Kendo: Culture of the Sword, by Alexander C. Bennett (2015).
328 pp, University of California Press. 1
At the beginning of July, the 19th World Kendo Championships took place in Milan. After the 2021 Championships having been cancelled due to covid-19, competitors from all over the world could finally gather to show off their swordsmanship and test their skills against other competitors. Since I am on summer holiday, I could follow the broadcast, enjoying the impressive performances by participants from around the globe2. Seeing Japan and Korea fight is always inspiring, and I also relished the chance to watch other non-European countries, with whose kendo I was unfamiliar.
This year’s highlight was Friday, when my club mates and I met up to cheer on Team Sweden in the pool matches. Our fighters gave a great performance; they are a tight-knit team, with a clear character to their kendo. Unfortunately, they did not advance from the group stage (one ippon behind Canada!), but I am sure they will prove a formidable force in next year’s European Championships.
I have never been part of the national team or prioritised tournaments, though I enjoy them. Like most people, I am attracted by the everyday activity of the dojo. I practise, I instruct my club mates as best as I can and I try to keep improving my skills and understanding of kendo. I enjoy seeing people grow through the practise of the way, maturing and becoming more secure in themselves; whenever I run into old students, they are almost always happy to see me and begin telling fond memories of kendo, and how they »want to return to the dojo«. Our keiko seems to have been important in their lives, as it has been in mine.
This is unsurprising, as anything that you devote enough hours to will become meaningful. Nevertheless, the idea that budo, the martial ways of Japan, offer a deeper kind of personal development than other sports is quite central to the self-image of them. We are instructed to practise with this in mind, acting with humility when winning and gratitude when an opponent manages to strike us, since that strike reveals to us the weaknesses of our kendo.
But where did these ideas originate? Many of us kendoka have a casual understanding of the historical roots of kendo and that they lie in traditional kenjutsu and Zen Buddhist philosophy. While true, it leaves out how Japanese fencing evolved into modern kendo. Earlier this year, I read Alex Bennett’s excellent Kendo: Culture of the Sword (2015), wherein he examines the place and function of swordsmanship in Japanese society, and how this has changed throughout six eras of Japanese history. He traces how the culture of Japanese swordsmanship has evolved to meet the changing demands of the times, ever since the founding of distinct schools of kenjutsu in the 14th century. By presenting a social history of the sword in Japan, Bennett argues persuasively that the culture and ideas surrounding it should be understood as a process of ›invented tradition‹, a tradition whose contemporary dominant form is kendo.
This book connects several areas that is of personal interest to me, but I think that it will prove valuable to anyone who wishes to understand the history of kendo – as well as of Japan, since the development of swordsmanship reflect the conditions of the underlying society. Sports are never merely sports, as the body is almost invariably used as a stand-in for the body politic, and as a surface on which to project ideas of (among others) health, character, masculinity and femininity, class, or the nation. Rarely is this more obvious than in World Championships or Olympic Games, but, as Bennett describes, this tendency also runs throughout the history of kenjutsu.
Swordsmanship in feudal Japan
The book begins by describing the creation of ryuha, distinct schools of martial combat, in the context of medieval Japan. This occurs during the Muromachi period (late 14th and 15th centuries), when the samurai caste begins to assert itself against the aristocracy. That many schools centred the sword may seems strange, as it was not a primary battlefield weapon during this period. Samurai much preferred the spear in mass combat, and would mostly use the sword for cutting off the heads of fallen enemies. However, it was useful in duels and for everyday defence, and the mythology surrounding the sword meant that it would serve as a symbol of the samurai. Consequently, ryuha that gave prominence to the sword (alongside teaching other weapons and fighting skills) began to spring up. Studying at one of these schools became requisite for samurai, and they taught much more than a set of technical skills to be mastered. While all kata were assessed based on combat application, the schools of martial arts developed as part of a process of civilising the samurai, and fighting skills were valued alongside proper conduct, loyalty and refined taste. Thus, the kata devised had to be not only effective, but beautiful as well, and through their kata, these schools aesthetisised violence, elevating it into an art of killing, as Bennett puts it. Already present in these schools are two core ideals that remain constant throughout the development of Japanese swordsmanship: to attain unity between mind and body – in modern kendo we refer to it as ki ken tai icchi – and to act with a calm and immovable mind in the face of stress.
The necessity of martial prowess decreased with the establishment of the Edo shogunate in the 17th century, and the long period of peace that followed. During this period, the warrior caste of Japan had to be transformed into noblemen and functionaries capable of running a state, and kenjutsu was central to this civilising process. Studying the art of the sword was core to the samurai identity, so rather than giving up the study of martial virtues, the idea of what these virtues were changed. Combat applicability became less important when devising new kata, and schools grew more esoteric. The purpose of practising kenjutsu shifted decidedly from martial skill to the attainment of self-control and discipline, with the promise of eventually reaching the mystical insights that the ryuha harboured: transcendence, in one word. From having been the art of killing, kenjutsu became the art of living. Emphasis was placed on the ›life-giving sword‹ (katsuninken), the concept that the sword is mainly aimed at the wielder themself, as the practise of swordsmanship reveals the weaknesses of their character. These can, of course, be overcome through further study of kenjutsu, in which striving to attain the harmonisation of mind and body are central.
Alongside aesthetisation, the emphasis on mystical techniques and flowery kata was fuelled by that most base phenomenon: market forces. Competition for students led ryuha to inventing fantastic traditions, as a way to stand out among other schools. Another important factor is that few living samurai at the end of the 17th century had experienced battlefield combat. This removal of kenjutsu from actual battle laid the ground for the ›sportification‹ of sword fighting, and according to some practitioners it had deteriorated into displays of artful acrobatics, with little relevance in a life-and-death situation. This familiar line of criticism, often levied at today’s martial ways, has old roots.
Many samurai were critical of the kata-centric curriculum and longed for the thrill of combat, and in the 18th century several schools began to practise using protective armour and bamboo swords reminiscent of the shinai and bogu of modern kendo. This in turn prompted criticism of another kind: that the art of kenjutsu would devolve into stick fighting, with practitioners being interested in merely besting their opponent and less cognisant of the insights into their own character that the life-giving sword could offer – yet another line of criticism familiar to modern practitioners. By the latter part of the 18th century these two camps had mostly merged, with most schools offering both sparring and kata, but the younger ryuha focussing on sparring found greater success in attracting students. Some schools also opened their practices to commoners, which provided a good source of income.
This samurai culture could, however, not survive the arrival of the Black Ships. As Western fleets pushed into East Asia, it became obvious that a warrior caste trained in spiritual sports was unable to challenge a modern, mechanised army. Hence, after the Meiji restoration, kenjutsu was out, and Western military culture was in: quite literally, as shown in the defeat of the Satsuma rebellion. This meant a crisis for bujutsu: as the caste system was abolished and the samurai stripped of their role as warriors, what need was there for their system of martial arts? Japanese swordsmanship would live on as a civilian pursuit, rather than a military one.
The invention of Kendō and modern Japan
In the period of decline of the late 19th century, enthusiasts kept kenjutsu alive through public matches and private sword halls, until it could find new niches to fill in the modern Japanese state. One such was as an expression of nationalist ideology. The drive to Westernise the country, as part of the rapid remaking of Japan into a capitalist state, provoked nationalist resentment. However, the modernising elites were also interested in formulating a national project that could legitimise the new social order3. Both factions – the popular nationalists and state nationalists – believed that the martial arts of Japan could be useful in establishing the idea of a national character, a Japanese-ness common to all regardless of class. Budo enthusiasts participated in this project, arguing that the values imparted through the practise of bujutsu were not merely the ethos of the narrow samurai caste, as the argument went during the Edo period, but an essentially Japanese set of values.
Kenjutsu, alongside most other martial arts, underwent a process of modernisation, as it adapted to the modernising Japanese state. This is perhaps made most clear in the rebranding of bujutsu (martial arts) into budo (martial way), to centre the character building function of the arts rather than teaching combat skills. The transformation of kenjutsu into kendo followed the path laid out by judo, and luminaries from different ryuha collaborated in systematising techniques, teaching methods, and grading systems to construct modern kendo.
The success of this new martial way depended on its adoption of two distinct milieus. First, the police embraced kendo (alongside judo) as a way to keep officers fighting fit, and to this day police forces remain the powerhouses of Japanese kendo – the vast majority of participants of both the Japanese men’s and women’s teams at this year’s World Cup were current or former police officers. Secondly, and perhaps more crucially, enthusiasts presented it as a homegrown form of physical education that would be suitable for schools, and the mass adoption of kendo occurs during the first years of the 1910’s, when the Ministry of Education decides to introduce it as a optional school subject for boys, after a long and diligent campaign (again, alongside judo). Proponents argued that it would improve the fitness and mental fortitude of the populace; this concern with the physical stock of the nation mirrors the projects of Turnvater Friedrich Jahn, who saw the need to improve the Prussian physique after their defeat at the hands of Napoleon, or of Baron de Coubertain, who identified the same need in France after its losing the Franco-Prussian war4. Furthermore, backers stressed the spiritual benefits that the martial arts could provide, and gymnastics could not, and while the educators mainly lauded the principles of mind-body unity and the related skills in regulating emotions that children would learn, popular nationalists went so far as to claim that practising the martial ways would help children connect with their Japanese heritage. It is astonishing, how the values and habits previously viewed as particular to the ruling warrior caste, became generalised into a supposed national character.
Kendo’s position as a popular sport and its connection to Japanese nationalism would enable the darkest period of its history, when it was used as a vehicle for spreading nationalist and illiberal ideas. During the 1920’s, nationalists saw popular unrest and demands for democracy as harbingers of communism, and in response a fierce reaction mobilised throughout Japanese society. The country gradually became more authoritarian through the work of ultranationalist organisations on the ground, the capture of government by the military, and the outlawing of political dissent: initially socialist and communist ideas and organisations, but eventually broadened to include any political dissent.
Concurrent with this development, kendo had become widespread, with frequent tournaments. Because of this popularity, reactionary actors saw the potential to use the art as a vehicle to inspire nationalist sentiment in the population and counter liberal notions. Consequently, they criticised what they perceived as a sportification of kendo, where students focussed on scoring points and winning, rather than embodying the martial virtues of Japan (an argument reminiscent of the purists of the Edo period). To ensure that kendo instruction would stress the aspects that the government found desirable, the Ministry of Education became increasingly involved in drawing up guidelines for instructions. However, this state interference met with resistance from the Butokukai, the private organisation that served as the national organising body of budo, who were somewhat opposed to kendo becoming subsumed to a nationalistic agenda, rather than existing for its own sake.
This conflict would eventually be resolved by the authoritarian state simply taking over the Butokukai, as it commandeered kendo as an instrument of militaristic indoctrination. One of the strengths of Culture of the Sword is how Bennett spells out the uncomfortable history of wartime kendo, which is seldom spoken of (the website of the All Japan Kendo Federation omits the period 1926–1945 from its short history of kendo). Throughout the 1930’s and 40’s kendo underwent a de-civilising process, in a direct antithesis to the aesthetisation of the Edo period, in order to create fighters for the Emperor’s army. This process was both didactic and ideological. Kendo was made compulsory for boys in middle school, and the practise regime became progressively more combative. On the ideological side, school dojos would include a kamidana, an altar representing the Emperor, and the values espoused were less concerned with self-development in the service of universal peace, and more with instilling in students the patriotic virtues of kokutai, the ›Japanese spirit‹, which the Ministry of Education vigorously promoted. To be Japanese, according to kokutai, meant to understand that the individual was inseparable from the state and to be willing to put the nation before oneself – another case of invented tradition.
As Japanese society became increasingly geared towards the war effort, the trajectory of kendo’s development reached its logical endpoint: in 1942, it had been transformed into preparation for war. Shinai length was shortened to that of military-issued swords, and training methods were brutalised. Focus lay on continuous striking and thrusting along correct angles, and practice prioritised endurance and fearlessness. In striking contrast to the mutual sonkyo of modern kendo, bouts would commence with participants charging at each other from a distance, and when one fighter claimed victory, another would run in from the side to challenge him. Students were drilled to always attack, and defence and self-preservation were discouraged, as the »sole objective was to teach participants the skills to kill in a fearless death frenzy« (p. 149). Such were the training methods, and they were tailored to the stated goals of practice: to eliminate weakness and fear, and to foster complete submission to the Emperor and the idea of Japan; some of the quotes Bennett reproduces are textbook fascist rhetoric5. Similarly to the mystical ryuha of the Edo period, wartime practice aimed to have students transcend their individual frames, albeit for a different purpose – though perhaps not altogether dissimilar, as the practice of kenjutsu also served to mould practitioners into loyal samurai retainers.
At the heart of all martial arts, lies the contradiction between the edge of the blade aimed towards the opponent and the edge aimed towards oneself; through the practice of controlled violence, we strive for self-improvement and to treat others with humility and respect. This tension is probably necessary for combat sports, but requires care to ensure that practice fosters a positive environment. As the development of wartime kendo shows, there is nothing inherently peaceful or spiritually nourishing about kendo; when the importance of respect and etiquette is removed, violence is what remains6. Bennett argues, crucially, that this phase should not be understood as an aberration or a perversion of kendo, but rather as a de-civilising process that aimed to have one aspect of kendo – the martial practice – dominate all others.
Kendo as a democratic sport
As a result of the military government’s use of martial arts, practising budo was outlawed at the behest of the occupying U.S. military. Furthermore, the occupation forces had the state-controlled Butokukai purged as part of the campaign to root out war criminals and collaborators7. This could have been the end of kendo, but it managed to survive this upheaval by rebranding itself as a democratic sport.
In the the post-war period, kendo practitioners and the purged government worked to re-civilise kendo. The common narrative told about the brutalisation during the wartime era is one of the government coopting kendo for its own nefarious ends and distorting its essence in the process. As Bennett shows, this is not quite true, as many kendo practitioners were complicit in the development. As for the ›essence‹ of kendo, that is a case of invented tradition, constantly in flux. Nevertheless, kendo organisations managed to break with wartime kendo by condemning the previous era, making several changes to the rules, and stressing that kendo should foster a democratic spirit. One fascinating aspect of this is how the short-lived sport of shinai-kyogi, a hybrid between western fencing and kendo, functioned as an intermediary step between wartime kendo and democratic kendo. Many of the sportified changes (fixed court size, time limit, three judges, as well as the removal of leg sweeps and other combat-oriented techniques) introduced in shinai-kyogi would later become incorporated into kendo.
The All Japan Kendo Federation, established in 1952, worked closely with the Ministry of Education to rehabilitate kendo for its re-introduction in schools in 1953. The guidelines then issued by the MoE characterised kendo as a sport that was enjoyable for all and would improve students’ lives. These guidelines for kendo instruction, Bennett shows, have been subsequently revised every decade to suit the needs of Japanese society, as it undergoes changes. Interestingly, the rhetoric regarding kendo has differed between the Ministry of Education and the All Japan Kendo Federation during the post-war period. The Ministry has described kendo as a sport, whose practice involve both physical and mental aspects, while the AJKF instead portrays it as budo and emphasises the ›special qualities‹ of kendo, in some cases using language that echoed nationalist ideas of the wartime era.8
It was in this context of tension between kendo as a sport and kendo as budo, that the AJKF published The Concept of Kendo and the Purpose of Practicing Kendo (1975). With the surge in popularity of kendo and a proliferation of tournaments, the AJKF was rattled by what it saw as an excessive focus on winning by using tricks, a development that it feared would dilute the essence of kendo (a familiar line of criticism by this point). To counter this, the AJKF declared that »The concept of kendo is to discipline the human character through the application of the principles of the katana9 (sword)«. To retain kendo’s character as budo, rather than having it become a sport, it might be necessary to preserve the spiritual aspects. As the techniques and practice of kendo becomes removed from those of mortal combat, the philosophy of swordsmanship is what can link modern kendo to medieval kenjutsu. In 2007, the AJKF issued the clarifying Mindset of Kendo Instruction and its Explanation (same link as above), which states that »Kendo is a way where the individual cultivates one’s mind (the self) by aiming for shin-ki-ryoku-itchi (unification of mind, spirit and technique) utilizing the shinai« and that this requires us to handle the bamboo shinai according to the principles of the sword. Without the connection to this tradition, it becomes easier to view kendo as just a form of recreational stick fighting.
Another important development in the post-war period was kendo finally being opened up to girls and women, for whom naginata and kyudo had previously been deemed suitable. The inclusion of women into the sport on an equal footing has been slow: there are still no women holding 8-dan, the highest grade, and the World Kendo Championships prior to 2024 have lacked female judges. Furthermore, women’s bouts in previous WKC only ran for 4 minutes, while men’s ran for 5, and the women’s individual and team tournaments were held on the same day, while the men’s tournaments spanned two days. For this summer’s WKC, this was finally changed and for the first time the tournament included female judges and equal match time for men and women. This formal equality is an overdue change that reflect the growth of women’s kendo internationally. One contemporary development here in Europe that I find exciting is the Women’s Aki Taikai of 2023, the first women’s 7-dan tournament on the continent. It grew out of dissatisfaction with the structure of the France Open, which included a 7-dan class for men but not one for women; Kate Sylvester has written about the Women’s Aki Taikai, as well as her reflections on participating in it, on her blog.
This brings us to the final part of Kendo: Culture of the Sword, which discusses kendo in the era of globalisation. As evidenced by the World Kendo Championships, the art is being disseminated throughout most parts of the world and the level of international kendo is rising, though Japan remains dominant. Bennett closes by discussing the conflicting feelings in Japan towards this internationalisation. On the one hand, it is seen as a gift to the world (that also increases the soft power of Japan); on the other, there is a fear of losing ownership of kendo. I find this anxiety understandable. Just as the role of swordsmanship in Japanese society has evolved with changing mores, it will naturally adapt to the norms and needs of other cultures. This highlights the contradiction that lies at the core of the self-image of kendo: that it is at the same time fundamentally Japanese and a bearer of universal values that can benefit everyone.
The cultures of the sword
So, what does kendo mean for those of us living outside of Japan? Well, Bennett points out that many of us foreigners who begin practising kendo are attracted to the culture of Japan in addition the art itself10. Apart from the draws of any sport – physical exercise, cameraderie – budo also contains the spiritual values and the cultural context, and most of us have, to a lesser or greater extent, bought into the invented traditions. I would assume that Japan’s ownership of kendo will be secure until they are consistently challenged in tournaments and thus no longer the undisputedly strongest kendo nation. Such a climate is a long way off, as Korea is the only nation capable of presenting Japan with a challenge. In the rest of the world, most of us study kendo in an entirely different context than that of Japan or Korea, with fewer club mates, fewer kodansha, fewer competitions and opportunities of visiting other clubs, etc. Many begin kendo as adults, rather than as children or young teens. In sum, the likelihood of Western countries consistently bringing forth top-level fighters is significantly lower than in Japan.
But that is fine. Those of us who keep at this smelly, noisy, bruising affair do so for the same reason that most Japanese kendo practitioners do: because we find it to be meaningful in our lives, and fun – and therefore we go to keiko, we help each other out, and we proselytise to bring in new acolytes. We go to tournaments and we watch championships for inspiration and reflection, and even if few of us actually visit Japan to study kendo, it remains a fount of inspiration and guiding light11.
The discourse regarding what kendo is in relation to other sports remains ongoing. After the World Championships, discussions about judging, electronic scoring, ›Japan bias‹, and the like have been rekindled, and these topics are important, because they get to the heart of what kind of sport kendo is. Bennett draws on a lecture by Pierre Bourdieu12, to describe kendo as an ›amateur-aesthetic‹ sport. In the talk, Bourdieu distinguishes between popular sports (in the sense traditionally practised by the popular classes), amateur-aesthetic sports (practised by the lower bourgeoise) and exclusive sports (practised by the upper class). Exclusive sports, such as fox hunting or golf, mainly facilitate meetings between social peers, and are not of interest here, but the other two categories are. Popular sports, such as football or basketball, are characterised by mass participation, a drop off of practitioners after entering adulthood, and a focus on winning. Amateur-aesthetic sports, such as gymnastics (I would include weight-lifting or yoga, as well), on the other hand, are practised for the purposes of self-improvement, whether physical or mental, and focus on attaining an aesthetic ideal. As such, they can often incorporate ascetic and/or elitist attitudes.
This framework might prove fruitful for understanding some of the discussions in kendo. The art mainly falls into the amateur-aesthetic camp, and those ideals are upheld by a tradition of instruction, scoring criteria in shiai, grading criteria for shinsa, etc. Yet, this definition chafes a little, as the ›popular‹ elements of sparring, points-based matches, mass instruction, and mass participation gives rise to a tension between these popular aspects and the amateur-aesthetic ethos. The Concept of Kendo could be understood as an intervention by the AJKF to hinder kendo undergoing a process of what Bourdieu calls ›vulgarisation‹, when a more exclusive sport becomes popularised and thereby loses its distinctive ideals, such as what happened to judo or rugby (the latter was historically played at elite boarding schools, before becoming the domain of the popular classes). Were kendo to lack these popular elements, though, it is unlikely that it would have become such a wide-spread sport. Already in the Edo period, ryuha incorporating sparring into their practice were more popular than kata-centric schools.
Many of the discussions regarding changing the scoring system relates back to which aspects one wishes to centre. Take electronic scoring or VAR: could they give primacy to the moment of hitting, and what would that mean for the importance of ki ken tai icchi, posture, and zanshin? Such systems could be more fair, but what would be their effect on the sense of fair play? The introduction of kendo into the Olympics would attract more followers, but would probably change the balance between the pillars of kendo (kihon, keiko, kata, shiai, shinsa), premiering shiai, as well as affecting how we view life-long kendo. In all of these cases, the tension between the two competing ideals – attaining victory or an ideal – is evident, and I think beneficial to the development of kendo. Change is a sign of a living tradition, and in recent years the new rules for tsuba-zeriai implemented as a result of Covid-19 have helped produce much more exciting and interesting matches.
Nevertheless, the culture of the sword is mainly what we encounter in the course of our study of kendo, and what my students do in keiko is probably most important in shaping their ideas of it. Following Slavoj Žižek, ideology functions as the filter through which we can interpret our experience of the world, the symbolic representation of the real. These ideological ideas are necessary for us to understand the things we go through in a meaningful way. One could describe kendo as a series of movements – we are shouting, striking, thrusting, stomping, advancing, retreating, etc. – but this does in no way explain what kendo feels like. These actions are performed in the context of practice, and through them we experience challenge and growth and as a result we ascribe meaning to them. What that context looks like, what kinds of challenges we set ourselves, and how we understand them, are shaped by our idea of kendo – and those ideas have changed over the course of the last eight and a half centuries, as Bennett demonstrates. Some things have nevertheless remained constant: most notably the importance of the unification of mind, body and sword, and the overcoming of one’s weaknesses. ›Transcendence‹ too, and while it is a word that perhaps many of us shy away from using today, out of fear of sounding cooky, I think many of us have known moments of flow, when we manage to execute a series of techniques without thinking, land a perfectly timed strike on pure instinct, or discover unknown reservoirs of energy to keep us going long after we would think that we would be exhausted.
All sports have ideals relating to the body and conduct of the practitioners, what constitutes an admirable practitioner or a good club, etc., though these ideals may be left unarticulated or spoke of in different terms. These discussions about why we do what we do in the dojo is a sign of health, and having clearly spelled out principles can be inviting to new practitioners, if we are open to explaining them in a way that allows people to connect them to their own experiences. Every club will inevitably develop its own particular culture, and making discussions regarding club culture, responsibilities and practise routine explicit can help people find their place. One of the most inspiring clubs I know of is the ABCD (Association of Budo Culture for the Disabled) Budokai, the Swedish chapter of which is a sister club to my own. They practise a wide selection of budo and many of their members and instructors have some form of disability. For them, budo focusses on what practitioners are able to do, and exploring what budo can mean in their lives, whether it is for joy and well-being, to help with recovering from a stroke, or to compete in para-karate.
What, then, is kendo all about? The Concept of Kendo is the official attempt at codifying an ideology of kendo, but while it provides guidance, we should not delude ourselves into believing in any intrinsic, mystical essence of the way. The book ends by quoting hanshi 8-dan Inoue Yoshihiko: »There is no such thing as incorrect kendo, just incorrect practitioners. It has always been that way since time immemorial. It isn’t a matter of race, age, gender, or class. It’s just a matter of intent.« (p. 237). While it is an obvious statement, I find it worth underscoring. As Bennett shows, modern kendo has been formed through a process of invented tradition, adapting to the needs of society. That process of invention continues in our everyday keiko. Let us build something great.
- Swedish readers can order it from Bokus; I am sure that readers from other countries can find someplace that suits them best. ↩︎
- This year, most continents were quite widely represented, with omissions being Africa, the Middle East and Central Asia. ↩︎
- The new ruling class of Meiji Japan mostly consisted of lower-status samurai. Chris Harman describes the Japanese road to capitalism as not a bourgeoise revolution of the English or French varieties, but »a revolution from above«, where parts of the old ruling class used the state to introduce capitalist social relations. Industrial projects, such as factories and infrastructure, were financed and developed by the state, until they were economically viable, at which point they were handed over to old banking and merchant families (transforming these into a capitalist class). This absence of a politically assertive middle class wielding political influence might offer part of an explanation for the later hostility to liberal ideas and democracy in the pre-war period. Chris Harman, A People’s History of the World (2008). ↩︎
- Ferdinand Mount, »Fans and Unfans« in The London Review of Books, 2024-02-22. https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v46/n04/ferdinand-mount/fans-and-un-fans (Use private mode to circumvent the paywall). ↩︎
- While reading these quotes, I could glean what elements of kendo attracted Mishima Yukio and his ultranationalist Tatenokai in the 1960’s. Mishima’s own description of kendo in Sun and Steel (1968) is brief, but lauds it for allowing him to experience moments of absolute presence and to face reality in the form of an opponent. Nonetheless, the book is essentially a paean to the death drive, an argument in favour of masochism, asceticism and self-immolation, through which a man would mold his body into a classic ideal capable of experiencing a tragic death. In Mishima’s striving towards his own demise, kendo would be important, and his own life ended with a carefully staged seppuku after his Shield Society had failed in instigating a military coup in 1970. Earlier that same year, Mishima participated in the first World Kendo Championships in Tokyo. I have previously written about Mishima’s fascist worldview in relation to his novel The Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea (1963) here (in Swedish): https://gnomvid.se/2013/12/28/om-sjomannen-som-foll-i-onad-hos-havet/ ↩︎
- For a contemporary illustration of the importance of context and intent, one can consider how the U.S. military instructs its soldiers in mindfulness, in order to achieve »optimal warrior performance«. Using techniques developed as part of Buddhist practice, which prohibits the intentional killing of another human being and instructs its adherents to treat all living things with limitless compassion, to grease the war machine is grotesque. For more on this, read Roland Purser from 2014: https://inquiringmind.com/article/3002_17_purser-the-militarization-of-mindfulness/ ↩︎
- This purge, though, was not as thorough as one might perhaps think would have been necessary. ↩︎
- When budo was introduced as a compulsory subject in Japanese schools in 2006, the Ministry of Education also referred to these ›special qualities‹ in their arguments. As Bennett notes, it was the first time that the MoE and the AJKF used the same rhetoric, and given the history of militarism, budo, and violent training methods, it was surprising that the introduction was not met with criticism, even from the left-wing Teacher’s Union. ↩︎
- Bennett points out that this is an unfortunate translation, as it uses the term katana. The phrase in the original Japanese is ken, which refers to a double-edged sword (life-giving/life-taking). The katana only has one edge, directed at the opponent. ↩︎
- Raise your hand, if you’ve ever pirated anime. ↩︎
- With the explosion of Youtube and cheap digital cameras, kendo content and instructions has become immensely more accessible in the last ten years, which greatly benefits the worldwide community. I remember watching a grainy clip of Eiga Naoki-sensei’s katate-tsuki in Glasgow 2004 over and over, as a new kendoka, because it was one of the few clips that I knew of. ↩︎
- »Sport and Social Class« (1978). The copy I have available from my local library is in Swedish translation, so the terms I am using may differ from standard English translations. ↩︎