Every so often, particularly on social media, I come across an explanation about karate that makes me wonder whether we’re asking enough questions.

Someone offers an explanation, often with considerable confidence, and because of their grade, reputation, or lineage, it seems to be accepted without much examination. Other people repeat it, and before long, what may have started as one person’s interpretation becomes something everybody seems to know.

But how often do we stop and ask whether the explanation actually makes sense?

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Something occurred to me recently while I was training, and I’ve been giving it quite a bit of thought.

We generally regard karate as a defensive art. Someone attacks, we respond. Much of the way karate has been taught for generations follows that pattern. An opponent punches, we “block”, and then counterattack.

But what if we’ve been looking at some of this the wrong way around?

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I’ve been practicing traditional karate for a long time now, and my appreciation of it hasn’t diminished. It’s the foundation of what I teach today, although my understanding of certain training methods and their practical application has changed considerably over those years.

These days, my teaching has a practical, pragmatic focus, particularly where civilian self-protection is concerned. Occasionally, though, we’ll revisit some of the exercises I learned decades ago. Sometimes it’s simply to do something different, and sometimes it’s to show students how I was taught. They understand what we’re doing and why.

Yet questioning a traditional practice is sometimes interpreted as rejecting tradition itself. I don’t see it that way at all.

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When we first begin learning karate, almost everything we’re taught is given a name. We learn punches, blocks, kicks, and stances. Each has its own terminology, and those names help us organize what we’re learning.

We need a common language if we’re going to teach and communicate effectively. A student needs to know what their instructor is asking them to do, and terminology provides a convenient way of identifying movements and positions.

But how often do we consider what happens when the name we give something begins to determine how we understand it?

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One of the most familiar movements in karate is the withdrawing hand. We see it in kihon, throughout kata, and in countless demonstrations. One hand moves forward while the other is pulled sharply back to the hip or floating ribs.

Students are taught this movement from their earliest lessons. The fist must be closed, the elbow kept close to the body, and the hand withdrawn to what is considered the correct position. Instructors correct it repeatedly, often spending considerable time making sure the movement looks as it should.

But what are we actually teaching?

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A few days ago, someone left a comment on one of my articles asking, “Be honest, how effective is kata in a fight?”

It’s a question I’ve heard many times over the years, and one that continues to surprise me, particularly when it comes from people who have spent time training in karate.

But perhaps the question itself is part of the problem.

Let me ask something else.

How effective is shadow boxing in a fight?

A boxer doesn’t expect to defeat an opponent by performing a shadow boxing routine. Yet nobody seriously suggests that shadow boxing is therefore useless.

Boxers use it to rehearse movement, combinations, positioning, balance and other aspects of their boxing. They don’t expect the imaginary opponent to suddenly become real.

But they also work with heavy bags, focus mitts and training partners. They spar against resistance, learn to deal with pressure and discover what happens when an opponent doesn’t cooperate.

Shadow boxing is one part of a much larger training process.

So why do we expect kata to be judged differently?

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Most traditional karate dojos have some form of creed, often referred to as the Dojo Kun (道場訓). A set of principles or ideals, sometimes displayed on the wall and recited as part of the opening or closing formalities.

Respect. Humility. Honesty. Perseverance. The pursuit of perfection.

All admirable qualities, of course. But I sometimes wonder how much thought we give to what those words actually mean.

It’s easy enough to recite a few sentences, bow respectfully and carry on with our training. But what happens when we leave the dojo?

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ears ago, when I still lived in the UK, I had a traditional straw makiwara fixed in my garden. I used it almost every day, often striking it hundreds of times. I liked the simplicity of it. You hit it, and it tells you something.

The makiwara doesn’t care what the technique is called, what kata it supposedly came from, or what grade you hold. You either deliver force through a connected structure or you don’t. The wrist can collapse, the shoulder can take over, or the body can become disconnected from the strike. The moment you hit something solid, those faults become much harder to hide.

You can make all sorts of movements look impressive in the air, but the moment you have to put force into something solid, the feeling changes.

That is what good training should do. It should give us information.

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A question came up recently that I think is worth considering:

How do we know the creators of kata built them from two-person drills?

The simple answer is that we don’t.

We have no complete historical record showing how every kata was created. In many cases we don’t know precisely who created the kata, what they originally called it, what changes were made during transmission, or what every movement was intended to represent.

So if we are looking for a document telling us that a particular teacher developed a series of two-person drills and then assembled those drills into the kata we practice today, we are probably going to be disappointed.

For me, the strongest argument comes from considering how combative skills are actually learned.

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When I talk about using kata effectively, I don’t mean the bunkai demonstrations sometimes seen at tournaments or in dojo, where one person stands in the middle while attackers come from different directions with predetermined attacks.

I mean how we use kata to explore something that might actually help when things go wrong.

Someone once asked me a simple question:

“How do you extract the combative information from kata when nobody really knows exactly what it was originally meant to do? Wouldn’t everyone arrive at different interpretations?”

It’s a fair question.

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There was another shooting near me recently. One person was killed and another injured at a shopping center in an area that is not generally known for that kind of violence.

From what has been reported so far, the people involved appear to have met there. An altercation followed, then gunfire.

Whatever caused it, it reminded me of something I have written about before.

Violence does not have to be directed at you before it becomes your problem.

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Every so often I come across a martial arts website where the head of an organization is described as both the founder of the system and its Sōke.

For most people there is probably nothing unusual about that. Within modern martial arts, Sōke is often understood to mean something like “grandmaster”, “headmaster”, or the person at the very top of a style.

If you created the style and you are its highest authority, calling yourself Sōke may therefore seem perfectly reasonable.

But if you founded the system yourself, what exactly did you inherit?

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I remember this picture very clearly. Bodhidharma sitting in a cave, staring at the wall. I first saw it in The Way of the Warrior in the early 1980s, the book by Howard Reid and Michael Croucher that accompanied the BBC television series.

I also remembered something rather extraordinary about Bodhidharma being able to hear the ants scream. After more than forty years I wasn’t entirely sure whether I had remembered that correctly, so I went back and checked.

I had.

The caption begins, “According to legend,” and goes on to say that Bodhidharma spent nine years looking at a cave wall, “listening to the ants scream.”

What I had forgotten were those first three words: According to legend.

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Every day on social media, you can see short video clips of karate practitioners, some holding quite senior dan grades, demonstrating what is presented as bunkai.

And some of it is dreadful.

With the amount of information available today, I sometimes wonder why practitioners continue producing demonstrations that are so obviously choreographed, unrealistic, and detached from the problems karate was originally intended to address.

These videos may be seen by thousands of people, so what exactly are they trying to demonstrate?

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One phrase I hear quite often in martial arts discussions is, “I was never taught that.”

Usually it comes up when people are talking about methods they feel have been missing from their karate. Throws, limb control, grappling, close-range work, or whatever else happens to be under discussion. The conclusion is often that these things have to be brought in from somewhere else because they were never taught within their own training.

Sometimes that may be true. There is nothing wrong with learning from other martial arts, and there is a great deal that karate practitioners can gain from people who specialize in areas such as Judo, wrestling, boxing or Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

But I do sometimes wonder whether “I was never taught that” becomes a little too convenient.

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A throw doesn’t become a Judo throw simply because someone recognizes it from Judo.

Across different cultures, people have developed similar ways of controlling, unbalancing, and throwing another person. They didn’t necessarily have to learn those methods from one another.

Perhaps, before deciding that something needs to be brought into karate, we should take a closer look at what we’re already practicing.

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When we began karate, we learned “the basics”. Stances, punches, kicks and blocks were practiced individually, often up and down the dojo floor. Later, we were introduced to kata.

The basics have to come first. We have to start somewhere. The problem comes when we give those movements a fixed meaning without first understanding the context in which they are being used. A rising block becomes a rising block, a lower block becomes a lower block, and a stance becomes a stance.

Then, when the same movement appears in a kata, that is naturally what we see.

We have already decided what it is.

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What happens to your grade when you join a different dojo?

Perhaps you have trained for many years. You may hold a black belt, maybe even a senior grade. You earned it legitimately, worked hard for it, and it represents years of training and experience.

Then you walk into another dojo.

The syllabus may be different, the kata unfamiliar, and some of the terminology new to you. Your instructor may teach movements differently, use different drills, or place emphasis on principles that were not part of your previous training.

So what grade are you now?

Over the years, I have had several people come to train with me who already held black belts elsewhere. Some expected to continue wearing them. A few were quite insistent that because they had earned a black belt somewhere else, they should be allowed to wear it in my dojo.

Others arrived wearing a white belt without being asked.

Someone can put on a white belt without denying everything they have previously achieved. The white belt simply says, “I am beginning here”.

Their experience hasn’t disappeared. The movement, coordination, timing and understanding developed through years of training are still there. An experienced practitioner may learn much more quickly than someone who has never trained before, and may recognize familiar principles beneath unfamiliar movements almost immediately.

That does not make them a beginner in martial arts.

But they may well be a beginner in that particular system.

I think that distinction is important because grades are not universal qualifications. A grade represents achievement within a particular dojo, style, organization or relationship between teacher and student. It tells us that someone, somewhere, considered that person to have reached a particular standard.

But the standard may not be the same somewhere else.

Even within the same style, two dojo can have quite different expectations for the same grade. Change styles completely and the differences can become much greater.

That does not make the previous grade meaningless. It simply gives it context.

The same question can arise when someone returns after being away from training for many years. The grade may have been genuinely earned, but time away can change what the person is currently able to demonstrate. Again, that does not erase what they achieved before, but it may mean that the belt no longer tells the whole story.

If someone joins my dojo with years of previous experience, I would not treat them as though that experience never happened. Their ability will become apparent very quickly. Previous experience deserves to be recognized for what it is.

But if they do not know my syllabus, my kata, my drills or the standards I associate with a particular grade, I don’t think the belt they earned somewhere else automatically tells me what grade they should hold here.

If they stand beside one of my students wearing the same belt, that belt suggests a certain equivalence. It suggests that both people have met the requirements represented by that grade.

If one of them has never even seen those requirements, the belt begins to say something that isn’t yet true.

For me, there is also a responsibility to the students already training in the dojo. They have worked through the syllabus, met the standards required of them, and earned the grade they wear. Simply telling a newcomer to “wear whatever belt you like” may sound relaxed and welcoming, but I am not sure it is fair to those students.

If a grade is meant to represent something, then I think the instructor has a responsibility to protect what it represents.

There is also a difference between assuming your previous grade should be recognized and asking the instructor what you should wear. If the instructor tells you to wear your black belt, then wear it. The important thing is that the decision is theirs, not yours.

There are different ways of dealing with this, of course. An instructor might assess an experienced newcomer and place them at an appropriate point within the syllabus. They may take some or all of that person’s previous experience into account. Another instructor may ask them to begin again and progress quickly as they demonstrate what they already know.

I don’t think there has to be one universal answer.

An experienced practitioner wearing a white belt does not suddenly move like a novice. Their experience will show. They do not need a black belt around their waist to convince everyone that they have trained before.

If anything, being comfortable enough to wear white can demonstrate a certain confidence in what they already know.

They have nothing to prove by the color of the belt.

Starting again does not mean starting over.

You do not lose the years you have trained. You do not lose the grade you legitimately earned, the lessons you learned, or the skills you developed along the way.

You are simply acknowledging that you have entered somewhere new.

People leave karate for all kinds of reasons. Work, family, illness, or simply changing priorities can interrupt training. Sometimes what was intended to be a short break becomes several years, perhaps even decades. Yet for some, the interest never entirely disappears, and eventually they decide to return.

But returning to karate isn’t always as straightforward as walking back through the dojo door.

Over the years, I’ve had students return after considerable periods away from training. One thing I noticed was that those with more experience, particularly black belts, often recovered their previous knowledge relatively quickly. A kata they hadn’t practiced in years might initially be hesitant, with forgotten movements or pauses while they tried to remember what came next. But after working through it a few times, the memory often began to return.

The same was true of two-person drills. Once they started working with a partner again, familiar movements and responses began to reappear. Their execution wasn’t necessarily what it had been, and their timing, coordination, and physical ability often needed attention. But much of their previous understanding was still there.

There is a difference between remembering how to do something and being able to perform it to the standard you once could.

With students who had trained for a shorter period before leaving, their foundations were not always as firmly established, and material they had previously learned could be surprisingly difficult to recall. Some needed to revisit earlier kata and drills, gradually rebuilding their understanding.

For a few, returning proved frustrating enough that they eventually stopped training again.

I don’t think it was necessarily because they were unwilling to put in the work. Some appeared to feel a little lost, particularly when they looked around the dojo and saw how far others had progressed during their absence.

Someone they remembered as a beginner might now be a senior student. People who once stood behind them in line had continued training and moved beyond their previous level.

Meanwhile, they were struggling to remember something they once knew.

That can be uncomfortable. You can be genuinely pleased to see how far someone else has progressed while still feeling disappointed with yourself. Returning to a familiar dojo doesn’t necessarily mean returning to the same place within it.

Time away doesn’t stop everyone else’s progress.

Those who remained have put in the time and effort. Their progress was earned, and a returning student cannot reasonably expect to resume exactly where they left off in terms of ability. But understanding that doesn’t necessarily make the experience any easier.

A grade legitimately earned years ago remains an achievement, even if the person’s present ability has changed. But it doesn’t guarantee that they can immediately demonstrate the same standard.

What belt someone wears when they return is another consideration. I have asked returning students to train at a lower grade while I assessed what they remembered and what needed rebuilding. That isn’t about dismissing their previous achievement, but neither should a belt become an obstacle to recognizing their present ability.

The important thing is their willingness to return to the work, wherever that might mean starting.

And perhaps we should remember that returning takes a little courage, too. Someone who has been away for years may already be uncertain about coming back. They may be conscious of how much their ability has changed, or uncomfortable about training alongside people who have progressed beyond them.

They don’t need to be made to feel that their absence was a personal failing. We don’t always know what has happened in someone’s life, or why they stepped away in the first place.

I think this is where an instructor has an important part to play.

You may not be able to pick up exactly where you left off. But you can begin again from where you are now.

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A comment on a recent article raised an interesting question.

What should someone expect if they begin karate in their sixties or seventies? And how should they feel about promotion when they know they may never move like someone who started in their twenties?

I think the first thing to say is that age changes the starting point, but it doesn’t make the training less meaningful.

Someone beginning karate at 65 is not starting with the same body as someone beginning at 25. Recovery is usually slower. Mobility may be reduced. Strength, speed and balance may not develop at the same rate. Old injuries may already be part of the picture.

Pretending otherwise helps nobody.

But I also think it is a mistake to reduce karate to those physical qualities.

Being a capable karate practitioner is not simply about how fast you can move, how high you can kick, or how hard you can hit. Those things may matter, but they are only part of it.

Older practitioners can still develop timing, balance, coordination, efficiency, awareness, judgment and understanding. They can still become more capable and technically sound.

Age may change what progress looks like. It should not make progress meaningless.

The difficulty comes when older beginners compare themselves with younger people in the dojo. That comparison is understandable, but often unhelpful.

A 65-year-old beginner may never move with the same speed or athleticism as a 30-year-old who has been training for ten years. But that does not mean the older practitioner is failing.

The more useful comparison is with the person who walked into the dojo on the first day.

Are they moving better now? Do they understand more? Is their balance improving? Can they coordinate their body more effectively? Are they becoming more comfortable with the demands of training?

That is progress.

And this is where grading becomes important.

An older practitioner should not be promoted out of sympathy, and a grade should not become a consolation prize simply because someone is older or because they are trying hard. But neither should they be denied promotion simply because they cannot reproduce the physical attributes of someone decades younger.

The grade should still represent something real.

Perhaps that means moving with better balance and control, understanding the movements more clearly, using the body more effectively, developing greater awareness and judgment, and being able to apply what has been taught at the appropriate level.

We already accept individual differences in other ways. A smaller practitioner will not use strength in the same way as a larger one. Someone with an old knee injury may have to adjust how they move. A child or young adolescent may not yet have the strength or power of a fully grown adult, but that doesn’t prevent us from recognizing their progress.

Karate has to exist within the body of the person actually practicing it.

That does not mean lowering standards. It means understanding what the standard is really meant to measure.

There is another advantage to starting later in life that is sometimes overlooked.

Some older beginners arrive with less need to prove themselves. They may be less interested in showing how tough they are and more interested in learning properly, staying capable, and continuing to train for as long as possible.

That can bring a different perspective to training.

Someone starting karate later in life does not need to train as though they are trying to become the person they were thirty or forty years ago. We train the person we are now.

Starting karate later in life does not mean you are too late. It simply means your journey begins from a different place.

The value of your karate is not in how closely you resemble someone younger. It is in what you have genuinely developed for yourself.

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