The top sensei at the Yoshinkan Aikido Hombu Dojo kept personal uke for their demonstrations.
They would elect their uke from the enthusiastic young instructors at the dojo. It was the most
honorable task at the school – the path to excellence some suggested, the only way to truly
grasp the fine details of the art.
Being a super-uke meant everything!
Naturally, when I became part of the Hombu Dojo staff, I also aspired to become one of those
uke. I did my best to prove my competence, spending entire days at the dojo, dedicatedly
serving the instructors during breaks between the classes, and when training resumed, always
ready to jump up and take their uke.
But becoming a personal uke for the high ranked sensei meant proving my skills during
demonstrations as well.
“You’ll start at the bottom,” explained Roland sensei, an Australian hard-man who had one
year seniority over me. “You’ll take uke for the junior instructors, prove yourself and move up
the ranks.”
“And how do you start at all? Do you put your name up on some notice board? Does it work
like an auction?”
“All you have to do is wait,” Roland chuckled. “When the time comes you’ll be approached by
one of the instructors.”
His words came true a few weeks later when a junior sensei approached and asked me to be
his uke. I accepted joyously and did my best to please him in preparation for and during the
demonstration. My actions proved fruitful and from demonstration to demonstration I indeed
moved up the ranks.
It was only when I reached the very top that I realized the main obstacle in my plan – that there
were no vacancies for the desired job. I had to wait for my time to come – had to exercise the hardest lesson of all for a young man – the lesson of patience.
In 1992 my chance finally materialized when Mark Baker, Chida sensei’s personal uke, decided
to depart from the Yoshinkan Aikido Hombu Dojo and move to Africa. A couple of days later,
during the morning break between classes, I was training on my own in front of the mirror
when Chida sensei entered the hall.
He came close, bowed and with a gesture of his arm motioned me to attack him with a Shomen
Uchi – front strike with the arm. I attacked and he threw me a few times, nothing fancy, just
playing with the timing and studying my reactions to his moves. He then gestured for other
attacks, threw me some more, bowed and left the room.
I remained standing and glaring at my reflection in the wide mirror. At first I didn’t make much
out of it. It wasn’t the first time I had seen him stepping onto the mats and trying his inspiring
ideas on whoever he could find at the dojo. It also wasn’t the first time he had thrown me
around.
During my days in the Yoshinkan Senshusei Course, (Riot Police Course), my partner had fallen
sick and as a result, the instructors took turns as his replacement. Usually it would be a junior
instructor but there were occasions where I trained with the high ranked sensei as well.
One of them was Chida sensei.
It happened on the day we started practicing Jiu-Waza, (Free-Techniques). Chida sensei, who
taught the class, demonstrated the techniques to the students, then came over and performed
on me. He threw me gently, aware of my lack of skill and allowed me to control the falls. He
even took part as my uke and helped me line up my attacks.
It is of no surprise, therefore, that when Chida sensei left the dojo I resumed my training in
front of the mirror. I had quite forgotten about the whole thing until lunchtime, when Roland
burst into the kitchen with a wide grin pasted on his face.
“Congratulations,” he said and I frowned in return.
“What for?” I mumbled.
“For what I’ve just overheard in the office. It looks like Chida sensei elected you as his new
uke.”
The full magnitude of the situation dawned on me as the day progressed. I continued to train
and perform my duties around the dojo but felt light headed, slow and sluggish in my moves,
as if completely disoriented in the familiar place.
“You must be extremely excited,” Ronald observed when I refused to eat the bento, the packed-
lunch I had ordered as a treat for the special occasion. It was my favorite dish – barbequed eel
on a bed of hijiki rice.
“Very excited,” I nodded and handed the meal to one of the hungry students from the Senshusei Course. Being excited was an understatement. I was thrown out of focus. I was nervous as
hell.
The unsettling sensations took me by surprise. I expected happiness at my good fortune,
expected joy at the honor of being uke for one of the most celebrated aikidoka in the world.
But that very reason, I soon I realized, was actually the cause for the mountain of worries that
over shadowed my pinnacle of joy.
Being Chida’s uke meant first and foremost responsibility, the ability to represent Yoshinkan
Aikido in the most honorable and spectacular fashion. It meant performing to the highest
standards and doing so in front of a multitude of spectators, it meant rubbing shoulders with
the crème de la crème of society at formal and highly renowned events.
What made matters worse was the fact that Chida sensei is a conservative person who likes
everything being strictly Japanese. He only communicated in Japanese despite his knowledge
of the English language and expected his uke to follow Japanese etiquette.
“This is a recipe for disaster,” I thought miserably. I had never been cut out for respectable
conduct in any society, not to mention the fact that my Japanese had hardly improved since
the day I arrived in the country.
In my distress I contacted Mark Baker and asked for some tips. He had many pieces of advice
to share.
“When Chida sensei attends demonstrations and clinics it’s not just about aikido training and
techniques,” Mark said. “What he does is perform a formal duty, almost like a politician, and
it’s your responsibility to make sure he enjoys full comfort when he does that. You must be
attentive to his needs, carry his bag, stand by him when he talks in case he asks for anything
and at meals, supervise that he is served first and that his cup of drink is always full. At
demonstrations you must prepare his slippers when he steps on and off the mat, and once the
performance is over, you must fold his dogi and hakama. Oh, and don’t forget, he’s got a unique
system to tie the ribbon of his hakama. I showed it to you in the past – don’t you remember?”
I broke into a sweat when Mark finished the long list.
“Man,” I moaned. “Sounds like a real pain.”
“It’s not easy,” he agreed. “I used to start panting during demonstrations just from all the stress
of the formalities. It’s worth it, though.”
“I surely hope so.”
“It is, I promise you. I know you have taken his uke a few times before and that you even had
the pleasure to train with him a whole evening class, but this is different. To be his personal
uke is the ultimate achievement. In comparison, your past experiences will feel dull, almost like
scratching the surface. Now stop worrying, good luck.”
“Will give it my best effort,” I said and with that, the conversation was over.
Chida sensei never openly declared my new position. The only real confirmation came when he
approached me one morning and asked if I would like to join him on a teaching trip to Gifu. I
agreed and he said we would leave on Friday after the two o’clock class.
Friday came, and as agreed, I waited for him by the office when the class was over. He came
out of the teachers’ changing room a few minutes later. He was dressed in a dark-blue suit,
had his glasses on and was holding a sports bag. He took one look at me and a smile formed
on his face.
“You look red,” he said. “Are you hot?”
He suggested I should take off my jacket and loosen up the tie that choked my neck.
“It’s OK,” I said although there was nothing more I could wish for at that moment. I never felt
comfortable in a suit.
Chida sensei produced a small map from his pocket and showed me where we were going. I
looked, listened, but in my mind I was running through Mark’s to-do list: slippers, filling cups
with drinks and plates with food, folding dogi – the hakama with a special knot to the ribbons.
And carrying bag, oh no, how could I forget the bag?
I launched forward to grab his bag but he pulled it back, holding it tightly to his chest.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
We went out of the dojo and walked to the train station. I strolled beside him, my eyes sneaking
peeks at his bag, wondering what had gone wrong, why wouldn’t he let me carry it?
At the train station I saw an opportunity to redeem myself and I jumped straight for the ticket
machines while pulling out my wallet.
“I don’t need a ticket,” Chida Sensei said and showed me his monthly pass. “And I’m buying
your ticket,” he added disarmingly.
I had to step aside and observe him taking his place in the queue. I felt hot and frustrated,
disturbed by his unwillingness to allow me to fulfil my formal duties. We reached the platform
and I took a final attempt at his bag. Again he pulled it to his chest but this time he added an
explanation.
“You’re not very good with Japanese customs,” he said bluntly. “I saw you try many times but
it’s not you. So don’t bother. Be natural. Be yourself. Understand?”
He spoke mainly in English to make sure I understood. I gaped at him for a moment then
hesitantly opened my mouth.
“I don’t understand.”
“Exactly,” he sighed and began to elaborate, saying I should basically stay away from his bag and slippers, that I shouldn’t fold his dogi and never make tea.
“Hakama?” I dared raise the suggestion.
“Don’t touch my hakama!” he warned with a stern expression.
“Ok.”
I lowered my head, feeling sorry for myself. He tapped me on the shoulder.
“Relax,” he smiled. “Be yourself.”
The train arrived and we stepped in. We had a long trip ahead of us, two hours travel and two
trains to change. We found seats and I sat quietly, my cheeks burning with shame from the fact
he knew how terrible I was, that I was exposed.
I watched him take his jacket and tie off and it suddenly occurred to me that he must have
known all about my formal disabilities even before he decided to make me his uke. The thought
immediately elevated my mood.
“Relax,” I whispered to myself. “If he wants me to be natural then that’s exactly what I must
do.”
He smiled and nodded his approval as I took off my jacket and tie. He then leaned back into his
seat, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The headmaster of the Yoshinkan Aikido branch in Gifu waited for us at the station. He had two
uchi deshi accompanying him. They bowed deeply and the headmaster exchanged a few words
with Chida sensei. Then they took our bags and led us to their vehicles. We drove to a fancy
hotel and they escorted us each to his luxurious room. They left us to get organized and went
to wait downstairs. They treated us with the outmost respect, as if we were royalty, as if Chida
sensei was a king and I, the crown prince.
When we were ready we drove to the sports hall that they had hired for the event. I managed
to get a quick glance inside as we were ushered to the changing room. The hall was packed
with students and spectators.
As I was commanded, I kept away from Chida sensei and his belongings. One of the Gifu uchi
deshi was by his side to serve him. Five minutes later the other uchi deshi popped his head in.
It was time to step onto the mats. I followed Chida sensei to the hall, my heart thumping in my
chest, panting as if I had just run a marathon. The magnitude of the situation suddenly hit me.
Chida sensei stopped and looked at me.
“A good uke knows how to relax,” he whispered and I nodded while grinding my teeth. He
sighed and moved on. We got to the mats and Chida sensei took off his slippers, the uchi deshi
kneeling beside him and rearranging them. We walked to the middle of the mats, bowed to the
tiny shrine on the wall and to the students. Chida sensei motioned me to sit in seiza while he
addressed the crowd.
While he spoke I sat tense on my knees, my eyes focused on his face, ready to take his uke.
He stopped talking and ordered me to stand up, whispering the attack and demonstrating a
technique which he broke into sections.
My heart was racing in my chest all through the move, respiration strained, my vision blurry. I
felt senseless and twice almost made mistakes. I exhaled in relief when the demonstration was
over and the students began to practice.
All through the class I took his uke but never managed to fully engage in the performance, the
need to satisfy the crowd putting unexpected stain on my mind and muscles. At the end of the
lesson the main demonstration took place.
Chida sensei started by throwing me gently, no more than five times, but I was already exhausted.
He stopped and bowed, right before I was about to collapse, and gestured with his arm to the
mats. I dropped to one knee but kept the tension in my body, alert and waiting for the next
sequence of attacks. He rolled his eyes and lectured for a couple of minutes then performed a
few more moves.
He continued to operate in the same manner for the next fifteen minutes, a quarter of an hour
that felt like years. In fact, I was so tired near the end that he ordered me to sit aside while he
used one of the Gifu uchi deshi for his final moves. When the demonstration was over I had
to muster all my self control to walk rather than crawl behind him as we left the mats. In the
dressing room I collapsed onto a wooden bench. I felt defeated, a failure by all accounts. He
glanced at me and shook his head. He came to stand beside me.
“I told you to relax,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I was very nervous.”
“I know. That’s why I gave you the opportunity to catch your breath between throws. I don’t
speak that much normally, you know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Never mind, next time. Now get up, have a shower, get dressed and prepare yourself.”
“Prepare for what?” I asked hesitantly. He studied me for a tense second and then a smile
spread across his face.
“For a few good drinks. What else?”
The Gifu trip marks the worst demonstration that I ever had with Chida sensei but it also
celebrates my most significant lesson in being an uke. In Gifu I was taught the ground rules for
the first time, my responsibilities as an uke clearly defined. And I learned that being natural and
relaxed is the only state of mind for superb performance and the best way to evolve as an uke.
No less important, in Gifu I learned that Chida sensei liked to party and that when he drank, he
would blare out secrets and in perfect English as well.
I could write for hours about all the other demonstrations I had with Chida sensei, analyse his
surgically precise techniques and openly glorify the sheer power behind his every throw and
pin. But what I believe made Chida sensei so special was not the technique but the air of trust
he created around him, an atmosphere which brought the best out in me.
There were others who threw me just as hard as Chida sensei, maybe even harder, but none
that I held so willingly, none that I so joyously wished they would exercise all the power they
possessed. I was never injured by him and after Gifu, never out of breath. I trusted him to throw
me as he willed and under all circumstances, fully engaged even during occasions in which his
behaviour would be best described as naughty as hell.
That was another vital lesson that I learned in Gifu.
It happened at the end of the party that the Gifu crowd threw after the demonstration. The
party took place in a wide sports hall that was modestly decorated with aikido banners and
pictures, tables loaded with food and drinks spread around the floor, a platform at the far end
of the hall serving as a makeshift karaoke stage.
Most attendants were heavily intoxicated at this point in the evening, some standing in
small groups and chatting loudly, others laughing heartily while watching the brave amateur
performers who dared climb up to the platform and sing from the top of their lungs. There was
no music or lyrics to accommodate their act. It was raw karaoke, a stage, a microphone and
that’s all!
Since I’m not a big drinker I was fairly focused and stable compared to the rest. I kept to myself,
silently standing by the wall while firmly holding a half full beer bottle. It was the only tool to
fend away those who walked around the hall with fresh bottles – the only way to combat the
Japanese custom of drowning guests with alcohol.
“Gadi,” I heard Chida sensei’s voice and saw him waving at me. He was standing a few feet
away from the stage with the Gifu head instructor and a few other respectable looking men.
“Gadi!” he called again, smiling mysteriously, his face bright and red. I detached myself from
the wall and walked toward him.
“Yes, Sensei?”
“We would like you to sing for us,” he declared and I stopped dead in my tracks.
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, everyone here is dying to learn something about your culture.”
“You can ask anything you want.”
“What we want is to hear you sing.”
“Yes, please sing,” intervened the Gifu head instructor.
“But I’m not much of a singer.”
“We don’t care.”
“Sing,” prodded another member of the gang.
“Sing,” interjected another and then everyone chanted together:
“Sing! Sing! Sing!”
“No way.”
Chida sensei exhaled loudly and came to my side.
“Be polite,” he whispered with a serious expression. “Don’t insult their hospitality. Be respectable
– they’re really interested to know about you and your culture.”
“If you put it that way.”
“Come on, don’t look so miserable, you’ll be OK. Just go up and sing a little. They’re looking at
us. Come on, hurry, don’t embarrass me.”
He kept pressing the point of honour until I felt I had no other choice but to comply. The
group cheered as I climbed up on the stage. I moved slowly, like a condemned prisoner walking
towards his execution.
“Sing! Sing! Sing!”
I got to the top and looked down at the hall that suddenly went dead quiet, all eyes pinned on
me. I felt the blood draining from my face and I stood glaring back at them, my mind empty of
words, songs and music.
“Sing! Sing! Sing!”
The stressful situation kept my mind blank for a while longer and then, out of the darkness of
my subconscious, an old familiar Hebrew tune emerged. A song that I hated with all my heart,
that I refuse to sing, that I would never sing – oh what the hell…
To the cheers of the crowd I opened my mouth and began to sing.
“Hava Nagila Hava,” I whispered into the microphone, gaining courage with the first few words
and slowly increasing the volume. Chida sensei nodded his approval and I relaxed further,
forgetting the embarrassment and getting into the music, my voice bouncing from the walls.
Then I heard the laughter and looked down at Chida sensei who stood in the middle of the
group. His finger was pointing at me, a bemused expression on his face.
“Wakaranai, (I don’t understand),” he kept repeating as I sang, and each time he did, the whole
gang would burst out laughing. My face turned burning red, my voice fluttered but I kept
singing until the bitter end.
When the song was over I climbed down, hurried to one of the tables, picked up a beer bottle
and swallowed its contents with one long gulp. Chida sensei came over to me.
“Good show,” he said and tapped me on the shoulder. “What was the name of that song?”
“Hava Nagila,” I growled but he didn’t seem to notice my distress.
“Haba Nagiba?” he tried to repeat and together with his gang burst out laughing again.