Sensei (先生), senpai (先輩), kohai (後輩): the practice of a martial discipline revolves around these three figures.

Every human experience is based on the interaction between those who were “born first” (sensei), who trace a path for their fellow travelers. Among such travelers, there are those who joined the journey earlier (senpai, the companion who came first) and those who came later (kohai, precisely).

Today, we reflect on the kohai, the “friends-after,” fully aware that adding something new or previously unsaid on this topic is a hard task.

The kohai is sacred and, in some way, has a redemptive power within a group.

They are sacred because they are like a newly sprouted seedling, and precisely because of this, they are redemptive -they serve as a powerful reminder of what we all once were. Assuming that we know something today, we were like that beginner yesterday –disoriented, sometimes clumsy, enthusiastic, and in need of everything. Starting with someone who reminded us of the difference between left and right. Remembering this is a good antidote against the ego-driven arrogance that is always hiding, especially as belts start to darken.

The kohai, in practice, is a ruthless trainer. You look at them and wonder:
“We’ve been doing the same thing for an hour… how is it possible that they still can’t get it right?”

When you practice with them, if you are of a slightly higher rank, they feel awkward and execute techniques in a stiff, hesitant way, applying wide, uncontrolled joint locks that nearly twist your limbs off. They force you to do double the work -your own, plus a sort of shadow work. Somewhere between a prompter and a facilitator. Like a martial notebook where the kohai learns to train their hand to write the first figures, which will become letters, then words, then sentences, and one day, once they have mastered the grammar, they will express articulated, autonomous thoughts -and, who kows? -poetry.

The kohai challenges. Sometimes deliberately, but more often unknowingly, they challenge. They demand that a senpai be consistent. They expect them to properly receive a technique. To know how to fall. And to be able to execute a technique correctly at all times, under any circumstances.

Such behaviors are part of a universal human experience. Since childhood, we have demanded consistency, sought shortcuts to avoid the effort required to grow. We all owe who we are to the patient persistence of someone who stood by us -especially when we were…disoriented, clumsy, enthusiastic, and in need of everything.

Of course, we are much more forgiving of a little, adorable child than we are of someone who is a “newborn” in an environment where we are already a bit more advanced.

Among practitioners, there is much talk of shoshin (初心) -the beginner’s mind. Yet, the same practitioners, as their rank grows up, often keep their distance when a beginner asks to train with them. And rightly so, they think: “I’ve been practicing for years, and now I have to wipe the nose of a white belt?”

But if having a beginner’s heart is important, having a heartbeat for the beginner is essential. Understanding their difficulties and recognizing their potential is an enormous teaching opportunity.

Finding an effective way to communicate and convey what the sensei proposes is a huge challenge. It requires balance and respect.

Respect for the kohai, who deserves support but not patronizing assistance.

Respect for the senpai, who is not a gi-equipped messiah and must also focus on their own journey.

Respect for the sensei, who expects -but cannot demand- meaningful and role-conscious support from the senpai.

Working with and for the kohai allows the senpai to step, even slightly, into the shoes of the sensei and, more broadly, of those who walked the path before them.

It helps one realize that certain things we might criticize or find annoying, we ourselves would not even be capable of handling. That what initially seems like an overly simplistic teaching approach or an excessively basic structure is actually a complex system of balances that only those further ahead can truly grasp.

One of the goals of the sacred is to orient us toward what is absolute. Sometimes, kohai shatter our expectation of spending a couple of hours doing what we wanted to do and bring us back to the reality of what is needed. Just like in any family.

A family -just like a dojo or any other group dedicated to mutual growth- is not healthy because it is perfect, but because it works. And nothing works better than people who, despite having different perspectives, recognize themselves as walking the same path-and, in some way, always a kohai to someone.

Disclaimer: Picture by Pixabay