Do we know how to attack?

Nice figurines

When we train children and introduce them to techniques in response to strikes or cuts, the tatami comes alive with tiny figures from a mechanical creche -little statuettes slicing through the air, rigid as marble. Or throwing a punch that inevitably diverts at the last moment, missing the target.

There are also those who smash their partner like Mike Tyson, on purpose… But generally, this is the show we see.

It’s not so different among adults, either. In some ways, this is a good thing: we are so unaccustomed to physical combat outside the tatami that many of us join a Martial Arts class without ever having fought for real.

In other ways, it’s a drawback. Because the physical experience -even in a controlled environment- of a clear attack is an valuable teacher, especially for those who claim to practice a martial discipline.

In the usual training contexts, where our keiko takes place, techniques are studied either in a static or a dynamic form. Attacks are codified, and at least in Aikido’s technical curriculum, they do not involve leg strikes and kicks.

Static and dynamic

In the static form, grabs and strikes have a clear point of application. Most of the time, the execution begins from the very first moment with a static point of contact. In such cases, we like to think of the attack in its most literal sense -remaining “attached” like glue to one’s partner.

As we progress in our study -first with the basics and then increasingly fluid combinations- we notice that uke, who delivers the attack, continues with a linear forward move. It is nage, the one who will respond to the attack, who initiates body movement.

The movement, following the principle of efficiency -or, as Stéphane Benedetti puts it, “Aikido is the art of laziness”- is usually linear: absorption, entry. Evasion, engagement, unbalancing, entry.

Techniques like shihonage in its basic forms and especially cuts and thrusts in the eight directions (happo giri and happo tsuki) are excellent training tools for developing these skills.

But let’s go back to the initial question: do we know how to attack?

In freestyle techniques involving multiple attacks, we see almost everything. As students and teachers, we consider such practice essential to complement the study of forms with a more expressive and free practice, where form becomes what it should be: a tool -a martial one- for communication, used under the stress of attacks.

A new perspective

Unlike the techniques studied during ordinary training, uke now faces a moving target. Nage’s movement, in turn, induces uke’s movement. Uke, for that reason, will continue to attack using the methods learned from the technical curriculum: grabs, strikes, cuts.

The result? A new mechanical nativity scene, this time with moving figurines. A sort of martial music box, with little figures gliding across the tatami.

And as in any respectable nativity scene, there are recurring characters.

• There’s the overexcited Rambo who attacks at full speed, regardless of the partner.
• There’s the one who starts off like a rocket but burns out immediately.
• There’s the one whose punches follow curved, unpredictable trajectories.
• There’s the “suicidal” uke who collapses to the ground as is touched by nage.
• There’s the shepherd-uke, who just keeps wandering around the tatami, never attacking—or, after finally attacking, decides he/she deserves a coffee break.
• There’s the “treacherous” uke, who lands a strike to nage’s neck while he/she is already engaged with other attackers.
• And finally (though the list could go on forever), there’s the uke who clings to nage’s gi like stubborn dirt that no detergent can remove.

Since Aikido’s goal is -among other things- the study of oneself through the study of conflict, the purpose of attacks cannot be to leave our partners crying in pain on the ground.

In Aikido, an attack is similar to an old muzzle-loading rifle: once fired, it must be reloaded. One choice, one strike. Whatever happens, happens.

Striking a moving target means developing this quality more and more, refining it continuously. To use a more technical term: cultivating the promise of the attack.

Which, for the reasons mentioned earlier, is anything but immediate.

If attacking is difficult, then receiving an attack is equally complex. Randori and jiyu waza are not street fights, though they are the closest thing to real combat one can experience on the tatami.

Anyone who has been under a barrage of strikes in real situations knows that it’s very different from dodging a sequence of single, linear attacks moving forward.

Physically recognizing the difference between a brawl and jiyu waza seems simple and obvious. But judging by how quickly both uke and nage run out of breath, it clearly isn’t.

And when we see how forcefully uke is sometimes thrown, we can reach a few conclusions.

There where power is

Attacking requires sensitivity, awareness, and persistence. Which is the exact opposite of the testosterone-fueled stereotype that Martial Arts are often associated with. A good training approach is to gradually increase contact intensity and continuity -accepting it, receiving it, allowing oneself to be moved by it, and then connecting and engaging with it.

Receiving and taking the initiative as nage require just as much sensitivity and clarity. They also demand the courage of creativity. Just as the target becomes moving for uke, nage must continuously recalibrate the endpoint of a technique in response.

When standing still with a predetermined attack, it’s easy to execute techniques in the precise way required by a curriculum.

But in motion, the only thing that doesn’t crumble under attack is the application of principles, not techniques. If those remain alive, the techniques can manifest.

But if neither uke nor nage are truly alive -if they simply play the role of figurines in a beautiful Japanese nativity scene- then it’s unlikely the principles will be alive, either.

Disclaimer: Picture by Cottonbro Studio from Pexels