- Dave Lowry
- May 13
- 4 min read
Many Black Belt readers may be familiar with the Japanese phrase ken ki tai ichi.
It means that one’s weapon (ken, which can be written to refer to a sword or a fist but which really applies to any weapon), one’s spirit or energy (ki), and one’s body (tai) must all be ichi – “one.” All must be employed in coordination and at the same time. If your weapon reaches the target but your body positioning is poor, it’s unlikely your strike will be immediately or convincingly effective.
If you have a strong spirit but lack the proper weapon – let’s say you cannot make a solid fist – once again, the chance of failure is significant. It’s very common to see less-skilled karateka poke or jab at their opponents in sparring. They’re delivering weapons, but their bodies remain unconnected, so it looks more like a slapfest than a fight. All three elements must be present; all must work together.
Let’s look at the other side of the coin of ken ki tai ichi. That other side is the idea that not only must your strikes have all three of these elements, but it also must destroy all three of mine. It’s worthwhile to think about this because there are many ramifications.
One of the problems faced by the samurai in duels and even more so in battle was one faced by all pre-modern warriors.
Weapons, unlike the high-impact ones we have today, didn’t possess a lot of stopping power. An enemy could, when sufficiently energized by adrenaline, absorb half a dozen arrows and keep coming at you. A spear thrust or a sword cut could be gruesome and lead quickly to death – but not before the wounded man got in his own strike against you.
The samurai were professional warriors throughout much of their history as a caste. They could be formidable. Hit one right between the eyes with a club and he would keep coming. Even if his intent was stopped, the momentum of his weapon could continue. (It’s fascinating that today’s law enforcement officers face the same problem with violent, drug-addled criminals who don’t respond to pain-compliance locks.)
To be successful in stopping an enemy, the samurai sought to attack and destroy instantly the weapon (an actual weapon, or the hands or arms manipulating it), the intent and energy, and the body that supported the attack. It wasn’t enough to generate a perfect amalgam of ken ki tai. It was necessary to take out these same elements in the enemy.
Not all martial arts share this philosophy. A good example is the teaching, which can be found in a number of combat arts, of “defanging the snake.” This usually means that one strikes the hand of an opponent that’s holding a weapon.
If I have a knife in my grasp and you smack my hand hard, stinging it or perhaps even doing some damage, I drop the knife or at least am dissuaded from continuing the attack. The effectiveness of this strategy is not the point here.
The point is that it’s very different from the concept that has always guided Japanese martial arts. In the budo, particularly in the classical budo of the samurai, there isn’t really any aim to defang the snake. The intent is to kill the snake.
This distinction is critical in understanding the different goals on which different arts are designed. The twin crescent horns or deer-antler knives used by kung fu practitioners have their origin in weapons that were used in places where spilling blood was socially unacceptable.
They could be used to pin an attacker against a wall or on the ground. There are some traditional Japanese implements — pole arms, with big hooks on the business end — that were used to entangle the sleeves of a bad guy or pin him. These were law-enforcement tools, however, and not meant for the battlefield.
If you look at the armory of the samurai, you will see very few weapons that were designed to hold an opponent or prevent him from fighting. On the contrary, they were meant to kill. They were meant to allow the user to make the perfect strike, one that destroyed not only an enemy’s attack but also his will to fight and his physical ability to do so.
Don’t assume that we’re talking about one culture’s art being better than another. Don’t believe that this mentality, of completely destroying an opponent, means that Japanese martial arts are the “real thing” any more so than any other martial or combat art.
Different arts address the differences in cultures and countries, circumstances and histories. There is no point in making comparisons.
What is worth considering is how this classical martial arts concept applies — or does not — to an art like karate. Karate is not a martial art, as we have discussed before. It was not practiced by a martial class. It was not created to kill instantly, to devastate.
It had different goals and a different approach. When it was introduced to mainland Japan, its early pioneers there worked tirelessly to make it respectable and accepted, and that meant making it “Japanese.” That’s how we got ideas like ikken hisatsu, or “killing with a single strike,” which were not a traditional part of Okinawan karate.
Were these efforts successful? Did they create more problems for karate than they solved? These are good things to think about when you’re considering just what constitutes a perfect strike.
