11/08/2026
Why I Speak So Strongly About Iai — And Why Etiquette Matters Before Criticism
Recently, after I posted a video of the kata Takiotoshi, I received a comment that was unnecessarily condescending and disrespectful. When I responded to that attitude, some people then criticized me for “lacking humility” or “being unwilling to learn.”
Before making that judgment, however, I would ask people to consider something very simple.
There is a fundamental difference between sincere technical discussion and speaking down to someone as though you are in a position to lecture them.
I am the head of an established school of iai and have devoted decades of my life to the study, practice, testing, and preservation of Japanese swordsmanship. My work and technique have been seen around the world. That does not mean I am beyond criticism, nor does it mean that everyone must agree with me. Serious discussion based on knowledge, experience, and mutual respect is always welcome.
What I object to is the attitude of an ordinary practitioner speaking condescendingly to the head of another school without ever having trained with him, experienced his technique firsthand, or understood the principles behind what he is demonstrating.
If two heads of schools, or two experienced teachers, disagree about technique and seriously exchange views, that is another matter entirely. Such discussion may be extremely valuable.
But budo is not merely about technique.
It begins with etiquette.
Before speaking about iai, tradition, transmission, or whether another person’s technique is “correct,” one should first learn how to address another martial artist with proper respect.
Humility is not something that should be demanded only from the person being criticized. It is equally required of the person doing the criticizing.
I have no problem with disagreement.
What I will not accept is disrespect disguised as “advice.”
Perhaps part of the reason people misunderstand my response is that they do not know the path that brought me to my present conclusions.
So let me explain.
I became fascinated with Japanese swords when I was five years old. At seven, I began studying kendo and learned kendo kata as well. In junior high school, I joined the kendo club, although I eventually stopped attending regular practice. My name was even removed from the club roster, yet whenever there was a competition, I would still be called back as a team member. Looking back on it now, I can only laugh.
By the age of nineteen, I had already spent years collecting Japanese swords, but I began to think that if I was going to own such weapons, I should learn how to use them properly.
I therefore became a student of Yoshioka Sōryū Sensei of Musō Jikiden Eishin-ryū.
At twenty-four, I received my fifth dan.
But by that time, I had already begun to develop serious doubts about the iai I was being taught.
I began asking myself a very simple question:
Can these techniques really function as martial techniques?
One explanation troubled me in particular. I had been taught that the first nukitsuke—the initial draw and cut—was essentially a restraining or warning action rather than a blow intended to decisively defeat the opponent.
I could not accept that.
I began to suspect that such an explanation might simply be a way of rationalizing the fact that many practitioners could not produce real cutting power with nukitsuke.
So instead of merely accepting what I had been told, I decided to test it.
For an entire year, I devoted myself almost exclusively to researching how to produce genuine cutting power through nukitsuke against rolled tatami targets.
There was no one to teach me how.
At that time, my greatest teacher was the single Japanese sword in my hands.
I studied entry angles, blade alignment, body mechanics, movement, structure, and how force could be transmitted through the sword with the least possible waste.
I tested, failed, adjusted, and tested again.
Through this process, I gradually came to believe that the iai I had been taught had become very different from the martial art I was seeking.
I left my dojo and initially established what I called Musō Jikiden Eishin-ryū Machii-ha.
However, as long as I continued to use the name Eishin-ryū, I remained bound by the expectations of the existing organization. The nukitsuke and kata that I had reached through practical examination—and which I regarded not as arbitrary modifications, but as attempts to return them to a more functional and original form—were inevitably subject to demands that they conform to established standards.
I realized that if I remained inside that framework, I could not freely pursue what I believed had been lost.
So I gave up the Eishin-ryū name and began my work under the name Shūshin-ryū Iaijutsu Hyōhō.
Around that time, Japanese television began taking an interest in my abilities.
Over the years, I was asked to attempt an extraordinary range of cutting challenges: a ping-pong ball traveling at approximately 1,440 kilometers per hour, a six-millimeter BB pellet traveling at approximately 350 kilometers per hour, steel pipes, steel plates, falling leaves, thin Japanese soba noodles, and many other objects.
More recently, I was even asked to cut stone.
Television naturally focuses on such spectacular demonstrations, and because of that, many people seem to regard me simply as “the man who can cut things.”
But anyone who thinks that way has seen only the surface of what I do.
I would invite such people to visit my dojo and see what I actually teach.
What I Teach Is Not Simply Cutting
In my dojo, students repeatedly practice raising the sword.
Not cutting downward.
Raising it.
Most people concentrate almost entirely on bringing the sword down. But in order to use a sword efficiently, the entire body must first learn to release unnecessary tension.
That begins with learning how to raise the sword correctly.
One of the most important aspects is learning how to release the elbows.
It looks simple.
It is not.
Even if someone trains for several hours every day, I believe it may take eight to ten years to truly acquire the necessary relaxation of the elbows and body when raising the sword.
This kind of plain, repetitive training is not glamorous.
It does not look impressive on social media.
But this is precisely where real body mechanics are developed.
What I seek is not the superficial beauty of a predetermined shape.
I ask:
Why must the body move this way?
Why is this movement necessary?
Does the principle still function when another person actually applies force against you?
That is the level at which I examine kata.
For me, iai kata are not little theatrical dramas in which one imagines cutting an invisible opponent.
I regard them primarily as a sophisticated system of solo training in which the sword acts almost like a measuring instrument, revealing errors in posture, tension, balance, timing, and body mechanics.
This is also why the existence of many different stories about imaginary opponents can become problematic.
Once people begin explaining every movement through invented scenarios—“the enemy stands here,” “he attacks like this,” “you sense him doing that”—different stories produce different interpretations.
Different interpretations then become different transmissions, factions, and eventually different movements.
But the body itself is not governed by stories.
Physics does not change according to lineage.
The human body does not acquire a different structure simply because a different teacher gives a different explanation.
That is why I say:
The truth is one.
Takiotoshi Is a Good Example
The Takiotoshi video that caused this recent controversy is an excellent example.
People trained only within the conventions of modern federation iai may look at my performance and think:
“His metsuke is wrong.”
“There are unnecessary movements.”
“He is not doing the kata correctly.”
I understand why they might think that.
They are judging what they see according to the form they have been taught.
But I question the assumptions behind that form.
For example, an explanation of Takiotoshi found in iai literature describes the practitioner as sensing the intention of an enemy behind him who is about to seize his saya.
I began by asking whether that premise itself made sense.
If someone genuinely intends to stop you from drawing your sword, he is not likely to approach noisily and politely announce his presence.
Human beings have no eyes in the backs of their heads.
Unless one possesses supernatural powers, one cannot simply know in detail what an unseen person behind them is doing.
So I begin from a different point.
Suppose the opponent has already seized your saya.
Your movement has genuinely been restricted.
Now what?
How must the body move?
Where must tension disappear?
How must the pelvis, spine, shoulders, elbows, and sword relate to one another so that the restriction can be overcome without relying upon brute force?
That, to me, is where the real value of the kata begins.
So I test it.
I have someone actually seize the saya.
I have him apply force.
I allow him to restrict my movement.
Then I examine which body mechanics still work.
When a kata is examined this way, movements that appear meaningless or strange when treated as choreography begin to reveal extremely precise and rational principles.
This is what I mean when I say that there is only one truth.
I am not saying that a technique can appear in only one external form.
The opponent may stand slightly differently.
He may grip differently.
The direction of force may change.
The distance may change.
The angle may change.
A single principle may therefore produce hundreds of outward variations.
I often describe this by saying that one technique may have 360 variations.
But beneath all of those variations, the underlying physical principle remains one.
Different Interpretations Do Not Automatically Mean Equal Truth
When traditional martial arts are discussed, people often say:
“Different lineages have different interpretations.”
“Every transmission should be respected.”
There is truth in that statement.
The historical existence of different transmissions should certainly be acknowledged and respected.
But acknowledging that different interpretations exist is not the same as saying that every interpretation is equally valid as martial technique.
That is where I differ.
Can the movement function when another person applies real force?
Does it make structural sense?
Does it work with the actual properties of the sword?
Does it allow the body to remain free while disrupting the opponent?
These questions can be tested.
I do not believe something is correct simply because it is old.
I do not believe something is correct simply because it has been transmitted for generations.
And I do not ask anyone to believe something simply because I say it is correct.
Test it.
That is my position.
Iai Is More Than Drawing and Cutting
Many people seem to think that iai consists essentially of drawing, cutting, and returning the sword to the saya.
My understanding is much broader.
Can you move when another person controls your arm?
Can you raise your sword when someone is preventing you from doing so?
Can you avoid colliding directly with the opponent’s force?
Can you break his balance or structure while preserving your own?
Can you create a situation in which your movement becomes free while his becomes restricted?
These are also part of what I consider iaijutsu.
In my dojo, for example, a practitioner may hold a bokutō in chūdan or seigan while another person firmly controls his right hand.
Can he still raise the sword?
Try it.
Likewise, take the first seated kata performed from seiza.
Place a single finger against the practitioner’s forehead as he attempts to rise.
If his movement depends simply upon lifting his body upward, he can be stopped surprisingly easily.
In my experience, the overwhelming majority of modern iai practitioners and instructors can be immobilized by these simple tests.
That tells me something important.
A kata should not merely reproduce the appearance of movement.
It should contain a structure that continues to function under resistance.
This is the level at which I examine iai.
What I Am Trying to Restore
For this reason, I do not consider Shūshin-ryū Iaijutsu Hyōhō simply another modern variation of iai.
What I am attempting to do is recover the body principles that I believe still survive beneath the outward forms inherited through Eishin-ryū.
Over a long history, movements can be copied even after their purpose is no longer understood.
One generation copies the previous generation.
Then another copies that copy.
If the principle has been lost, the external movement may remain while the reason for it disappears.
Eventually the movement itself changes to match a new explanation.
That is how, in my view, martial technique can gradually become choreography.
My work is to reverse that process.
I do not regard this as inventing something new.
I regard it as attempting to restore jutsu to movements that have become disconnected from their functional principles.
Why I Speak Without Hiding Behind Polite Words
I am now fifty-three years old.
I have already passed the halfway point of my life.
I know that the time I have left to pursue this work is not unlimited.
So I no longer see any value in hiding what I believe behind vague language merely to avoid offending people.
If I believe something is wrong, I will say that I believe it is wrong.
That naturally creates enemies.
People call me arrogant.
They say I lack humility.
They say I should be more open to learning.
But there is something important that I want people to understand.
Confidence and unwillingness to learn are not the same thing.
I have spent decades questioning what I was taught.
If I had simply accepted authority, I would never have begun this research in the first place.
My entire path began because I questioned my own teachers, questioned established explanations, tested them, found contradictions, and continued searching.
That is not the absence of a learning attitude.
That is my learning attitude.
Nor am I asking anyone to accept my conclusions on faith.
If you think I am wrong, come and test what I do.
Come to my dojo.
Train with me.
Apply force.
Try to stop my movement.
Ask questions.
Experience the principles with your own body.
Then judge me.
That is infinitely more meaningful than reaching conclusions from a few seconds of video and typing condescending advice from behind a screen.
Technique and Etiquette Must Exist Together
This brings me back to the reason I responded so strongly to the original comment.
I do not object to disagreement.
I object to disrespect.
A person may disagree completely with my interpretation of iai.
That is his right.
But if he has never met me, never trained with me, never experienced my technique, and does not understand what I am actually testing, then speaking down to me as though I were an inexperienced student is not serious martial discussion.
It is simply poor etiquette.
If you wish to speak about budo, learn rei before lecturing others about waza.
If two experienced teachers or heads of schools wish to challenge one another’s ideas seriously, I welcome it.
But hierarchy, experience, context, and proper conduct have always mattered in traditional martial culture.
Respect does not require agreement.
And humility does not require pretending that everyone possesses the same level of knowledge or skill.
I am not interested in gaining approval from everyone.
I am not pursuing iai in order to appear humble.
I am pursuing it because I want to know how far the human body can be refined through the sword, and because I believe there is something profound within the original principles of iai that is in danger of being lost.
I will continue to investigate it.
I will continue to test it.
I will continue to speak about it.
Even if doing so makes me unpopular.
Even if it means standing against the accepted ideas of much of the modern iai world.
And to those who see something in my work and sincerely wish to learn, I will pass on everything I have discovered through decades of study, experimentation, success, failure, and practice.
I do not need everyone to agree with me.
I do not need a hundred people to follow me.
If even one serious practitioner understands what I am trying to preserve and carries it forward correctly, that is enough.
That is the work to which I have devoted my life:
the restoration of iai as jutsu — not merely as form, but as a living martial art.
