 This is a translation from French into English, show support for the original author via LinkedIn. https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/le-ninjutsu-entre-discipline-martiale-et-voie-humain-mon-alya-idrissi-0lkfe/ Any mistakes or errors in the translations are mine (Gray- Seichusen Dojo) and not the Interviewer or subject. Ninjutsu – Between Martial Discipline and a Path of Human Development: My Interview with Dr. Kacem Zoughari.
In this exclusive interview, I had the rare opportunity to speak with Dr. Kacem Zoughari, a master of Ninjutsu whose vision extends far beyond mere martial practice. Through his reflections, he shares not only the keys to understanding this ancient art in all its depth, but also an exploration of the human condition, introspection, and modernity. These ten carefully chosen questions explore the many facets of Ninjutsu — between tradition, philosophy, and contemporary application. Q1. How can the path of Ninjutsu offer a framework for lasting inner transformation, beyond simple physical practice? The question may seem simple, but it hides great complexity. To understand what Ninjutsu can truly transform, one must first grasp the profound nature of this discipline. Historically, Ninjutsu was one of the disciplines of Heihō (兵法), a term that encompassed all arts related to military strategy—Bugei (武芸), Bujutsu (武術), and Heijutsu (兵術). Ninjutsu was concerned with espionage, infiltration and exfiltration of fortified places, strategy, observation, assassination, and so forth. It is therefore not a martial sport or a form of “classical” self-defense, but rather a discipline of survival and adaptation, born in an age of upheaval and chaos when one had to think differently to survive. Over time, its practice has evolved and transformed. Today, in a modern world marked by stress, psychological pressure, and social challenges, Ninjutsu enables its practitioners to know themselves better—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Among the nine schools I have received in transmission, there is a central idea: “Know yourself.” This universal principle lies at the heart of learning. By developing qualities such as patience, endurance, and perseverance, one learns to act with precision and to remain grounded in critical situations—whether physical or psychological. For example, when faced with a toxic manager or moral harassment, a serious practitioner will not use their art as a weapon of domination. They will learn instead to face confrontation calmly, to set clear boundaries through attitude, gaze, and manner of speech. Sometimes one must impose respect without violence; other times one must know when to withdraw or act with diplomacy. But everything also depends on the nature of the practitioner. A martial art can amplify the best as well as the worst in a person. If one’s intentions are wrong, the discipline becomes a weapon of power; if one practices with integrity, it becomes a tool for self-mastery, attentiveness, and inner transformation. Ultimately, Ninjutsu—like any deep discipline, whether artistic, spiritual, or physical—can help one find inner peace and gain a clearer understanding of one’s surroundings and of others. It is this mutual understanding that allows us to face the challenges of daily life with clarity. Q2. Certain human qualities—such as patience, perseverance, and discernment—are often mentioned in martial arts. How does Ninjutsu cultivate them, and why are they so valuable in professional life and in our tense modern society? As I mentioned earlier, Ninjutsu is a discipline that encompasses many aspects of combat. However, like any path, depending on the disposition of the practitioner’s heart, it can amplify both the best and the worst. Everything depends on the person who practices it—and equally on the quality of the transmission—because here we are speaking about the shitei-kankei (師弟関係), the master–disciple relationship. A master (shishō, 師匠) never transmits everything at once. He begins with lighter teachings so as not to crush the disciple, and little by little entrusts deeper, heavier knowledge—heavier to bear. The progression is subtle, but constant. Now, to answer directly: like all disciplines, Ninjutsu is, by its very nature, a path of transformation. The term shinobi no mono, also read ninja (忍者), comes from the verb shinobu (忍ぶ), which means “to endure,” “to persevere,” or “to bear in silence.” The kanji nin / shinobu is made up of two parts: the edge of a blade (yaiba, 刃) placed over the heart (kokoro, 心). It can therefore be read as “a wound carried deep in the heart”—something buried that one bears—or as “awareness of danger,” that is, to feel within one’s own flesh the edge of the sword (yaiba). Thus shinobi no mono (忍びの者) literally means “one who endures deeply (in the heart),” and ninja (忍者) can also be interpreted as “one who shows perseverance, who becomes a living example of endurance.” In the end, a person whose social context, mission, and life have forged their mind, heart, and body develops patience (nintai, 忍耐) and perseverance in order to attain mastery over their emotions. A ninja, therefore, is not a spectacular warrior—just a human being who, through discipline, has learned to know themselves deeply. That does not mean perfection. It means an engaged, lucid, and continuous inner work. One might think that this path automatically cultivates qualities like courage or discernment, but in reality, if someone does not already possess at least a minimal capacity for patience or endurance, they will not last. The path is long, demanding, sometimes frustrating. Another important distinction: in Japanese, a martial arts practitioner or expert is called a budōka (武道家). The character ka (家) means “house” or, in some cases, “family.” The word budōka can thus be understood as “a person who has made their practice (the Budō) an inner home.” But one does not say ninka (忍家)—a term once used for families specialized in the practice of Ninjutsu. Rather than suggesting an expert or a “house” in the sense of mastery over one’s discipline or style, the word shinobi or ninja (忍者) emphasizes a state of being, a state of mind—a personal path of transformation, often invisible from the outside. Finally, we must speak of the word that everyone dreads: discipline. Few people like this word because it evokes constraint, rigor, obedience—a kind of submission. Yet only a truly committed person can become disciplined. A student may study without ever being disciplined. A disciple, however, chooses to place themselves on a Way: they listen, observe, learn, and change. And that is where profound change begins. So yes—if the person is sincere, if they can listen and practice with honesty—Ninjutsu transforms. It acts as a catalyst over time: not only through physical training, but because it is a Way that touches the human being in their entirety. Q3. As a professional and personal coach, I wonder: can Ninjutsu be considered a form of self-development—from body to mind? What would be the conditions for that? Yes, we can speak of self-development—but not one achieved by oneself alone. As in all traditional disciplines, true growth begins with the master (shishō, 師匠), who guides the disciple (deshi, 弟子, or montei, 門弟) much as parents guide a child. This master–disciple relationship lies at the heart of Japanese tradition. It rests upon den (伝)—transmission—one that is living, human, and progressive. The master’s role is not to impose knowledge forcefully. He must show wisdom and compassion, knowing that the disciple will not understand everything immediately and that some distance is inevitable—differences of age, generation, and life experience. When we study the great traditional lineages of Japan (ryūha, 流派), we almost always find that the disciple is younger. They enter the Way with expectations shaped by their era: revenge for slain parents or a destroyed clan, the desire for renown, or a form of idealism—yet without always grasping the depth of what they receive. The disciple, in turn, must also cultivate wisdom. They must practice inner listening, understand the meaning of silence, and accept that not everything can be grasped right away. Learning is not linear. Some things can only be understood after being lived—sometimes years later, or not at all. But for self-development to occur, there must be a solid foundation: disciplined commitment to a Way—shūgyō (修行). No transmission endures without engagement, and no discipline can foster transformation if the person is not committed to changing themselves. The principles of Ninjutsu take root according to the disciple’s heart and circumstances. Sometimes they do so gently and deeply; other times, through difficulty or pain. They shape the individual without their realizing it at first. Only over time, through the trials of life, do these principles reveal their strength. And yes—one fails, strays, doubts. But each failure is also a lesson, a form of transmission in itself. The path is rarely smooth, yet every mistake carries meaning. In Japan, there is a well-known Buddhist saying: 七転び八起き (nana korobi ya oki)—“Fall seven times, rise eight.” Self-development in Ninjutsu is also that: learning to rise again, to understand through one’s own experience, without forcing growth beyond one’s inner maturity. Q4. How can the principles of Ninjutsu inspire modern practices of coaching, leadership, or management? The first step is to ask: which principles of Ninjutsu are we talking about? Because Ninjutsu is not a fixed method—it is a living tradition, transmitted from master to disciple through physical and mental discipline, the use of weapons and tools, the study of transmission scrolls (densho, 伝書), and symbolic teachings. Such transmission always requires deep interpretation. For example, one traditional teaching found in the densho reads: 花情竹性 (kajō-chikusei or chikujō)—“The spirit of the flower, the nature of bamboo.” In Japanese culture, the flower (hana, 花) symbolizes beauty, lightness, innocence, transience—but also sincerity. The bamboo (take, 竹) represents flexibility, resilience, and adaptability, for it bends without breaking. Yet what allows it to be so flexible is that it is hollow—it is empty inside. And this emptiness, in the spiritual sense, is a virtue: it allows one to receive, to absorb, and to adjust. In coaching, these principles become powerful. To have the spirit of the flower means to approach others with gentleness, respect, and openness. To adopt the nature of bamboo is to show mental flexibility, deep listening, and non-reactivity. But to do this, one must first learn to empty oneself—of projections, judgments, prejudices, and ego. It is a demanding process. A classic teaching from the Nō tradition, founded by Kanami (1333–1384) and written by his son Zeami (1363?–1443?) in Fūshi Kaden (風姿花伝, The Transmission of the Flower), says: 初心忘るべからず (shoshin wasuru bekarazu) — “Never forget the beginner’s mind.” Shoshin (初心) refers to the spirit of beginnings—the mental state of total openness that everyone possesses at the start of learning a discipline. It is a state of not-knowing, of availability, of inner freshness. In coaching or management, this posture is essential: to remain actively open, humble, and receptive. Of course, these principles cannot be copied or applied mechanically; they must be adapted, translated, and contextualized. The danger would be turning them into hollow slogans or inspirational quotes. They must be embodied, put into motion, demonstrated through action. As the English say: You need to deliver. It’s not enough to talk about them—you must live them. This is where martial arts hold a unique strength: they leave no room for illusion. The body, in practice, does not lie. Movement cannot deceive. The dōjō (道場)—the place of the Way—is also a mirror. In coaching, we talk, analyze, and advise; in martial arts, we act, test, and feel. Can this be applied in the corporate world? Yes—but only if the person being guided is truly ready. In the master–disciple relationship, it is often said that a single word can awaken a mind prepared to receive. If a business leader, manager, or coach is rooted in reality and guided by genuine questions, then one well-chosen phrase can have a profound impact. Even Tony Soprano, in the series that bears his name, ends up reading The Art of War by Sun Tzu—and finds in it a way to rethink his own strategy and adapt it to his world. In truth, the principles of Ninjutsu—like those of the monotheistic religions, Zen Buddhism (禅), and the Tao Te Ching—are universal. But they demand both an authentic transmitter and a receptive student. A bad master or an arrogant coach can cause as much harm as a good master can foster growth. Yet even bad teachers have their value: they teach us what not to do. That, too, is part of learning. Ultimately, everything depends on the one who applies these principles—on the purity of their intention and their ability to create a genuine encounter. Because transmission is never one-sided: it is always a meeting, an adaptation, and a mutual transformation. Q5. In your own journey, have there been situations where martial practice allowed you to guide, understand, or support others differently? How could I draw inspiration from that in my professional practice? I never consider that I have “guided” anyone—because it’s not in my upbringing to think in those terms. What I do, above all, is repeat, remind, and reinforce teachings. I see myself more as a repeater, much like in certain spiritual traditions where it is said that “he who reminds benefits the one who listens.” I avoid words such as “teaching” or “transmission,” which carry immense weight for those who understand their depth—and the responsibility they imply. That, to me, is precisely the role of a coach: to be a lever, a compass, a facilitator. The person already carries all the answers within themselves; our task is simply to help awaken them—to bring them into awareness. Supporting someone in this way is delicate and requires great openness of mind. One must learn to see the person beyond appearances and to listen beyond one’s own interests. Doing so with someone who does not wish to be helped is extremely difficult, sometimes even impossible. In those cases, one must learn to step back—to let things unfold naturally, without forcing them. Moreover, even though what I do could be seen as helping, I avoid the word “help” in its usual sense, because it can create dependence—or even submission—which is not healthy. I don’t see myself as a teacher in the sense of a superior or omnipotent figure. For me, a teacher is more like an elder brother, sister, or mother—someone who is present, sometimes firm, who recenters others with kindness. Even when I may appear strict, my intention is always the same: to accompany the other toward their own personal growth. Q6. In a work environment often marked by pressure, tension, and sometimes toxic relationships, what can the “self-mastery” of Ninjutsu still teach us today? Is it a posture of control, or rather a form of inner grounding? Self-mastery is often confused with emotional coldness. Yet just because a person seems calm does not mean they are truly in control of themselves—and conversely, someone who expresses emotion intensely is not necessarily losing control. Sometimes the one who stays cold is the one about to explode, while the one who raises their voice is actually regaining their balance. So what is self-mastery? Can it be seen? In general, no—it doesn’t show itself. It reveals itself in critical moments, when everything begins to collapse, when a trial strikes something deeply personal: a loved one, a child, a parent, one’s dignity or innocence. In those moments, do we lose composure and let anger or emotion take over? Do we face it head-on? Or do we pretend nothing is happening, denying ourselves in the process? That’s where the question arises: what is true mastery? In classical martial traditions, there are several key notions: Heijō-shin (平常心), Mushin (無心), and Fudōshin (不動心). Each, drawn from Buddhist terminology, describes a distinct mental state sought by the bushi. Heijō-shin refers to a constantly open, ordinary, balanced mind. Mushin describes a mind unbound by emotion, free from fixation. Fudōshin means an immovable mind—literally, “one that does not move.” True mastery is this ability to remain stable and rooted even in the storm—not a frozen calm, but a total availability, a lucid stillness in motion. To master oneself is to understand oneself deeply, to remain profoundly human, to recognize that life is winding even when the path seems straight. It is learning to accept oneself without excuses, to know one’s weaknesses, limits, and contradictions—and to work with them. That, too, is self-knowledge. And in today’s society, especially in the workplace, we need people with this kind of human experience—not only technical or professional skill, but the human experience of knowing how to speak, listen, and say the right word to someone who is suffering, even when they cannot express it. All the martial disciplines of Heihō, Bugei, and related arts begin with the art of observation. In the transmission documents, this is called metsuke (目付), and sometimes kansatsu (観察). Both refer to cultivating a sharp, discerning, objective, and silent gaze. Observation can even merge with listening—the ability to hear silences, to perceive what is not said. To observe without judging, to sense what lies unspoken. A single word can be like a stone dropped into water: it may ripple outward for years before it reaches the heart. Personally, I don’t like the expression “self-control.” It implies tension and closure. There are, in truth, two dimensions: trial and knowledge. To know oneself, one must go through trial. And within the word épreuve (trial) lies preuve (proof): the chance to prove to oneself who one really is. Each trial leads toward self-knowledge—and within the word connaissance (knowledge) there is also naissance (birth): perhaps the birth of a new self, or a return to our truest nature. Today, we seek comfort, guarantees, “100 % success,” zero risk—to strike without being struck, to become efficient at any cost by skipping the steps. We reject pain and failure. Yet it is precisely in those spaces—of difficulty, discomfort, and uncertainty—that transformation and true self-knowledge are born. Q7. In both the martial path and human guidance, what qualities, in your view, distinguish a true transmitter from a mere technician? A true transmitter is someone who is deeply kind—not in a naïve or weak sense, but in a way rooted in genuine care for others; someone who truly wants others to surpass them. That, to me, is the mark of a true transmitter. Such a person doesn’t seek to create copies of themselves or to make others dependent on them, but to uplift others—to help them go further. That kind of person, in my eyes, is a person of virtue. This touches on what, in Confucianism, is called jin (仁)—the highest virtue: true humanity. Today, we speak often of benevolence, but we forget that it has two dimensions: being a good person, and actively looking after the good of others. In Ninjutsu, as in all classical martial traditions, there is a powerful idea: to transmit without imprisoning, to guide without imposing. One of the key principles is also knowing when to withdraw—to leave the other person the space to evolve on their own. The goal is not to shine as a teacher, but to allow the student, or the person being guided, to let their own light emerge. It is a posture of humility, but also of patience. And it requires a certain level of inner stability—an anchoring that allows one to remain present without needing to control everything. A good transmitter is not the one who produces perfect performers, but the one who helps others become freer, more autonomous, and more fully human. Q8. What principle would you share with someone who wants to draw inspiration from Ninjutsu—someone seeking meaning, alignment, or balance in their professional life? I prefer to speak in terms of principles rather than advice. Advice can fail—then people blame either the one who gave it or the advice itself. A principle, however, simply exists. It doesn’t promise success or comfort; it asks whether you are willing to confront it, to live it. If I had to give just one, it would be true courage—not the kind that sounds noble in words, but the kind that tightens your throat when you doubt or fall. It’s not a pleasant courage; it’s raw, deep, and honest. Another key idea is introspective perseverance. It’s more than endurance or repetition—it’s the willingness to observe yourself, to question your motives, to keep moving forward while learning from every step. This principle runs through all martial and spiritual traditions: a steady practice that transforms you from within. The goal isn’t to become someone else, but to return to who you truly are. Ninjutsu isn’t a collection of techniques; it’s an art of adaptation—to every situation, place, and person. It’s an art of perception. The word nin (忍) means to endure, to persist, to wait quietly—not with rigidity, but with listening, observation, and adjustment. One must be both flexible and determined—not to defeat others, but to avoid losing oneself. So, if someone wants to live by the spirit of Ninjutsu, I would say this: Be ready to watch yourself for a long time, to doubt often, to fall often—and to keep standing, always sincerely, without pretending. The martial path (dō, 道) is not a method. It is a Way—and it doesn’t lead to perfection. It leads to you, if you have the courage to walk it without disguise. Q9. In your own journey, was there a defining moment—a challenge, a turning point, or a transmission—that reshaped the way you practice or teach? When one truly practices, life enters the practice, and the practice enters life. They are not two separate things. What happens to us—what we go through, the mistakes we make, the trials we endure—does not define us completely, but it becomes part of who we are. These experiences touch us deeply; they sculpt us and leave a trace. In practice, what matters is understanding why I continue. And above all: what does continuing bring? Does it help? Does it build? Am I truly present? Practice should never become a decoration or a surface coating. It must be woven into life itself—only then can it transform us from within over time. Someone too lenient may learn firmness. Someone careless may grow more disciplined. That is the essence of practice and the journey it demands. But practice can also magnify the darker sides of a personality—especially when ego appears. A person who is already manipulative can become even more subtle, more dangerous. Then you find yourself asking: In what I have transmitted… did I make a mistake? Often, such people are simply drifting away from themselves. What you gave them no longer nourishes them as they expected. The problem doesn’t come from the teaching—it comes from the person. That’s why one must be extremely attentive in transmission, because sometimes we teach techniques that can be truly dangerous. This is not insignificant. Historically, in the classical martial schools of Japan between the 12th and 14th centuries, the master–disciple relationship carried immense weight. When a master chose a disciple, he taught him knowledge that could one day turn against him. The disciple could betray, usurp his place, kill the master—or even his entire family. These are historical facts: among feudal lords and royal lineages alike, the same dangers existed. Human beings are capable of the worst when greed, jealousy, or distorted love enter the picture. Even love, meant to be something pure, can descend into madness. That’s why the teaching relationship requires deep clarity and emotional distance. One must love the art profoundly—without being blinded by it—and remain aware of its limits and one’s own. You must love the practice for what it is, not for what it can give you. Find a discipline, a Way (dō, 道), that speaks to your heart, to your inner conviction, to who you truly are. And let that Way feed you, as you feed it in return. It is a living relationship. But it requires time—real time. And that kind of time is not the time of efficiency or results. It is the time of transformation, respect, and the quiet forgetting of self. Q10. Putting aside the spectacular myths surrounding ninjas, what essential message or truth about the human condition can Ninjutsu still convey today? If you had asked me this question when I was 19 or 20—perhaps even 30—I would have told you that Ninjutsu is a rigorous, upright, demanding martial art. A true discipline of life, and so on. But today, I would answer differently: Ninjutsu is a path that offers answers—but only to those who truly seek them. And each answer is unique. It does not reveal itself to those who pretend, who perform their practice for show, or who come with a fixed agenda or preconceived ideas. I’ve met and read many so-called seekers, people very sure of themselves, who speak of Ninjutsu through a few texts or literal interpretations. But most have never had the courage—or the humility—to practice sincerely, to experience a real master–disciple relationship. The history of the shinobi begins in defeat. They were warriors who had lost everything—armies destroyed, clans annihilated, their status erased. Out of this ruin, they developed an art of resistance, observation, and survival—a practice of strategy, espionage, infiltration, disguise, and sometimes assassination. This was known as Ongyō no jutsu (隠形術): the art of hiding in order to see, understand, and act more clearly. Everything they did was designed for survival—to foresee, to anticipate. And when action was required, it was executed cleanly, decisively, without return. The shinobi of Japan’s history was not a romantic hero or cinematic figure. He was a function—a necessity born from chaos and immediacy. When they were called upon, it was not to try—it was to succeed. Their missions demanded absolute precision and total commitment. That didn’t mean they always returned alive—but the objective had to be fulfilled, whatever the cost. It was a cold, exacting world, where failure could destroy a life, a war, or an entire clan. The shinobi operated in the darkest corners of human experience—manipulation, infiltration, shadow warfare, deception, and targeted elimination. It was a direct encounter with the real, without illusions. A total immersion in the grey zone, where everything hangs in the balance. To survive there required more than skill—it demanded subtle intelligence, a sharpened intuition, the ability to read the invisible and sense what has not yet been said. And yet, despite—or perhaps because of—all this, Ninjutsu remains a true Way. A living path for those who practice deeply, sincerely, and with openness. That’s where the real answer appears. And that answer doesn’t need to be spoken—because the one who finds it knows the long road it took to reach it. They understand that everyone must walk their own path. It takes countless experiences, many falls, encounters with good people and bad alike. All of it refines the self. That, in essence, is the heart of the martial Way—not the accumulation of techniques, but the testing of reality, of doubt, of transformation. So my answer is simple: the one who truly practices will see—and will find their own truth. ********* This conversation with Dr. Kacem Zoughari reveals that Ninjutsu goes far beyond the art of combat: it is a way of life — a path of transformation. Beyond clichés and spectacular imagery, Ninjutsu emerges as a genuine school of living. It teaches patience, observation, perseverance, and clarity in action. Over time, each practitioner discovers that the martial path is above all an inner one — a mirror reflecting the self and one’s relationship with others. To transmit or to practice is not to accumulate techniques, but to share and receive a living experience that shapes both body and mind. Discipline, rigor, and intuition become tools for navigating life with greater presence, authenticity, and discernment. Ultimately, Ninjutsu reminds us that true mastery is not about controlling the world around us, but about cultivating our inner freedom, clarity, and humanity. Each path is unique, and every practitioner — by walking their Way sincerely — finds their own answer. Thank you for sharing in this exploration. May these words inspire you to follow your own path. — Alya ********* Don't forget to Like and Share it! This article has been translated, from an interview on Linkedin. Original interview in French can be found here. https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/le-ninjutsu-entre-discipline-martiale-et-voie-humain-mon-alya-idrissi-0lkfe/ Any mistakes are my own (Gray- Seichusen Dojo), and not the original Interviewer or Kacem's.
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 Reflecting on history through the science and philosophy of keiko. In classical Japanese martial arts, the concept of keiko (稽古) is often mistranslated as “training,” yet it literally means “to reflect upon what is old.” This reveals a fundamental difference between training and practice. Training implies applying external load or instruction to produce measurable adaptation or technical efficiency, a process that can be standardized and externally directed. Keiko, however, refers to practice as reflective exploration: an internal study where understanding arises through movement itself.
As Zoughari (2022) explains, “the employment of this kind of movement demands from the beginning, an intimate knowledge of one’s body, as it involves using the whole body as a single unit with all its physical potential,” and “this same principle can be found in every Densho and Makimono from Bujutsu; in all disciplines without exclusion” (pp. 13-14). Through such keiko, the practitioner is not merely repeating forms but engaging in a living inquiry into balance, timing, and intent. Although the outward form appears constant, no two executions are ever identical, each reveals subtle variations in perception, intent, and control. This reflects Bernstein’s (1967) principle of “repetition without repetition,” which demonstrates that even the most practiced movement is never reproduced in exactly the same way. Skilled coordination emerges through continual adaptation to the constraints of task and environment. Rob Gray (2021) expands on this in his discussion of the ecological approach to skill acquisition, describing practice as a process of guided exploration in which performers learn to detect information, adapt to variability, and self-organize movement solutions rather than mechanically repeating fixed patterns. Taken together, these perspectives reveal that keiko embodies both the philosophical and scientific essence of practice. It is reflection through embodied movement, an active dialogue between perception, action, and principle. The body becomes the site of study, the movement, the method and awareness of the outcome. Thus, keiko represents not the training of the body alone, but the cultivation of understanding through the body: a continual, exploratory refinement in which the old is reflected upon, rediscovered, and made living in each new moment of practice. References
 The Paradox of Learning the Art of Flexibility It’s not just beginners who are stiff when learning budō (武道), the seasoned practitioner too can become stiff when learning a new movement.
We’ve all been there: “I can’t do that.” “I’m not that flexible, I can’t get into that position.” “I feel too tight to move.” Sometimes, both beginners and advanced practitioners are already physically flexible, and yet still can’t get into the right position. So what gives? Why can’t we just relax and move with minimal effort and maximum efficiency? Jūjutsu (柔術) is often mistranslated as “the gentle art.” More accurately, it refers to the art of flexibility, adaptability, and strategic yielding. The character 柔 (jū) is not limited to gentleness, it conveys suppleness, pliability, and the ability to bend without breaking: to dissipate or redirect incoming force through controlled movement, rather than oppose it with brute strength. When reduced to “gentle,” the term risks sounding passive, yet in practice, it denotes a dynamic, elastic quality of harmonizing with an opponent’s energy while maintaining control (Zoughari, 2010). The second character, 術(jutsu), means art, method, or applied technique, a discipline internalized through rigorous training. Jūjutsu is therefore not limited to empty-hand fighting, it is a movement system that applies to weapons, tactics, positioning, timing, and perception. It's a method of movement based on natural principles. It is deeply contextual and adaptive, one learns to move with minimal tension, using posture and spacing to control opponents. Suppleness, not strength, is the root of control, a principle emphasized in classical martial systems (Zoughari, 2010). Hall (2012) explains that by the Edo period, jūjutsu became a generic label for grappling methods used in classical martial art ryuha, including throws, pins, and joint locks, often derived from battlefield kumiuchi tactics. Karl Friday (1997) adds that these systems were rarely standalone; they were deeply embedded in the curriculum of full warrior training, designed to support armed techniques and broader combat strategy. Jūjutsu, then, is not merely “gentle” it is a refined, adaptive, and intelligent approach to martial movement, embodying strategic yielding and functional pliability developed through centuries of embodied practice. So if we are meant to move with suppleness, to display flexibility and pliability then why do we have the movement characteristics of a house brick? That, my fellow buyū (武友), is not exactly your fault, it’s how we learn to move. The Learning Process: Why Tension Appears First When we attempt a new movement, whether it’s a kata (型) we’ve never done before, or a familiar waza (技) performed under new constraints like fatigue, added load such as a weighted vest, wearing yoroi (鎧), or even using a different weapon such as a yari (槍) instead of ken (剣) we often find ourselves using far more muscular effort than necessary. This isn’t a failure of flexibility or coordination; it’s a natural adjustment strategy. This early stiffness isn’t just psychological, it reflects how the nervous system manages uncertainty. Biomechanically, it’s linked to what Franklin & Franklin (2023) describe as internal model uncertainty. When the brain isn’t confident how a movement will unfold, it increases muscle co-contraction, tightening opposing muscle groups to stabilize the joints and reduce motor error. This is a control strategy, not a panic response: the system tightens up temporarily while it calibrates its predictions and fine-tunes coordination through trial and error. It’s important to distinguish this from the stretch reflex, which is a fast, automatic response triggered by sudden muscle lengthening. That reflex acts like an emergency brake, protecting muscles from overstretching and potential injury. While both the stretch reflex and co-contraction increase muscular tension, they arise from different processes, one reflexive and spinal, the other strategic and cortical. As Behm (2019) notes, stretch responses can be amplified by fear or unfamiliarity, but with repetition and increasing confidence, both forms of tension tend to diminish. Even without visual feedback, as in Franklin’s visual clamp experiments, people still adapt successfully, relying on proprioceptive and internal cues. Movement refinement doesn’t depend on watching yourself, but on the nervous system gradually tuning control strategies through repeated exposure (Franklin and Franklin, 2023). This process mirrors what Rob Gray (2022) describes as “freezing degrees of freedom” in early learning, a way to reduce variability and gain control. As skill develops, the system naturally “unfreezes” these constraints, allowing for smoother, more efficient movement. Moinuddin et al. (2021) further emphasize that while external feedback can help, sustainable skill development depends on how well internal sensory systems adjust over time. That initial tension? It’s not poor technique, it’s a functional adaptation. You’re not failing to move like a martial artist. You’re learning to. Kata as Constraint-Based Learning Kata in classical martial arts is often misunderstood as fixed choreography, but it functions more accurately as a structured constraint, a deliberate narrowing of options that accelerates neuromuscular refinement. When repeated under conditions like low kamae (構え), narrow stances, or strict timing, kata places the nervous system in a constrained environment that demands adaptation through repetition and feedback. Zoughari (2010) explains that the term kata (型 or 形) historically denotes a mold or ideal form, both a vessel of transmission and a container for movement principles. In classical martial systems, kata represents codified sequences designed not simply to preserve technique, but to refine physical expression over time through embodied repetition. These forms serve not as performance, but as tools for internalizing movement patterns and combat strategies in context. Motor learning research supports this approach. Franklin and Franklin (2023) describe how uncertainty in movement triggers increased muscle co-contraction, a temporary stiffening to stabilize joints and reduce error. Rob Gray (2022) refers to this as “freezing degrees of freedom” in early learning, with gradual “unfreezing” as internal models improve. Moinuddin et al. (2021) emphasize that durable skill development hinges on internal feedback processing, the same sensory refinement kata cultivates. Behm (2019) notes that with repetition and reduced fear, unnecessary tension gives way to confident, adaptable control. Kata transmits not only technique but tacit knowledge, a felt sense of timing, distance, and energy flow refined through repetition. Kata creates pressure within boundaries. It doesn’t just teach movement, it teaches how to learn movement. Suppleness Is Earned. So, if your shoulders are tight, your hips are stubborn, or your waza feels clunky, it’s not because you’re doing something wrong. What you’re feeling is your nervous system responding to something new, it’s sorting out uncertainty and protecting itself until it understands the task. This is exactly what Franklin and Franklin (2023) observed: when faced with novel or unpredictable conditions, the brain increases muscle co-contraction, literally tightening up the system to reduce the risk of error. That stiffness isn’t a failure, it’s a sign that the system is gathering information, adjusting, and gradually finding its feet. Kata gives the nervous system a repeatable, structured environment to work in, allowing these rough edges to wear down through informed repetition. Over time, that unnecessary tension—the grip your nervous system has on unknown patterns, begins to release. Control becomes more refined, and movement grows smoother and more adaptable. This is not immediate, and it’s not supposed to be. The process is visible in Franklin & Franklin’s findings: “once the motor memory is learned, the co-contraction and feedback gains are gradually decreased, but often remain higher than in the null environment, suggesting tuning to these novel dynamics”. Feeling stiff is normal. It’s not proof of poor practice or lack of promise. It only becomes a problem if nothing changes after months and years of focused, corrective work. When the conditions are right, when practice is consistent and attentive, the excess tension will give way to suppleness and stability. That’s not a gift; it’s the result of adaptation. The goal isn’t to move like someone else. The goal is to create the right context for your own system to adapt. That requires time, feedback, and a willingness to go through awkward phases before you can move freely or with control. In the long run, jūjutsu teaches that flexibility... real, functional flexibility, is earned, not granted. Stiffness is not a failure, it's a phase. In the early stages of learning, tension is not only normal, it's functional. But it should not be permanent. With adequate time, thoughtful practice, and repetition in a structured context, that tension will give way to freedom. The key is to avoid frustration when stiffness appears, and instead recognize it as a sign of learning in progress. Don’t try to bypass this phase, move through it. Supple, efficient movement is not something you copy from others; it’s something your nervous system earns. With keiko (稽古), you will loosen. With diligence, you will flow. 稽古次第で未熟も上手になる Keiko shidai de mijuku mo jōzu ni naru “With practice, even the unskilled become skillful.” Gray Anderson 正中線道場 July 2025 www.instagram.com/seichusendojo/ https://www.facebook.com/SeichusenDojo/ http://www.seichusendojo.com/ Behm, D.G. (2019) The Science and Physiology of Flexibility and Stretching: Implications and Applications in Sport Performance and Health. London: Routledge. Friday, K.F. (1997) Legacies of the Sword: The Kashima-Shinryu and Samurai Martial Culture. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Franklin, S., & Franklin, D. W. (2023). Visuomotor feedback tuning in the absence of visual error information. Neurons, Behavior, Data Analysis and Theory, 3. https://doi.org/10.51628/001c.91252 Gray, R. (2022) How We Learn to Move: A Revolution in the Way We Coach & Practice Sports Skills. Champaign, IL: Human Kinetics. Hall, D.A. (2012) Encyclopedia of Japanese Martial Arts. Tokyo: Kodansha International. Moinuddin A, Goel A, Sethi Y. The Role of Augmented Feedback on Motor Learning: A Systematic Review. Cureus. 2021 Nov 18;13(11):e19695. doi: 10.7759/cureus.19695. PMID: 34976475; PMCID: PMC8681883. Zoughari, Kacem. The Ninja: Ancient Shadow Warriors of Japan (The Secret History of Ninjutsu). Tuttle Publishing, 2010. Zoughari, K. ‘The Origin of Jujutsu’, Seishin Ninpō Dōjō Blog, 29 March. Available at: https://seishinninpodojo.wordpress.com/2010/03/29/the-origin-of-jujutsu-by-dr-kacem-zoughari/ The fall of arrogance & |
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