013 — The Okinawan Spirit of Not Losing, Part 3: Miyagi Chōjun and the Sailor

An AI-generated photorealistic likeness of Miyagi Chōjun, based on historical reference images.

"Do not strike others, and do not be struck by others. This is the principle of peace without incident." – Miyagi Chōjun

Miyagi Chōjun (1888–1953) was one of the most respected and influential figures in Okinawan Karate history. Born in Higashi-machi, Naha, to a wealthy merchant family, Miyagi's upbringing afforded him the finest education and opportunities for martial study. At the age of eleven, he began training under Ryūko Aragaki, and at fourteen was introduced to Kanryō Higaonna, the renowned master of Naha-te. Miyagi would remain Higaonna's student until Higaonna's passing in 1915, enduring the rigorous training and moral discipline that defined his teacher's approach.

As a teenager, however, Miyagi's understanding of karate was still immature. In one incident, he struck another youth with such force during an altercation that the boy was severely injured. Higaonna rebuked him sharply, impressing upon him that karate was not to be used in anger or carelessness. The lesson stayed with Miyagi, marking the beginning of a lifelong commitment to restraint and moral responsibility.

In 1915, after his teacher's passing, Miyagi traveled to Fuzhou, China, where he studied local martial arts. It was here that he encountered the Rokkishu exercises, a set of movements that emphasized the balance of "hard" and "soft" techniques. These exercises later inspired him to create Tenshō kata, an embodiment of the "soft" aspect of Gōjū-ryū. Returning to Okinawa, he began teaching widely, adapting his training to suit students ranging from police officers to schoolchildren.

In 1930, he officially named his style Gōjū-ryū—"Hard-Soft Tradition"—drawing the name from a line in the classical Chinese poem the Kempo Hakku. Three years later, Gōjū-ryū became the first Okinawan Karate style to be formally recognized by the Dai Nippon Butoku-kai in Japan. Miyagi also created the new gendai kata, Geki-Sai Dai Ichi and Geki-Sai Dai Ni, to make karate more accessible to the public.

Miyagi's life was not without tragedy. During World War II and the Battle of Okinawa, Allied bombing destroyed his home, dojo, and years of painstaking research into karate's history. Even more devastating, several of his children perished in the conflict. Yet despite these losses, Miyagi resumed teaching in the war's aftermath, determined that his art and the values it carried would not vanish.

Miyagi passed away on October 8, 1953, at the age of sixty-five. His legacy endures not only through the worldwide practice of Gōjū-ryū but also through the example he set as a martial artist who valued peace over violence and control over conquest. His dedication to these values remains a lasting example.

The incident in this story likely took place in the 1920s or early 1930s, when Miyagi was in his late thirties or early forties. By then, Miyagi was already a respected figure in Naha, known for his skill, composure, and civic-mindedness.

Naha was Okinawa's primary port—a bustling hub of commerce, culture, and foreign contact. Ships from Japan, China, and the West regularly docked there, bringing sailors and traders from around the world. With this traffic came both opportunity and occasional friction. While the majority of encounters were peaceful, it was not uncommon for disputes to break out in the busy streets or entertainment districts. Local police forces were small, and in moments of public disturbance, prominent community members—especially those known for calm judgment—might be asked to intervene.

It was in this setting that Miyagi encountered a large and aggressive foreign sailor causing trouble in the port district. According to some accounts, the man had been drinking heavily; others say he was sober but combative. Either way, he was intimidating in both size and demeanor, and the situation grew tense.

Miyagi was not known to seek out confrontation. In this instance, he either accidentally came upon it or was called to it because of his reputation for restoring order without unnecessary violence. The sailor, towering over most bystanders, was shouting and making threatening gestures toward those around him.

Two variations of this story have been passed down through oral tradition. In one, Miyagi approached with quiet confidence, allowing the sailor to initiate contact before responding with tactile control and subtle footwork, unbalancing him and guiding him harmlessly to the ground. In the other, the exchange was even shorter: Miyagi avoided a wild swing, stepped inside the sailor's reach, and redirected his energy with such precision that the man found himself unable to continue. The incident went something like this:

The street was crowded, the noise of merchants calling out their wares mixing with the shouts of an angry sailor. People stood back as a foreigner, broad-shouldered and red-faced, glared at anyone who met his eyes. Whether his state came from drink or sheer temper, it made little difference—he was a threat to the peace.

Miyagi stepped forward, his movement deliberate, his expression calm. His presence alone drew the sailor's attention. Words between the two were exchanged—what was said is lost to time—but the sailor's tone was clear. The sailor, seething, attacked and lunged toward Miyagi with a heavy hand.

In a moment, Miyagi's hands met the sailor's arm. The contact was light, almost casual, yet somehow unshakable. As the sailor pushed, Miyagi yielded; as he tried to pull away, Miyagi followed. The sailor's momentum betrayed him—his balance slipped, his footing faltered, and within seconds he was on the ground, staring up in confusion.

Miyagi released him, stepped back, and with a slight bow, turned and walked away. There had been no strike, no blow to repay aggression. The confrontation ended not with a victor and a loser, but with peace restored, a lesson learned, and the street returning to its ordinary rhythm.

Regardless of whether the man was drunk or merely angry, Miyagi's response was calm, controlled, and without unnecessary harm. This incident exemplifies the Okinawan spirit of not losing: not losing one's composure, moral footing, or sight of karate's greater purpose.

In that very brief exchange, Miyagi demonstrated the essence of Gōjū-ryū: the harmony of hard and soft. He showed hardness through his resolve and courage to step forward and confront the wayward sailor. Yet he demonstrated softness in method—yielding and redirecting with compassion, not to injure. His actions not only reflected the essence of Gōjū-ryū but also embodied karate's highest principles.

Today's martial culture often prizes the visible win—knockouts, points, and submission holds. Miyagi's example challenges us to look deeper, to measure skill not only by what we can do to another person, but by what we choose not to do.

His art was not about overpowering force with aggression, but about meeting strength with softness, aggression with calm, and chaos with clarity. In this way, Miyagi showed that the greatest victory is not in defeating an opponent, but in leaving a confrontation whole and intact without injury, bitterness, or regret.

For today's karateka, the question should not be Can I win? but Should I win? Can I stand in a storm without being swept away? Can I lead conflict toward peace rather than escalation?

In the end, Miyagi lived his own words—preserving peace without incident, and showing us that the greatest strength lies in the courage to hold back.

Up Next
In Part 4 of this series, I will explore the story of Sōken Hohan, who intervened to protect a woman.