Aikido is a martial art full of paradoxes and some of these are due to the way in which instructors introduce and teach that art, especially to non-Japanese. I myself started practicing aikido because it was not a competitive sport. I was fed up with the traditional English diet of cricket and rugby, and marathon running was a painful and solitary activity. Aikido seemed much more congenial. You had to have a partner, there was no competition and so you could proceed at your own pace, without the need to break your neck training for the next tournament. Instead, there was simply training: the same complex aikido movements repeated hundreds and hundreds of times. We were also taught that aikido could be practiced by people of any age group and required a “total absence” of physical strength. On the other hand, our instructor decided that we were not in good shape (he saw no contradiction with what he had said about physical strength) and so we regularly did ten-mile runs just before the two-hour aikido practices. As a long distance runner I was not fazed by this, but I defy anyone to tell me that this regime did not require rather more than a “total absence” of physical strength. Now, of course, 30 years later, I know it all had a place in the aikido scheme of things, rather like the divine plan for mankind.

Aikido was presented by one of my teachers as an art of mutual benevolence. Through the rhythm of attack and defence, aikido partners were in fact contributing to one another’s well-being. Aikido apparently had strong ties with Shinto, an ancient Japanese belief system populated with innumerable deities and ancestors, whose sole exertions were to ensure the well-being of the entire human race. We were taught that the Japanese emperor also played an important role in these exertions, but his connection with the Shinto deities—and with aikido—was never precisely explained.

Another teacher strongly denied the links of aikido with Shinto and instead stressed its links with Zen Buddhism. Aikido, we were told, was based on the ancient sword arts of the samurai, who all embraced zazen. We should do the same. We were encouraged to sit in impossibly painful postures and think deeply about nothing. Those who did not do this deeply enough received encouragement in the form of a sharp blow (hard enough to draw blood or cause bruising) across the shoulders with an instrument called the kyosaku. This training was supposed to deepen our spiritual awareness of aikido and its techniques, which nevertheless always had to work and sometimes resulted in severe injury. We were also encouraged to practice with wooden swords, sticks and knives, but without knowing why, beyond the fact that they were weapons and made the practice rather more realistic and exhilarating. The teacher was regarded by outsiders as a complete monster, but was much loved by his students. I myself think that, of all the teachers I have had, he was the one who forced his students to face several questions and attempt to answer them honestly: Why am I practicing aikido? What is my real commitment to the art? Do I really think it will change my life and if so, how?

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