Chojun - Goran Powell

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I have learned a lot about Chojun Miyagi. Most of it, I will tell you at the appropriate time in my story, but some of it I will tell you now, so you can know something of the man and his background before we begin our journey in karate together. He was the head of the Miyagi family, a family of Shikozu (Okinawan nobility) that owned an import and export business with two ships and traded goods between China and Japan. Chojun’s grandfather had been the head of the family, but Chojun’s father, Chosho, was the third son, so he could not become head of the family. This changed when the first son died without leaving an heir. At the age of five, Chojun was chosen to take the position of first-born son and went to live with his newly-widowed aunt, who became his new mother. How this affected him as such a young child I do not know. While I was close to my sensei, we never spoke of such personal family matters. All I know is that in those days, it was more common for families to do such things than it is today.

      The young Miyagi took over this position of responsibility in a period of uncertainty, with relations worsening between China and Japan, and Okinawa a tiny island in the middle. His new mother decided he could do with toughening-up by sending him to train with a local to-te instructor called Ryuko Aragaki. Fortunately, the young Miyagi was naturally strong and gifted, and he took to his training eagerly. He was also boisterous and often got into scrapes with other boys. He hated to lose a fight, even against bigger boys, and if he did, he would keep challenging the same boy until he won. Ryuko Aragaki’s to-te was powerful but rather simple—he concentrated on punching power and body conditioning—so when he saw the immense potential in Miyagi, he sent him to train with a true master, Kanryo Higaonna. Higaonna had trained in China for many years and was one of the foremost masters on Okinawa. Miyagi thrived under his strict tutelage, and Higaonna succeeded in bringing the boy’s wild ways under control, at least most of the time. In later years, when Miyagi reminisced about his own training, he would say that the austerity of Higaonna’s methods would be too much for the youth of today to bear and complained that after many hours of moving in the low squatting stance of shiko dachi, his training would leave him too weak to even squat over a toilet.

      Miyagi grew into an accomplished athlete and gymnast, and excelled in sport. He was restless and looked into all aspects of combat that he could find on the island. He trained in judo, which was very popular at the time, and learned tegumi (Okinawan wrestling) from a local champion. He experimented in new ways of training, like sparring with protective armor and using full-power blows, and he introduced new equipment into his program like the kongoken, a heavy oval iron ring used to develop wrestling strength that he came across in Hawaii.

      Unfortunately, Miyagi’s talents as a martial artist did not extend to business. This is understandable when you consider that with most great men there is only room for one passion, one driving obsession, and Miyagi’s was karate. He took a job in a bank to gain some business experience but it didn’t work out and after a year his family urged him to stop, saying he should devote all his energies to the martial arts instead. This allowed Miyagi to dedicate his life to karate and plumb the depths of his art without constraint. Again, this was not as strange in those days as it might seem today. The martial arts were held in high regard in Okinawa, and Miyagi’s noble dedication to their pursuit brought honor and renown to the family. He became a figurehead for the family, while other, more level heads concerned themselves with the day-to-day running of the business.

      Unfettered by financial constraints and limited only by the hours in the day, Miyagi was able to dedicate himself body and soul to the art he loved so dearly. The whole island became his dojo. He visited the north of the island, with its thick forests and clean mountain air, and came south, away from the built-up area of the capital, to climb the hills and train on the rugged cliffs of Cape Kyan.

      The next time I saw him, I had stopped at the beach to dive and hold my breath as he had instructed, but the sea had been too rough for swimming, so I had sprinted up a nearby hill instead. While recovering at the top, I noticed a strange sight below: a man was running on the dirt track that led down to the sea. On either side of the track was a stone wall, and the man, running in a zigzag, was hurling himself against one side and then the other. It could only be one person, and sure enough, as he passed directly below me, I recognized Miyagi. I watched him, unseen, as he made his way down to the beach, and there he began to exercise on the shifting pebbles. These were not the slow, deliberate movements I’d seen him perform before—these were fast punches and kicks, blocks and strikes, punctuated every so often by a fierce battle cry that carried above the roar of the surf.

      Next, he entered the ocean up to his neck. I knew how hard it was to battle the fierce rips and currents in the water at that time of day. He remained among the waves for twenty minutes, and when he emerged, he seized an enormous stone and raised it countless times over his head, then stood before a boulder and struck it with his bare hands. The heavy slap of flesh on stone rang out, loud enough for me to hear on the hilltop.

      I didn’t approach him. Instead, I simply watched, as I’d done during the typhoon, to see how the great to-te master trained. I saw the same fierce intensity I’d witnessed on the cliff-tops. Miyagi seemed locked in a struggle against the elements that made up our island. He was fighting a hopeless battle—no man could tame the ocean or the wind, or smash the coral rock of Okinawa—but I sensed something noble in Miyagi’s struggle, a desire to engage with the elements, a desire that I myself shared.

      Over the following months, I saw him every now and then, pitting himself against the elements in his relentless, hopeless struggle. Sometimes he would heft a huge log onto his shoulders, or cradle it in his arms like a baby, and perform hundreds of squats. Once I watched him lifting heavy rice sacks with his teeth to strengthen his neck. Each time I made a note of his training and added it to my own program the next day. The stones and logs I lifted were small in comparison to Miyagi’s, little more than pebbles and sticks, but my stones grew bigger and my logs thicker over the weeks, months, and years that I trained in preparation for my first lesson with Sensei Miyagi.

      My schoolteacher, Mr. Kojima, was from Kagoshima on the Japanese mainland. He spoke with a strange accent—although he claimed it was we who spoke strangely and never tired of reminding us. I can still hear his high-pitched voice ringing out, his words accompanied by the cracking of his ruler, which he carried under his arm like an army officer’s swagger stick.

      Mr. Kojima was especially concerned with the education of Kumemura children—children of Chinese descent. We added an extra layer of complexity to the already formidable task of teaching the native Okinawans. There were only two other Kumemura children in my class, both of whom were girls and far too quiet to warrant his attention, so Mr. Kojima ignored them completely and I bore the full force of his displeasure.

      On this occasion, I’d failed to bow correctly before the emperor’s portrait that hung at the front of our classroom and Mr. Kojima had decided to make an example of me. “Emperor Hirohito is a living god!” he shouted, smacking his ruler on my desk. “The father of all Japanese subjects, and despite what you might think, that includes you, Ota!”

      He nodded, as if to say he knew what I was thinking, but he didn’t. I was staring at the portrait of the fresh-faced young man in uniform, his chest covered with medals, and wondering why he wore spectacles. If he was a god, surely he didn’t need them. And if he was my father, then who was the man at home whom I called father? And how could one man be the father of eighty million people? No, Mr. Kojima didn’t know what I was thinking, but I thought it best not to correct him. Instead, I went and knelt before the emperor, holding my forehead on the floor for a long time until I was sure Mr. Kojima would be satisfied.

      I hadn’t intended to be disrespectful. In fact, Mr. Kojima would have been surprised to know that I wanted nothing more than to be a good Japanese citizen. Our empire was the greatest in the world. We’d beaten the Russians, the Koreans, and the Manchurians, and we were destined to rule all of Asia. I dreamed of one day taking my place in this great ruling class.

      When I’d returned to my seat, Mr. Kojima proceeded to tell us about the Japanese soldiers in Manchuria. Three young heroes had hit the news for throwing themselves

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