Monat: April 2025

Exactly one month ago today, I learned of the passing of Yogi Josei Sensei. Miguel R. informed me of this sad news via Facebook Messenger. I made the personal decision to wait a month before writing down my thoughts — my prayers were already directed on the day of the news to his soul, to his family, and to the students of Yogi Sensei.

Before I met Yogi Sensei for the first time in 2008, I had already heard many stories about him, all describing his compassionate character. So, when I finally met him in 2008, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

At that time, Jhonny Bernaschewice allowed me to travel with him and his group to Okinawa. We flew from Frankfurt am Main via Taipei to Okinawa, where we had the opportunity to train for nine days under Gakiya Yoshiaki and Yogi Josei. Since I had only started practicing Okinawa Kobudō in 2007, I began with the Hojo Undō (1–3) and the kata Shūshi no Kon. From there, I trained directly under Yogi Sensei, while the advanced students continued practicing higher kata with Gakiya Sensei. Yogi began to intensively teach me Shūshi no Kon.

On the first day, we met Gakiya and Yogi directly at the Budōkan, and from the second day on, Yogi began picking us up from our accommodation. Every time, he arrived in his “Nissan Scout,” loaded all the bō into the car, and drove me to the Budōkan. During the drive and in the parking lot, he would tell me many stories from his youth in Okinawa — for example, how American soldiers provided him with chocolate after the war — a story quite similar to one I heard from my grandfather, who was also given chocolate by English soldiers. Yogi Sensei also told me how Heiwa-Dōri was once underwater and how shopping there was no longer possible.

A few times, he would open his trunk and give me two gifts — one for Jhonny Sensei and one for me. This is how I, among other things, had the honor of receiving a program booklet from the memorial ceremony for Itokazu Seiki Sensei, the father of Itokazu Seishō Sensei.

After every training trip, Yogi would take us to the airport. He always struggled to hold back tears — saying goodbye was hard for him each time, and he looked forward to seeing us all again the following year.

After Gakiya Sensei fell ill, Yogi took over sole training of our group for the first time. There were a few changes in some kata — Yogi began teaching his own interpretation of Kobudō and also founded his own organization: Okinawa Kobudō Renseikai. After consulting with Jhonny, I began traveling to Okinawa independently from 2012 onwards, and over the next two years, I received, among other things, private lessons from Yogi Sensei. He taught me his Nunti-kata, Ufuton-bō, and his Jō-kata, and continued to train me intensively in other weapons (Bō, Sai, Tunkwā, Nunchaku, Eku).

We practiced the Nunti-kata at the time with my rattan bō, which had a point on one end. Yogi explained this as the spear tip. The first few times, he would always laugh when the spear tip wasn’t in the correct position at the end of the kata.

Once, while eating at an Okinawan restaurant, he asked me if I knew “Ashi-sumō,” and he began to practice it with me. According to him, he had already practiced it as a child with other kids.

The last time I saw Yogi Sensei was at the Budōkan in 2024. He told us about his Beiju celebration (88th birthday), and I met his son for the first time, who continued to drive him to the Budōkan every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday so that Yogi Sensei could continue to follow his calling.

Sensei-ni-rei

Yesterday, I wrote about Gabu Seikei, a former karate teacher at the First Middle School in Okinawa.

According to Tokuda Antei, Gabu and Hanashiro began teaching karate at the same time. A newspaper report confirms that karate training had already started at the beginning of 1905 (Ryūkyū Shinpō, 1905). This was during the time when Yabu Kentsū was serving in the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905), which further suggests that it was indeed Gabu who was teaching alongside Hanashiro (Ryūtan, 1938). Yabu returned in 1906 and began teaching at the Normal School (Ryūkyū Shinpō, 1906).

Thanks to the excellent research by Andreas Quast, we also know that Gabu was active during the same period as Hanashiro (Quast, 2024). Putting all this information together, it seems there is a small possibility that the man standing next to Hanashiro in the photo could be Gabu Seikei.

Note: The photo analysis was done by me. I relied on the words of Tokuda Antei. The picture—originally found by Nakamura A.—possibly shows Itosu Ankō and definitely includes Hanashiro Chōmo.

Gabu Seikei is a relatively unknown karateka, but he wasn’t just a karateka, he was also one of the first soldiers from the Prefecture of Okinawa. Together with Yabu Kentsū, Hanashiro Chōmo, and seven other Okinawans, Gabu joined the NCO School in Chiba Prefecture, becoming a soldier as well (Yabu, 1932a).

However, he has largely been forgotten in karate circles. His name, for instance, has often been mistaken as a typographical error for Yabu’s name, as shown in the following two examples—both of which are copies of a text by Tokuda Antei (Yōshū, 1961).

„Karate was first initiated by Hanashiro Chōmo sensei and Yabu Kentsū sensei, along with around 28 enthusiastic students, at the site of the former Shuri Tōnokura National School (now within the premises of the Okinawa Bank), where we began practicing fundamentals such as Naihanchi.“ (Hokama, 1984).

„Karate was first initiated by Hanashiro and Yabu (with ‘Ga’ noted as a mistaken character for ‘Ya’), along with around twenty enthusiastic students, at the site of the former Shuri Tōnokura National School (now within the premises of the Okinawa Bank), where we began practicing fundamentals techniques such as Naihanchi.“ (Kinjō, 2011)

Hokama Tetsuhiro, in preparation for his first book, conducted extensive research and interviewed numerous masters of karate. Kinjō Hiroshi, a former student at the Okinawa Middle School and a direct student of Hanashiro Chōmo prior to World War II, was also well-connected within the Okinawan martial arts community.

It appears that Gabu’s name had already faded from public recognition even before the war. According to the recollections of Yabu Kentsū, Gabu served in the 13th Company (Yabu, 1932b) and also participated in the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895), including the Battle of Weihaiwei. (Ryūkyū Kyōiku, 1896).

However, Gabu is believed to have passed away sometime before 1932. Yabu notes that five former attendees of the Non-Commissioned Officers (NCO) School held biannual meetings (in spring and autumn), and Gabu’s name is not among those listed. (Yabu, 1932b).

Unfortunately, it remains unknown from which master Gabu Seikei may have learned karate. At this point, I will refrain from making any speculations.

One final note: Tokuda Antei (徳田安貞, 1884–1979) cannot be the son of Tokuda Anbun (徳田安文, 1886–1945), as I recently read elsewhere.

From time to time, new ideas take shape in my mind, only to be set aside again after brief reflection. One such idea was to write well-founded reviews of publications related to the history of martial arts. However, the central conflict lies in my own attitude: I cannot—and do not wish to—gloss over the truth. My aim is to offer honest assessments, even if they may occasionally be perceived as uncomfortable.

There is a well-known phenomenon in public discourse: during international football tournaments, millions of “national coaches” suddenly emerge—people who otherwise show little interest in the sport but express their opinions with great confidence. A similar accusation could perhaps be made about me. However, I have a broad base of sources at my disposal; I have read many of the relevant works myself, and others are in my personal library and can be reviewed at short notice.

What strikes me is the increasingly frequent use of terms such as “well-researched,” “no source left out,” or “extensive literature review.” These expressions suggest a thorough academic engagement which, upon closer inspection, often proves unsubstantiated. It raises the question of whether all relevant sources were truly identified and correctly understood.

Should I decide to pursue the writing of reviews more regularly, it would likely not be without friction. Authors might feel personally attacked by critical comments, and readers, too, could view my open approach with disapproval. Honest criticism is often praised in theory, but in practice, its consequences are not always welcomed.

A comparison from everyday practice: in the field of karate, it is not uncommon for videos of kata performances to be critically discussed on social media. In many cases, this is even encouraged by the performers themselves, who, by sharing such recordings, actively seek feedback—both positive and critical. In this context, a conscious engagement with content is sometimes explicitly desired.

In the world of book publishing, however, a comparable level of openness is still rare. Critical reviews—especially negative ones—appear to be unwelcome. Rather than a nuanced examination of content and methodology, there is often a prevailing desire for praise and superlatives, which do not always correspond to the actual quality of the work.

Recently, I was asked two questions: First, why I always wear a white belt, and second, how many kata I have already learned.

To Question (1):

I began learning Okinawa/Matayoshi Kobudô under Jhonny Bernaschewice in 2007. Around 2001/2002, Jhonny decided to remove his black belt and wear only a white belt from then on. On one hand, it was meant to reflect his status – the desire to continue learning – and on the other hand, … .

Since I had the opportunity to fly to Okinawa with him, it felt natural for me to also wear a white belt. It is worth mentioning that I received my Shodan only a few months after my first trip to Okinawa – but I continued to wear the white belt.

Currently, I also train in a karate style, Tô’on-ryû Karatedô, which traces back to Kyoda Jûhatsu Sensei. My decision is to learn this style completely, without deviations or compromises, and to focus entirely on it. This means: I do not have a Dan in Tô’on-ryû – so I naturally continue to wear a white belt.

I have also had the opportunity to train several times at the Kôdôkan, where I wore a white belt as well. On one hand, I am unknown to the people there, and on the other hand, by wearing the white belt, I express my willingness to come as a student and learn. My decision was warmly received, and they thanked me for it. After a few minutes, there was a remark that my level was above that of a Shodan.

So, I come to Okinawa/Beppu to learn – not to showcase my black belt, which I do not yet have in this style.

To Question (2):

In Tô’on-ryû, I have learned four kata so far: Sanchin, Kan’yû no Sesan, Sanseru, and Yabu no Jion. The last time, I briefly saw Pecchûrin and Nepai.

But what does „learning“ actually imply? I know the sequences of the kata and have learned some Bunkai elements – but by no means all of them. Moreover, I am still far from being able to perform these kata even close to perfectly. The word „Kanpeki 完璧“ plays a crucial role in Tô’on-ryû training. It means that one can perform a kata flawlessly and has learned and understood all its elements. I am, of course, still very far from that.

Since I have only trained in Beppu three times, I would never claim to have fully learned the kata. This obviously requires years of training and a deep understanding.

Kyoda Sensei took about ten years to learn all of Higaonna Sensei’s kata – and he continued to train rigorously afterward, with the goal of Kanpeki.

So… I have superficially learned four kata and am still working hard to perfect them.

In my latest podcast, Michael Calandra asked me if there were any solo forms (kata) depicted in pictures in the Bubishi. My answer was no, but I explained that they appear as text descriptions—specifically, Nepai is mentioned (written in the Bubishi as 弐拾捌 ).

However, this answer is actually only half correct. To be more precise, there are no solo forms shown in pictures in the Bubishi versions of Miyagi Chōjun, Higa Seikō, Izumikawa Kanki, and Fukuchi Seikō. But in the Bubishi of Itosu Ankō—as presented in Mabuni’s 1934 publication—there is indeed a solo form illustrated.

Wait, what? The Bubishi of Itosu Ankō and the Bubishi of Miyagi Chōjun were different? The answer is: YES.

The absence of the solo form (kata) in pictures in the other versions is one indication of this distinction.