Articles by Ellis Amdur

Up until modern times, embu (public presentations of a martial art) were either honno embu (offerings to the deities of a shrine) or presentations to a figure of authority. The techniques of a martial ryu (tradition) were considered so essential to survival that one avoided showing one's techniques to outsiders much as one hides nuclear technology today. For this reason, in the Edo period, warriors would flock to any duel or street confrontation — not only for the entertainment value, but to pick up some of the essentials of combat possessed by the combatants, just in case one had to fight someone from that ryu, oneself.

Group demonstrations, including members of a variety of ryu, such as that at Meiji Shrine or the Nippon Budokan in Japan, or the Aiki Expo in America, are modern phenomena, denoting that martial arts are now, in a fundamental way, heirlooms, rather than agents of power. Although it rather tarnishes one's fantasized image of oneself as a warrior, practice of martial arts in modern times, if not specifically for the purpose of survival against enemies, should more accurately be considered a hobby.

Although some may be offended by such a word, a hobby is any activity that enhances one's life beyond survival or salvation. For example, there is a profound difference between a Tarahumaru Indian who runs marathon distances through mountainous terrain because it is the only means of transportation he has, and the modern-day marathon runner in his skimpy little outfit, sipping electrolyte drinks to rehydrate at the proper intervals. That is not to say that the latter does not run his heart out, does not embody courage and endurance beyond the measure of most of us. But he runs for challenge, for joy and by choice. That the Tarahumaru may also experience joy in his daily rounds does not make it the same. Similarly, practicing as if one's life depends on it, or pushing oneself beyond the envelop on one's fears and believed ability to endure pain or fear for the sake of self-improvement, self-challenge or even a kind of ecstasy — the word originally meant “that which took you beyond yourself” — is not the same as training with the real possibility that one may have to use one's spear in war, disemboweling another mother’s son. To be sure, the benefits of self-confrontation and enhancement of one's personal power may radiate throughout one's life, and is best accomplished, in my experience, when one is truest to the original goals of the tradition within which one trains. But one is not a warrior merely because one trains like a warrior.

In such group presentations, people, observing those of other martial arts, often interpret those disciplines with the basic technical or ideological assumptions of their own tradition — or worse, based on the contaminating influences of fantasy and debased cultural norms. Demonstrating Araki-ryu at the 2002 Aiki Expo, in front of approximately four hundred people, my student and I clashed bokuto (“wooden” practice swords) as per the kenjutsu (sword technique) forms we were executing. His weapon, a "paper/epoxy" composite, which had previously stood up to all kinds of punishment, including repeated pounding on a steel girder, shattered. We continued, I attacking him and he countering using the broken bokuto as if it were a short sword. Somewhat dramatic - and certainly a mark of his skill - but that is not why I raise the subject. To my distaste, a number of people approached me after the embu - and have continued to do so since - asking if we rigged the bokuto to break. Like a lot of problems in this rather eccentric world of budo, I certainly do not blame the interlocutors, who, sadly, don't know any better, but instead, their teachers (conceivably back a few generations) whose dereliction of duty as instructors has allowed such a degenerate concept of embu to even arise.

Embu, whether they be an offering to a deity, or simply an offering of one's practice in public should be a dignified act - as if one is doing ordinary training in front of others. Even if there is intensity or "drama," even if the techniques draw gasps from the onlookers, that should be because it is typical of the way that particular martial art is practiced, rather than the practitioners offering a show-and-tell version for the untutored audience. The demonstrations of other martial arts that have drawn my attention in the last few years have been the simplest. The practitioners present their art in a matter-of-fact way: sometimes with quiet dignity, sometimes with enough intensity to cut glass. The viewers, however, are, in a sense, irrelevant, privileged onlookers watching that which they are lucky to see. But had the onlookers been absent, nothing would have changed in what the practitioners were doing.

For this reason, most of the practitioners of traditional martial arts with whom I am acquainted do not do much in the way of rehearsal before a demonstration. If one is truly practicing, there is no "special" occasion - one must be ready on any occasion. It should be our goal to do nothing special in a demonstration — and not to do anything ordinary in regular practice.

Misunderstandings of the purpose of embu are not always so grotesque as the one I mentioned above. Demonstrating Araki-ryu at another venue in 2005, the master-of-ceremonies noted, “As is traditional in his martial art, Amdur sensei takes the uke role.” For those who are not familiar with this term, the uke is the one who takes the punishment, be it “losing” in the weapons form, or even being choked or joint-locked in a jujutsu kata.

This garnered my partner and I a second round of applause. I think that because Araki-ryu is such a rough, potentially dangerous practice, it seems quite remarkable that the teacher would willingly accept the "abuse" rather than having his student do so, also thereby forsaking an opportunity in the limelight. But that second round of applause was not really warranted because we weren’t really doing something that unusual.

In traditional schools — not just mine — the teacher is almost always the uke. Kata are not an exchange of moves back-and-forth, with tori (the “taker” — the student role) choreographed to win in the last move. They are, on the contrary, chains of techniques for the purpose of killing or otherwise physically neutralizing or dominating one's opponent, somewhat arbitrarily linked together, arranged so that each move puts the tori — the student — in situations that he will almost surely encounter in free-style combat. Sometimes the only purpose of the previous technique is to set up the timing and distance that would make a particular response inevitable.

For example, in the first bojutsu (staff) form of Araki-ryu, called hara hagi, the bo is swung upward from below to meet the downwards-cutting sword of the uke. This is called awase, and is for the purpose of setting up exactly the worst spacing for the bojutsu practitioner to try to execute the subsequent move without being struck by the sword. Why? Because it is likely to happen! Your enemy is likely to be as good as you, better than you, or luckier than you that day. So one trains for the worst. The instructor’s job, as uke, is to be a little better than tori can be, at his or her best.

There are, as many know, remnants of feudal ideology within the old ryu. The student is required to learn with nyunanshin — a pliable mind — one willing to be shaped” by the instructor and the ryu. He or she may be expected to follow both orders and implicit expectations. One thereby develops an acute sensitivity to reading another powerful individual’s intentions. Otherwise, how could one function as part of a group?

This was not, however, a one-way relationship. Feudal society was, at least in its purest form, reciprocal. The leader, be he nobility, war leader or martial arts instructor, guaranteed the protection of those who served (saburau — the root word of samurai). The teacher is responsible for his students, equally or more so, than the student is for the teacher. The teacher, putting himself at some physical risk, and certainly, at times, pain, therefore embodies this powerful taking of responsibility for the other’s well-being. Members of a ryu must also, however, take responsibility for their own actions. For example, my partner in the aforementioned 2005 demonstration had broken several bones in his hand and knuckles a week before the Expo. He assured me that the doctor told him the bones were “sticking together,” and if worst came to worst, it could be reset. He is a man, one able to take responsibility for his own body, and I, therefore, took him at his word. It is not my place or responsibility to object, raising the possibility of permanent injury, arthritis or the like. That is what parents do with children, not what one adult does with another, particularly not in this context. To be an instructor is definitely not to take a parental role.

As instructor and uke, my responsibility requires me to be aware of his injury and do the best I could to not compound it, but not at the expense of the ryu. In this light, we are pursuing training that simulates what one is required to do in any survival situation. Therefore, we make the best decisions we can on how to function in the circumstances we find ourselves. We chose not to do chain-and-sickle, for example, because the chain is yanked through the hand at certain points and this was impossible for him to do. Requiring him to do the impossible would not only be injurious on a personal level, but also demeaning to the ryu because he would merely appear inept. It would have been even more demeaning to make a public excuse to the audience, blaming his ineptitude on his injury. He could do staff and sword, however, just as, if necessary, he would have had to figure out what weapon he could best function while dealing with such an injury on a real battlefield. Making excuses is a luxury for those who think they will live forever — when one must act, one must live with the results — an excuse changes nothing.

The intensity of our kata was unchanged, but I was careful, at certain points, to strike with a little less power, trying to ensure that my bokuto did not glance off his during clashes of the weapons onto the back of his hand. Otherwise, I was attacking with full focus and full power. Were he injured, I would not be troubled — at least not in the sense of feeling remorse or guilt.

There are two major exceptions to this “rule” that the teacher takes the uke role in public demonstrations: jujutsu and hojojutsu (rope tying methods). The teacher would never publicly take the uke role in hojojutsu because it is such a demeaning situation to be tied up. As for jujutsu, there can be, from a classical Japanese perspective, something ignominious about being thrown, pinned, kneeled on, or choked out, and so the senior or instructor may choose, in public demonstrations, to take the tori role, even if they do not do so in practice.

I, just like my own teacher, choose not to take tori’s role even when we do jujutsu. Both he and I are of the opinion that one can practice with such intensity and will that an informed observer would never be in doubt of one's power, even when one is "defeated" in the kata. The knowledgeable observer is not nearly so concerned about technique anyway. He or she is watching such things as spacing, psychological “positioning,” domination of the other, and omni-directional awareness even in the middle of the form.

The last demonstration I ever did with my Araki-ryu teacher was at Meiji shrine in 1978. It is illustrative of what I think is the proper behavior and attitude in an embu. We were doing torite (jujutsu-like methods) and I put an armlock on him that might have looked good, but was not effective. He yelled, "Dame da, dame da," (“no good, no good!”) reversed me and smashed me to the ground, then saying loudly, "Again." I attacked again (embarrassed, to say the least), got the lock on right, cranked his arm trying to break it off at the shoulder (mad I was, but my technique was on), and as I crunched him into the earth, I heard him say,"Yoshi" (good!). This caused a stir among the assembled koryu instructors. Some were disturbed that we were not doing a "performance," that our demonstration actually evoked thoughts of violence and death. Some, cozening, came up and gave compliments at our toughness, all the while exhibiting discomfort with someone who still took koryu seriously. However, Fujisada sensei, the marvelous and massive teacher of Yagyu Shingan-ryu, simply came up, laughed, and said, "Good to see something real here."

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