditional crafts in Japan, are learned through imitation of the teacher, including rigorous thought by the student about why the teacher does particular things in a particular way. A good teacher will give students time to figure things out, and will emphasize particular lessons through their actions rather than their words. The teacher will lay things out where the student can see them. It’s up to the student to develop the observational skills to pick up the lessons when the teacher makes them visible.

Those observational skills aren’t easy if you don’t come from a culture where they are expected from birth. My learning growing up initially revolved around the teacher laying things out and showing us how to ask questions about the things we didn’t understand. Learning to ask questions was a big part of the education process. Observational skills were not a noticeable part of the process.

Famous Students of Miyagi Chojun Sensei Video

 

Interesting video:

Classical Martial Arts and Police Work During the Shogunate

At Ellis Amdur's excellent Kogen Budo blog, there was a guest post describing how classical martial arts was employed during the Shogunate by the constabulary. Fascinating stuff. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

“If a person is cut down with a sword in front of the compound, chase the assailant down. If he will not hand over his sword you may kill him. Should he surrender his sword, however, hand him over to the magistrates office.”

-1620s Shogunal notice to Tosa domain on duties during incidents in front of their Edo compound.1

The classical martial traditions of Japan, or koryū bugei (古流武藝) – “military arts flowing from the past” – have undergone something of a minor renaissance in the West in recent decades. Seen as distinct from modern martial arts, the koryū bugei are said to preserve the battlefield skills of the Japanese warrior class down to the present day. Specialist scholarship has long demonstrated this is largely an “invented tradition,” and that the reality is more nuanced.2 Certainly warriors of the Sengoku Jidai, or “Era of the Country at War,” practiced fighting techniques, and in the first few decades after the turn of the 17th century, at beginning of the Tokugawa era (1603 – 1868), a culture of musha shugyo (“warrior pilgrimage”) flourished, that entailed engaging in challenge matches, including fatal duels. This largely ended by the mid 17th century when authorities put an end to it. From then on, bushi of status pursued bugei primarily as a means of cultivating warrior identity and character development. There was “increasingly an emphasis on formal gymnastics and disciplined choreography,” where combative etiolation was perhaps inevitable, and roundly criticized in the explosion of commercial print on all manner of subjects at the time. (Dore 1965 p. 151 et al) 3   The persistent discourse on the martial arts as “arts of war” in the parlance of practitioners, and on their well-documented peacetime deterioration on the part of professors, may have obscured a pragmatic approach that still existed: law enforcement.

Formal law codes had, for centuries, addressed various kinds of offenses, both civil and criminal: the Joei Code (1232), among various administrative regulations for matters regarding shrines, temples, lands and civil lawsuits also included processes for handling “crimes of killing, maiming, and wounding . . . serious crimes, such as treason, murder, banditry (sanzoku), piracy (kaizoku), night attacks, robbery, and the like” as well as more conventional beatings, forgery, and “abusive language,” that had a tendency to cause quarrels. (Conlan 2022: 47) This calls to mind what we might today call “disorderly conduct” or “provoking assault.”

The Joei Code and its principles were used as common law in the domains of regional lords (daimyo), or included in their house precepts.4  In 1459, the Ouchi domain published law on the walls surrounding the lord’s mansion, where they could be read by all. They prohibited, among other offenses, “wandering along major roads at night” “sumo wrestling at crossroads,” “taking women on the roadside,” (a reference to prostitution/sex trafficking rather than rape or kidnapping), and “wearing strange clothes, claiming that it is the style of the capital.” (Conlan 2022: 194) These were updated over time and in 1487 expanded, prohibiting carrying “[L]ong weapons (nagagusoku – ‘ referring to glaives (naginata), longswords (odachi), or pikes (yari)’  ), bows, and quivers,” although certain individuals were exempt. Apparently one could not walk with “flutes, shakuhachi, or other instruments” unless close to one’s residence, and there was a problem with “loitering” involving “people leering into the Ouchi mansions.”  “Night watchmen” were expected to know the law and enjoined to enforce it, for example, for the crime of killing soft-shelled turtles to use as hawk-bait, “the common rabble (honge no tomogara) if they are seen, or rumored to be, killing turtles, they shall be arrested or cut down at the place where it happened, according to the situation.” (Ibid: 194 -197)

In 1506, in the then-capital (Kyoto), law forbade theft, arson, armed assault, “quarrels,” sumo wrestling (again!), and the troublesome dancing (in the streets). (Berry 1994: 245 ) The Jinkaishu, a 1536 legal code of the Date house of Mutsu Province in northern Japan, codified practices for handling offenses including “violent contests;” or “when crazed drunkards kill people [and] claim inebriation as an excuse;” “cases where people impulsively quarreled, or were crazed at a banquet, and unpremeditatedly killed someone.” And, perhaps particularly interesting, instances where people “claimed that through skill they killed ambushers when in fact they ambushed their rival in a surprise attack.” Behavioral expectations are laid out for lords and retainers involved in violent altercations, assassinations, and other killings, including not abetting or harboring killers, tracking them down, searching locations for them, and capturing or killing them. There were punishments for when offenders were killed inadvertently, when captured suspects did not confess, or when personally performing arrests or cutting people down when there was not proper evidence demonstrating guilt. (Ibid: 206-215 ) 5  After the early years of the 17th century, Tokugawa shoguns began promulgating the Buke Shohatto, Laws for Warrior Houses, codes of conduct, laws, and expectations for the warrior class intended to establish the absolute authority of the shogun’s government – called the Bakufu –  over other domains. This was institutionalized in 1635, and from then daimyo were required to follow Bakufu law in enforcement and sentencing procedures, and were periodically checked on to ensure compliance. (Botsman: 15)

Maintaining order was an overriding concern, for “below the peace that was taking place at the national level with no wars there was still a fair amount of violence in Tokugawa society.” (Vaporis 2022: 235)  We learn from the Omurochuki (Diary of a Parrot in a Cage), the journal of the low-ranking samurai Asahi Shigeaki (1674 -1718), that some young, unemployed samurai killed for sport and material gain, in what was known as “‘street murders’ (tsuji kiri), passersby were killed with swords and robbed.” (Vaporis 2022: 234-235, 351)  6  At the same time. there was a conscious effort by the warrior government to ameliorate the general image of warriors as fiendish butchers carried over from the Warring States period, and to turn warrior-lords away from ideas of military conquest toward keeping civil order. “‘[T]he way of the warrior’ (budō) should be understood as an ‘instrument for killing evil.” The government “was to use it to ‘purify the realm.’” Warriors were now to be seen as benevolent, serving and protecting the public, as “the Tokugawa judicial system came to place considerable emphasis on what would today be called “victim’s rights.” It was realized that too harsh a system of punishment would interfere with the shogun being seen as a benevolent ruler. “[W]arrior officials in the Tokugawa period combined relatively lax enforcement and a tendency to turn a blind eye to minor infractions with the use of “flamboyant” displays of their own power – to pardon as well as punish. This made it possible to bolster warrior authority with the threat of terrifying punishment on the one hand, while also cultivating the goodwill of the general population on the other, with evidence of official flexibility, restraint, and mercy.” (Botsman: 41-42. 49) 7

As we see in newsfeeds today, turning a blind eye toward petty crimes was not without its downstream effects or its critics. By the 1720s, Ogyu Sorai complained that “houses are broken into everywhere; criminals murder, steal and commit arson; and in the middle of the night they lie in waiting in deserted places to rob people,” and remembered “the days when officials routinely cut criminals down on the spot” while lamenting a “dramatic decline in the warrior’s martial spirit.”  (Botsman: 86-87) No social strata was above reproach. In 1747, a mentally unstable Shogun’s hatamoto  murdered a man in the toilet at Edo castle. 8 Even daimyo were suspected of terrible crimes, including the lord of Mito domain Tokugawa Mitsukuni, when he was young man. “The Tosa samurai Mori Masana, while traveling to Edo in 1829 reported stories that the retired lord of Wakayama would go out at night with four or five attendants, enter people’s homes, and kill them. He is reputed to have killed hundreds of people this way.” (Vaporis 2022: 351)

Enforcing laws and bringing violators to justice fell to local lords following Bakufu law. In rural areas, village headmen and low-status warriors acted as constabulary; maintaining order, capturing or killing violators, and rounding up vagrants and beggars – a persistent problem that only grew worse over time – and putting down public disturbances and uprisings throughout the Edo period. (Botsman) This included duties during sankin-kōtai, the system of “alternate attendance” at the capital city, Edo, in which lords were required to alternate between a year spent residing in their domains with one in the capital. (Nishiyama 1997) Retainers of individual daimyo were required to staff guard-houses in the samurai neighborhoods of Edo and perform basic policing functions in their jurisdiction. Written guides were produced for warriors staffing neighborhood guard stations (tsuji-bansho ) in “how to handle unusual situations.”  These situations included corpses (murders or suicides), violent behavior, altercations and fights in front of samurai mansions, violence and injuries within the samurai residences, and attacks using swords. The expectations and other job duties for the guards were strikingly similar to the kinds of things seen in law and policy for law enforcement today: deserted children (a child under three is “deserted” but an older child is “lost”), fugitives, drunks and vagrants, illegal disposals and dumping, lost objects, unruly or dead horses, rescuing people who had fallen into moats, suspicious characters, accidents on the streets, and jurisdictional matters (for instance if a body is found on the border between two tsuji-bansho, the location of the feet — for men it was the left foot, and for women, the right — determined which jurisdiction bore responsibility). 9

Lower-status warriors were required to train in the necessary skills to fill these roles. Passin noted that upper-class samurai learned swordsmanship, horse riding, and archery “as a form of spiritual training,” while lower-class warriors “were taught jūjutsu, lancemanship, group tactics, and rifle.” (1965 p. 21) Michael Wert, in his study of rural swordsmen also pointed out that “martial arts and swordsmanship were practiced differently by different samurai status groups, with an inverse relationship between cultural capital value and combat efficacy.” High ranking samurai were not compensated for their training and their official schools focussed on swordsmanship to strengthen their warrior identity. In the Kaga Han, low-status warriors were “ordered by the domain to learn staff fighting and grappling (jūjutsu).” These samurai foot soldiers (ashigaru), “who used the arts directly in their duties” received compensation for training and “studied arresting techniques or staff fighting (bōjutsu), skills used in their policing roles.”  (Wert, unpublished manuscript: 6-7)

The class expectations relative to “peace officer” duties, and how they changed, were illustrated by Confucian scholar, writer, and politician Arai Hakuseki (1657-1725) noting in his autobiography:  “when I was seventeen or eighteen, I accidentally dropped in my father’s presence, a torinawa, a finely wound green cord with a hook at the end used for tying people up, which I was carrying in my bosom.” His father noticed the item and said “Long ago, when I was in office, I used to keep this by me in my flint bag.  I thought that if I ordered men to seize  and bind some disorderly fellow, they might not have it in readiness. When I retired, I had no further use for it, and I kept it for tying up the cat. It is proper that a warrior should know every part of his duties. However, there are things which a man should or should not do, according to his station. This cord is not something you should keep about your person, and you are old enough to know better.” (Hakuseki, p. 48-49)

 

 

Japanese Koryu Martial Arts Transmission

As a result of his excellent post, which I've posted an excerpt here; The Budo Bum recently published a guest post by Tobin Threadgill, who is a senior practitioner of Shindo Yoshin-Ryu. An excerpt from the guest post is below. The full post may be read here.

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I am honored to share this essay by Tobin Threadgill Sensei of Takamura Ha Shindo Yoshin Ryu, written in reaction to my essay Budo Isn’t Finished. I deeply appreciate him allowing me to share this here. P.B.

by Tobin Threadgill

Transmission of knowledge in a koryu budo can be challenging. No headmaster can transmit 100% of what they know. The headmaster must competently address this resulting vacuum of knowledge, or the compounding loss can cripple a koryu budo ryuha in only several generations.

The subject of evolution in koryu was a frequently discussed topic with my teacher, Takamura Yukiyoshi sensei. He believed a thorough understanding of this subject was necessary so that a koryu budo tradition would not degenerate into what he described as “empty or pretty dancing”. When I hear an uninitiated individual discuss the topic of koryu, I am often struck by their lack of context and/or familiarity with what they are observing. The most glaring misunderstanding is related to the purpose and function of kata. I assume that this misinterpretation is partially related to exposure to the solo kata (enrengata) performed in Okinawan Karate and its progeny. In Japanese, there are two different kanji characters both pronounced in kata. The differences are subtle, but the one used in Okinawan karate (型) implies something finished like a mold, pattern, or standard. The one used in most koryu budo, also pronounced gyo (形), implies something more subtle, like form, model, or configuration. In the context of koryu budo, kata (gyo) are repositories of knowledge in a different manner than that of Okinawan Karate. It must be understood that koryu budo kata do not necessarily represent actual fighting. They do not always have to be realistic because they are frequently vessels that contain, preserve, and give context to genri and riai (tactics, principles, and combat theory). Many observers outside koryu simply fixate on the particular movements they observe in the execution of a kata without any grasp of the purpose underlying the movements. It’s like an outside observer watching a boxer use a speed bag and then announcing that such training is pointless because such punching would never be practical. They simply don’t understand the what’s or why’s of what they are observing.

Legacy Techniques in Koryu

At The Budo Bum, the author explored the question of whether the koryu (old classical) arts carried around with it the teaching of inefficient, ineffective techniques. My own inclination is to answer "no." The principles, strategies, etc; are all at work.

An excerpt is below. The original post may be read here.

The efficacy and use of some techniques in various koryu have been questioned since at least the Meiji Era. Koryu are by definition “old schools.” Two or three hundred years from the founding, how can you be sure the techniques are still effective? How can you be sure they are consistent with what was originally taught? Have things been lost or changed to the point that they are no longer consistent?

My experience is that in well-maintained koryu, the techniques will be consistent, effective, and efficient. If they aren’t all three, then either something is being taught incorrectly, or the student doesn’t understand it well enough yet. I do see koryu that teach things poorly, especially in koryu that have become essentially fossils. These are koryu where the skeleton of the technique and kata have been preserved, but the knowledge that animates them has been lost, so people simply repeat motions without understanding them. There are a few of these around, and if you watch carefully, you can spot some of them at big koryu enbu like the one at Meiji Jingu every year.

Even in well-preserved, well-cared for koryu, things can get lost. Ellis Amdur of Kogen Budo has written extensively about reconstituting bojutsu of Tenshin Buko Ryu. They still had documents, but the practice had been lost. Koryu are living arts, and things are lost and added and rediscovered all the time. Not every teacher is a good teacher, so sometimes the transmission is weak. These things happen. In living koryu, as opposed to fossilized koryu, this isn’t an overwhelming problem. Senior teachers and practitioners should always be testing their understanding, challenging themselves and the art to be sure both are at their best.

Gendai budo practitioners often make the mistake of thinking that because koryu don’t have competitive sparring, there is no pressure testing. They couldn’t be more wrong. Anytime you have a two-person koryu kata, you have the potential for pressure testing. Ideally, each kata represents the optimal way of doing something. If you do everything correctly, the kata works. If your training partners are being honest, they will follow the logic of the kata, and attack where the best opening is. If the best opening they see is one you’ve left that shouldn’t be there, that’s where they will attack. This can make for an unpleasant surprise anytime you don’t do things well. A whack on the kote or do or men when you aren’t expecting it is one of the best ways of learning to close those suki (openings). I’ve collected plenty of small bruises because I left suki that shouldn’t be there.

This is pressure testing. Your partner isn’t breaking the kata when they attack into a suki that you left. You broke the kata when you created the suki. Your partner is following the logic of the kata and attacking the best target. It’s always possible that someone sees an opening that’s not part of the kata. The proper response to this is to talk with your teacher, and arrange to try attacking the opening so it can be tested. I’ve seen many “openings” in kata that I was learning, and I’ve discovered the hard way each time that they aren’t really openings. I just didn’t know enough yet to understand why that attack was a bad idea. Teachers of living koryu aren’t afraid of exploring and experimenting. Before you try something though, it’s useful to remember that the arts you are experimenting with are hundreds of years old, and whatever you think you’re seeing has likely been thoroughly explored during the previous centuries.

 

 

A Mixed Martial Art before MMA

Below is a video about Nippon Kempo. A truly mixed martial art before MMA was cool. Enjoy.

 

 

Northern vs Southern Kung Fu Styles Explained

 

Two Different Ways of Teaching the Art

There was an interest post at Applied Methods regarding the teaching karate formally in a school, and also outside of a commercial school. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

When I first arrived in the United States, I was struck by the sheer scale of the martial arts landscape. Coming from the UK, my formative years of training and teaching were spent in the tradition of the rented hall instructor. We packed our gear into the boots of our cars and drove to drafty church halls, local sports centers, and sometimes schools. We set up, we trained, we packed up, and we went home. A permanent, dedicated facility was a rare luxury.

When I eventually became part of a storefront dojo here in the US, it felt like a significant milestone. In a culture that often values a commercial footprint as a visible marker of achievement, having a permanent mat and a sign on the window felt like validation that I had finally “arrived”.

A few years later, the disruption of the COVID-19 pandemic forced a total re-evaluation. Like many instructors, the financial realities of that period eventually led me to close our doors. Today, my teaching happens on a much smaller scale - with a number of dedicated students training in a home garden dojo.

It is easy to view a shift like that through a negative lens. When you look around and see thriving commercial schools on every other street corner, modern metrics can quietly trick us into measuring our worth as educators by square footage, student rosters, and profit margins.

But as the dust settled, I began to see the transition differently. Losing the storefront did not diminish the transmission of the art. If anything, it returned the training to something closer to its historical roots.

 

The Cradle of Karate

 Below is an interesting documentary on the history and development of karate on Okinawa.

 

 

Japanese Sword Documentary

Below is an excerpt from a post at The Budo Journeyman, which is a review of a 2024 documentary about Japanese swords and the West, entitled The Sun's Shadow. The full post may be read here.

This is certainly not like the usual documentaries about culture and heritage based in Japan, e.g. the ones that National Geographic produce. Neither is it a bite-sized piece in a travelogue episode by a celebrity who happens to be visiting Japan. This is what makes it so intriguing.

With ‘The Sun’s Shadow’, over three episodes, we are introduced to a range of enthusiasts who have pitched their all into their particular shared obsession – the Japanese sword.

What is surprising is that contemporary Japanese sword makers barely feature, these are all Americans. I know that Europeans will raise a quizzical eyebrow at anything the Americans throw themselves into with their body and soul…. I certainly did; but even half way through episode one, I was totally convinced they’d got it right.

Admittedly, this series ticked many of my boxes; not only traditional Japanese martial arts, but Japanese culture, history and the world of crafted bespoke artefacts. I found myself salivating at the lingering shots of antique and contemporary Nihonto, beautiful understated sword furniture and wrappings, yes, sword porn.

But the characters… including grizzled elderly craftsmen, working away in backwoods forges, enthusing about types of steel, temperatures, carbon content and quenching, totally captivating. They were pushing beyond the boundaries that historical Japanese swordsmiths were struggling to reach, even seeming to recreate techniques the Japanese thought had died out centuries ago.

However, this was not approached with Western arrogance, but more with reverence and full respect for what these earlier smiths had achieved.

Two other aspects came over strongly:

Cultural understanding.

The American swordsmiths were not just focussed on the sweat and grind of the forge; they were all clear in their own heads that Japanese culture has a depth that must be really worked at for Westerners to get a grasp of what the real background is.

Swords as practical objects.

Although we are no longer in the age where people swing swords at each other, either one-to-one or in massed armed conflict, a sword loses its identity and status if it is just considered as a decorative artefact, or a historical curiosity. (or even an investment antique). By including in the documentary those individuals who, for various reasons, feel they are custodians of an uninterrupted tradition that includes the art of swordsmanship, this adds real value to the enterprise. It tightly ties the craftsmen of the forge to the craftsmen of the Dojo, in a line that stretches back into history.

 

 

 

 

Warrior Monks of Japan

Zen's Sekai thought this  link would be of interest. It's at article that appeared at BudoJapan about the history of the storied warrior monks. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Introduction

Esoteric Buddhism, known as “Mikkyo” in Japanese, had a profound influence on the development of Japanese martial arts. Infusing ritual and philosophy into warrior culture, Mikkyo created a fusion where spiritual practices and martial training became intertwined. This integration gave rise to a paradox: warrior monks caught between Buddhist precepts of nonviolence and the brutal realities of feudal Japan. In this article, we explore Mikkyo’s esoteric practices and how they shaped the evolution of sohei (warrior monks), samurai, kobudo (traditional martial arts), and ninjutsu.

Part 1: The Rise of Mikkyo and the Warrior Monks

The roots of Mikkyo trace back to the Shingon and Tendai sects of Buddhism. Shingon was brought to Japan by Kukai in 806 CE, following his studies in China under the esoteric master Huiguo. After receiving full transmission and authorization to teach, Kukai returned with sacred texts, mandalas, and ritual implements, eventually founding Japan’s first Shingon temple, Kongobu-ji, on Mt. Koya.

Around the same time, Saicho returned from China with the teachings of the Tendai school and established Enryaku-ji Temple on Mt. Hiei. Situated near Kyoto, the temple was favored by the Imperial Court, which helped it expand into a sprawling complex of nearly 3,000 buildings. Together, these mountaintop temples of Shingon and Tendai have remained influential monastic centers for over a thousand years.

However, the generous court donations that Enryaku-ji received came with strings attached. The Imperial Court felt this gave them the right to appoint the temple’s next leader. When Enryaku-ji’s monks refused a court-appointed zasu (abbot), samurai troops were sent in to enforce their decision. The temple yielded, but resentment simmered.

Tension over court appointments continued to rise until the year 970, when Ryogen—Enryaku-ji’s leader—made the decision to create a fighting force to protect its interests. This act contradicted a policy Ryogen had issued earlier that same year, forbidding monks from carrying weapons or engaging in violence. His reversal of policy is made clear in the Sanka Yoki Senryaku (Abridged Records of Mount Hiei), which quotes Ryogen as saying: “On Mount Hiei, in order to guard the true Dharma, to secure oil for lamps, and to defend the temple lands, warrior practitioners are needed. Therefore, monks who are foolish and have the least amount of talent should be assigned to that role.” So when the sohei system first began, it was the monks least suited to quiet monastic life who were chosen to become warrior monks.

The next time the Imperial Court attempted to appoint someone they didn’t like, Enryaku-ji’s warrior monks marched into Kyoto to protest. The Court called in samurai troops for support and a bloody battle began—but this time, it was the monks who were victorious. A document known as the “Taiheiki” captures their defiance: “When tyrants disturb the land, we borrow divine power to drive them back.”

Among these warrior monks, the most legendary was Benkei—a figure woven from both fact and folklore. He began his training at Enryaku-ji Temple but was eventually expelled for misconduct. After wandering the mountains, he took up residence in an old, abandoned shrine that lacked a temple bell. Known for his size and strength, Benkei is said to have stolen a massive bell from Miidera Temple—Enryaku-ji’s main rival. According to legend, he dragged the bell across the mountains to his new home. But when he rang the bell, it would only make a strange sound, as if moaning to return to Miidera.

During the Edo period (1603-1868), theater performances became popular and Benkei came to be portrayed as both fierce and funny. The idea eventually emerged that Benkei had a weak spot—his shin, a spot so tender that even Benkei would cry if struck there. This sensitive area was called “Benkei-no-nakidokoro” (Benkei’s crying spot) and the term is still used today whenever someone happens to hit their shin.

In contrast to Enryaku-ji, Mt. Koya’s Shingon temple was less politically active and never developed warrior monks. However, the Shingon sect’s Shingi branch developed its own militant force at Negoro-ji Temple. Around 1560, the Jesuit missionary Gaspor Vilela visited the temple and described what he saw in his travel diaries: “Their swords cut through armor like tender meat. Their training was intense and the death of one of their members during practice was met without emotion.”

 

 

 

 

Reminiscing

At Ellis Amdur's Kogen Budo Blog, there was a recent post where the author reminisces about his early days training in Japan ... in Chinese martial arts. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

 

In 1977, thanks to an introduction from Donn Draeger, I began training with Wang Shujin. Here is a video that spans from the  the early 1960’s (black-and-white) to a year before his death (color), when I met him.  We would meet at a temple near Shibuya, if I recall correctly, and in the bitter cold, try to imitate him as he went through his version of the Nanjing Synthesis taijiquan form. This form was created by Chen Pan Ling (here a portion performed by his son, Chen Yun Ching). Wang’s form was very different – he emphasized the elements of xingyiquan and baguazhang that Chen included in this form.

Wang had first started going to Japan to teach in the late 1950’s, I believe. There were several reasons for this: First of all, he was a practitioner of a syncretic religion called Yiguandao. Wang was a high-ranking member of this movement, and engaged in missionary activities, both in Taiwan and in Japan. Secondly, Wang was sponsored in his visits to Japan by Toyama Ryūsuke, one of the sons of Toyama Mitsuru, the founder of the Gen’yosha (‘Dark Ocean Society’). What people do not realize about the uyoku, the so-called Japanese right-wing is that they were intimately intertwined with religious movements, both within Japan and elsewhere. [Toyama was closely associated with the Oomoto-kyo of Deguchi Onisaburo and hence, Ueshiba Morihei of aikidō as well.] Many of men of the right were profound idealists (among the most dangerous of people) and others saw religion as a perfect avenue to move people in the direction that they wanted them to go. The early tairiku ronin (‘continental adventurers’ – agents provocateurs, spies, terrorists) were in large numbers Nichiren and Jodo Shinshu (the Nishi and Higashi Hongwanji) Buddhists, as were some of the most significant strategists who drove the invasion of Northern China.

Toyama Ryūsuke was also closely associated with Shindō Musō-ryū jo. Toyama Mitsuru sponsored various martial arts organizations, particularly from his home-town of Fukuoka, and his leading successor, Uchida Ryōhei was a practitioner of, among other things, this medium-length stick art. The Toyama family had sponsored the sponsors of Shimizu Takaji, the famous teacher of this art. Wang initially stayed at Toyama’s mansion, and through this connection, met and associated with many prominent Japanese martial artists. [NOTE: I have portrayed a lot of these men and this milieu in historical fictional form in Little Bird & The Tiger}.

There are lots of stories about Wang that, not being there, I will not waste time repeating (these often are merely, “He was the strongest man I never saw . . .”). I think, however, that it is probably hard to appreciate how formidable he was from looking at videos: he was really fat, and although he’s certainly agile in the earlier films, if one is not familiar with the purpose of his training, it all seems to be stilted, flowery or senseless. I will recount the only incident that I witnessed, for which I will give a little background.

One of Wang’s teachers was Wang Xiangzhai, the founder of dachengquan, also known as yiquan. This martial art was an attempt to distill the essence of the already pared-down pugilistic style of xingyiquan, focusing on solo training, particularly ‘post standing.’ Among Wang’s fellow students was Sawai Ken’ichi, who founded a Japanese version of this art, which he called Taikiken. Sawai was a very pugnacious man, and both he and Wang used to have training groups on the grounds of Meiji Shrine. Acquaintances of mine, some of whom studied with one or the other, told me that Sawai used to walk over to Wang’s area and berate him, saying he was wasting his time teaching baguazhang, xingyiquan and taijiquan: all he needed was dachengquan! Wang used to laugh and keep on moving. Sawai was a friend of the founder of Kyokushin Karate, Oyama Masutatsu. They had a close relationship and students of each would cross-train with the other. Thanks to this connection, some of Oyama’s students also trained with Wang Shujin. When I was practicing, one Kyokushin karate free-sparring students was among us; a very hard looking man, with a face scarred with numerous splits from kicks or punches to the face.

Wang was very ill at that time, perhaps a year before his death. He had a melanoma which had metastasized, and as one can see in the later portion of the linked video, his legs were stiff. He used to shuffle rather than walk. So, please understand, what I am about to describe was not a fight, or even a free sparring session. Wang asked the karateka to take a punch at him. He brushed it past his face – his forearm was about as big as my calf – and embraced him around the lower back, simultaneously smashing his belly into the man’s torso. It knocked all the wind out of him, and he collapsed to the ground, wheezing. [Wang thought this funny, and I recall his rumble, like an elephant digesting, that passed as his laugh]. So, what I saw was circumscribed – but lord, was it powerful.Wang was renowned for this. He would allow anyone to punch or kick him anywhere below the neck. Beyond that, he could absorb the punch and pulse it back out with such power that one risked a dislocation of the shoulder.

But I must confess – at the time, I didn’t get it. I saw how strong he still was, even while he was gravely ill. And I’d heard from others, Donn Draeger among them, what an absolute powerhouse he was when younger. But I could not see how standing around in the cold, trying to imitate him as he moved through a ninety-nine movement taijiquan form would do anything for me. [As I have written elsewhere, on a couple of occasions, I came early and saw him by himself, assiduously going over very simple movements as well as various post-standing exercises, something I was later informed was the key to his power. He practiced them four hours or more a day.]  At any rate, I didn’t get it, and after a couple of months, respectfully resigned the class, and moved on to Muay Thai.

One thing that always stuck in my mind, however, was his ability to take blows, particularly full-on kicks to the groin. And unlike some tricksters, he wasn’t cocking his pelvis forward at the moment of impact, or messing with timing so that he didn’t receive the full impact. By all the accounts I heard, he just stood there phlegmatically and took the kick, expressionless. And he did this with some of the most formidable karateka in Japan, in public demonstrations.