Bujutsu - The Military Mind-Set

If you run a traditional dojo, you will generally note that the students who appear to have the easiest time of it are usually military veterans (or, at least, veterans of some form of uniformed service, such as the police). Their familiarity with a military lifestyle allows them to slip into dojo life quite easily: The mind-set is the same, and all they have to do is learn a few new words and methods.

With non-veterans, on the other hand, the transition is often much more difficult. Standing in lines, meeting the standards of appearance, doing things by the numbers, restrictions on individual expression and, above all, the strict hierarchy of rank, are alien to their upbringing. After many years of life in a society which espouses doctrines of, “Everybody is equal,” “It’s how you feel that is important,” and, “Do your own thing,” the discipline of the dojo comes as a shock. It is interesting to note, however, that once having accepted the discipline of a traditional dojo these people wouldn’t have it any other way. (“Sensei, you are not going to believe this but, after class, the students actually stood in line to hug the instructor! I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up.”)

“All too many students of the martial arts ignore, or conveniently forget, the simple fact that martial is just another word for military.”

All too many students of the martial arts ignore, or conveniently forget, the simple fact that martial is just another word for military. They may try to fool themselves into believing that they are studying a martial art but, by rejecting its military aspects, they have ripped out the heart of it.

So, for those of you who are not military veterans, let’s examine a few key factors of this lifestyle.

Group

The most important aspect of the military mind-set is its focus on the group rather than the individual.

Thousands of years ago, armies discovered that a group of people working as a team could defeat a group that fought as individuals.

In the dojo, although we don’t fight as a team, we do train as a team. It is obviously faster and easier to teach a kata to a group, with everyone in formation and doing the same thing at the same time, than it is to wander around teaching the kata one at a time to a roomful of individuals. And, because it is faster and easier to teach in this manner, the students have more time (after learning the moves) to work on perfecting the kata.

Armies also quickly learned that the trick to getting individuals to work as a team was to get them to think of themselves as members of the team. And the fastest way to do this was by creating...

Uniformity

Soldiers wear uniforms, and the reason is not merely to generate a formation that is pleasing to the eye. By having everyone dress the same, individuality is suppressed: Instead of thinking of himself as “John Smith from Smallville”, the soldier becomes “Corporal Smith of the 3rd platoon”. And, once he starts thinking of himself as “Corporal” instead of “John”, he starts acting like a corporal. It’s pure behaviorism, and it works.

This uniformity is carried down to the micro level. Everyone has the same haircut, the same quality of shoe shine, and even the same posture. Individuality is restricted to the status symbols of the group, in the form of badges of rank and medals.

Now, such uniformity, with its corresponding loss of individuality, may seem like a psychologically damaging thing. But, if you think about it, individuality is merely a method of achieving status without work—Johnny Smith from Smallville, if he can make himself stand out from the crowd with an unusual costume or grooming, is obviously somebody important (at least in his own eyes) merely because he is Johnny Smith. In the military, however, you are exactly what you have earned; you don’t get to be an admiral just by going out and purchasing the uniform.

We follow a similar routine in the dojo. Everyone wears the same uniform and the only individuality comes from the belt you have earned. The reasoning behind the restrictions on individual expression in appearance is just like that of an army: If you are forced to look like a martial artist, you will come to think like one.

This striving for uniformity leads to...

Discipline

The very first thing a member of a military service learns, even before he is issued his uniforms, is how to march in formation. This practice is totally alien to civilian life and the individual spirit tends to instinctively rebel against it (which is why drill instructors are best large and frightening). The practice of formation drills, however, soon generates a self-discipline—an acceptance of the fact that the needs of the group are more important than individual desires.

The self-discipline learned from doing things by the numbers, in turn, creates a certain mental toughness that is not seen in most civilians. This is enhanced by the nature of the profession.

A civilian, if he decides that the job is too dangerous, can always quit. The soldier, however, is bound by a legal contract with the federal government and breach of this contract is a felony—desertion, in time of war, is punishable by death. Acceptance of this the fact that, live or die, the job comes first makes his self-discipline even stronger.

Although the indoctrination on the importance of group discipline is academic at first, if the soldier is unlucky enough to experience combat it immediately becomes very real. He learns from bitter experience that the survival of the individual depends on teamwork more than on any other single factor.

We use a similar methodology in the dojo. The first thing a new student is shown is how to conduct himself during the class-opening ceremony: He is shown precisely where and how to sit, and when and how to bow. At first, as was the case with a soldier, he does these things because he is told to. But, after a surprisingly short while, the actions become automatic and he feels strange if he doesn’t do them.

The practice of the martial arts is obviously not as dangerous as real combat, but there is enough inherent danger to get the adrenaline pumping. And, again like the soldier, the budoka learns by (painful) experience that the secret to an injury-free class is to follow orders and do everything by the numbers.

To insure discipline, there must be a...

Hierarchy

If you think you know a lot about the way the human mind works, read a history of prisoners of war in the Korean War. You won’t believe such things could happen. (American soldiers were sitting down, pulling blankets over their heads, and simply dying for no medical reason.) The Army wasn’t ready for this either, and it led to some major changes.

Prior to this war, soldiers tended to think of themselves as members of a class: corporal or colonel, you were just one of a number of people of the same grade. After the war, however, the Army instituted a policy of micro-rank. By this I mean that, if Captain Smith had a date of rank one day older than that of Captain Jones, Smith was senior. This rigid hierarchy extends all the way from the Commander-in-Chief down to the most junior private and it guarantees that, no matter what, a group will never be leaderless.

This policy is very, very, Japanese and is identical to the way we do it in the dojo. Even if two students are promoted the same day, the one who was handed his menkyo first is senior.

While a rigid hierarchy is necessary, it is also a part of the military...

Tradition

Today’s United States Navy has been described as “an 18th century organization struggling to find its way into the 19th century”. While this may be an exaggeration, it is undeniable that tradition plays a major role in the conduct of all military organizations. And, although a policy of “if it works, don’t try to fix it” may seem anachronistic in this modern world of constant change, it is logical when you consider that soldiers deal in life-and-death situations—if you change a procedure in a civilian company and the new method doesn’t work, you lose money; if a new method doesn’t work in battle, you die.

The military does change but, due to the nature of its business, it justifiably does so very slowly and carefully. The process starts with a post-mission debriefing and continues through a post-war study. If you study military history, you will discover that there were significant changes in each military after each war.

This is one area in which we differ from the armed forces. As students of a classical martial art, we must adhere to the tradition of “yesterday, today, tomorrow, always the same”. This continuity down through the generations is an intrinsic part of what we do and what we are.

Having said that, there is one area in which we change: training methods. As the years go by, we discover through a process of trial and error (just like the military) that there are better ways of teaching certain techniques. But, although we strive to improve the quality of technique, the technique itself remains the same.

When you put all this together—group, uniformity, discipline, hierarchy, and tradition—you get...

Spirit

In the armed forces they talk a lot about esprit de corps, the pride you feel from being a member of the group, and are always striving to increase it. Creating esprit de corps is not that difficult, and the most common method is to constantly reiterate that the combination of all the factors I have discussed thus far makes the individual a part of a very special group of people and, by definition, that makes him a very special individual.

In conjunction with this indoctrination, it also helps to teach the group to do something that other people can’t do. It’s natural to feel somewhat superior after going supersonic at treetop level or demonstrating that you have the courage to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Creating exceedingly large explosions also works quite well.

The key factor in this is that the esprit de corps is something that is earned. You can’t just tell people that they are special; they first have to pay their dues. As a result of this self-earned status, members of the armed forces tend to, with some justification, view civilians as a bunch of slack-bellied rag-bags. (If you are a Marine, even members of the other branches of the military are a bunch of slack-bellied rag-bags. You probably don’t think much of Marine Aviators either.)

Again, as has been so common this far, life is much the same in the dojo. “You’re not just a sword student, you are a sword student of the Itto Tenshin-ryu.” Every instructor, no matter what his art, feels something similar and tries to instill this attitude in his students. So, although he may say nice things about another ryu, there is always a subtle overtone of, “...but, if they were smart, they would be studying our style.”

There is nothing wrong with this. It creates the same esprit de corps in the dojo as it does in a military organization. And this pride in membership is, more often than not, what convinces the student to put up with the more unpleasant aspects of training.

And, like the military, we enhance this pride by teaching our students to do things that the “civilians” can’t.

Please note the nature of this individual pride: It is based on pride of place in the group. You can’t have a properly military pride by yourself; you have to be admitted to the group, prove that you deserve this privilege, and then work your way up the ranks.

The group-spirit, as opposed to purely individual spirit, is contagious and, because of positive feedback, becomes very intense. For an example, consider the spirit displayed by athletes who engage in solo competition (such as gymnasts) and those who are a part of a team. You simply don’t see the exuberant spirit in individual athletes as you do in members of a team. The lesson to be learned from this is that, although private lessons in a dojo may teach a lot, for spiritual development the group is a necessity.

When all of this is done well, it leads to a sense of...

Commitment

I mentioned earlier that members of the armed forces sign a legal contract with the government, and desertion was a felony. This may serve to explain why they do what they are told, even when it involves going in harm’s way, during their enlistments. But, why do they stay in the service past the minimum time?

The answer lies in the total package, everything I have discussed up to this point. The individual learns the military mind-set, adapts to it, and then realizes that he prefers it to civilian life. Every time he dons his uniform he feels a pride, pride in his membership in the group, and pride in his status within that group. Quite simply, he feels that he is superior to the civilian—after all, you only have to be born to become a civilian, but you have to earn the right to be a soldier.

This pride leads to commitment. Not just commitment to the good parts (such as job security, medical and educational benefits, and all the rest), but commitment to it all, even when it requires putting your life on the line.

In the martial arts, we call such a person a budoka. This term is not applied to everyone, as all too many students practice for a few months, or even a few years, and then drop out. A budoka, on the other hand, is what members of the armed forces refer to as a “lifer”. He is in until he dies.

Conclusion

As you can see, that line of students sitting in seiza is in many respects little different from the line of soldiers standing at attention. The lesson should be obvious: If dojo life is so similar to military life, any methodology that improves the military should also improve the martial arts.

So, take a look around. Do your students look and act like members of a military unit, or are they more like civilians? Would your students and your dojo pass a military-style inspection?

Think about the answers to these questions, and then decide whether you are doing a martial art...or just an art.

The End