Book Release Blog: "Chinen: The Okinawan Years of a Karate Pioneer"

After over two decades of meticulous research, countless dead ends, and more twists and turns than a spy thriller, I am proud to announce the release of my new book, Chinen: The Okinawan Years of a Karate Pioneer. This work, which has been in the making for over 20 years, is now available for purchase on Lulu via this link.
This journey has not been an easy one. From the very beginning, the project was met with a near-constant opposition from various corners, particularly from those who felt threatened by the revelations and insights it contains. However, I was fortunate to have a small, dedicated group of supporters who believed in the importance of this work. Some of them, fearing the fallout that might come from revealing controversial truths, chose to remain anonymous, reflecting the sad state of modern Budō. The reluctance to confront uncomfortable truths within the community is something I found particularly disheartening, but it also highlighted the necessity of this project: to offer a deeper, more authentic perspective on the Okinawan roots of Karate that has been overlooked or distorted over time.
Chinen focuses on the formative years of one of Karate's pioneering figures in Okinawa, shedding light on lesser-known aspects of his life, training, and philosophy. It explores his interactions with key figures in Okinawan martial arts, delves into the historical context of the time, and reflects on the evolution of Karate from a regional tradition to a globally recognised martial art.
What sets Chinen apart is its unflinching approach to the subject matter. It doesn’t shy away from controversial topics or the challenges that the Karate community faces today. By providing a detailed historical account and a critical analysis of the man behind the legend, this book invites readers to reassess the way we view the martial art's history, and hopefully, encourage a more honest and open dialogue about its evolution.
The book not only offers a fresh perspective on a key figure in Karate's development but also aims to highlight the deep connections between Okinawan culture and the martial arts. For anyone invested in the future of Karate, Chinen is a call to return to the roots of the discipline, recognising its full historical context rather than settling for the simplified versions that often dominate the conversation.
I invite you to explore the stories and insights that make Chinen an essential addition to any martial artist's library. I believe this work will inspire both seasoned practitioners and newcomers alike to rethink what they know about Karate and the principles that have guided its practitioners for generations.
Order your copy now and embark on a journey through the Okinawan years of one of Karate's unsung pioneers.
Order Chinen: The Okinawan Years of a Karate Pioneer now

• James M. Hatch
  

書籍リリースブログ：「チネン：空手の先駆者の沖縄時代」
20年以上にわたる綿密な調査と、スパイ映画さながらの数々の行き止まりを経て、ついに私の新著『チネン：空手の先駆者の沖縄時代』を発表できることを誇りに思います。この書籍は、Luluで注文可能です。
このプロジェクトは決して容易なものではありませんでした。最初からこの書籍はさまざまな反対に直面しました。特に、この本に含まれる発見や見解に脅威を感じた一部の関係者からの反発がありました。しかし、私は少数の献身的な支援者たちに恵まれ、この仕事の重要性を理解してくれました。その中には、反響を恐れて匿名で支援してくれた方々もおり、これは現代の武道の悲しい現実を反映しています。武道コミュニティ内で不都合な真実に向き合うことへの躊躇が、特に残念に感じましたが、このプロジェクトが必要とされる理由を痛感しました。それは、空手の沖縄の根源に関する深く、真実に基づいた視点を提供することです。
『チネン』は、沖縄で空手の先駆者の一人として知られる人物の形成期に焦点を当て、彼の人生、訓練、哲学の知られざる側面を明らかにします。沖縄の武道の重要人物との関わりや当時の歴史的背景を探求し、空手が地域的な伝統から世界的に認知された武道へと進化した過程を反映しています。
この本の特徴は、内容に対する揺るぎないアプローチです。空手コミュニティが直面している課題や論争的なテーマから目を背けることなく、詳細な歴史的背景と、伝説の裏に隠れた人物の批判的分析を提供します。この書籍は、空手の歴史をどのように見るべきかを再考させ、進化についてより正直で開かれた対話を促進することを目指しています。
『チネン』は、空手の発展における重要な人物に新たな視点を提供するだけでなく、沖縄文化と武道との深い結びつきを強調することを目指しています。空手の未来に関心のあるすべての人にとって、この本はその伝統の根源に立ち返り、その完全な歴史的文脈を認識するための呼びかけです。簡略化されたバージョンにとどまらず、その本質を理解するための第一歩となるでしょう。
空手家の図書館に必携の一冊である『チネン』の物語と洞察をぜひご覧ください。この書籍は、空手の歴史とその哲学を再考させ、世代を超えた実践者にインスピレーションを与えることでしょう。
今すぐ注文して、空手の先駆者の沖縄時代を巡る旅を始めてください。
『チネン：空手の先駆者の沖縄時代』を今すぐ注文

• ジェームズ・M・ハッチ
  

Abstract: Masami Tsuruoka is widely celebrated as the "Father of Canadian Karate," credited with introducing Chitō-ryū karate to Canada and shaping its development across North America. Yet, a close examination of the historical record reveals significant gaps, contradictions, and mythologising in the narrative surrounding his training, relationship with Dr. Tsuyoshi Chitose, and role in the early postwar karate landscape. This paper explores the discrepancies within the traditional Tsuruoka narrative, questioning its historical accuracy and suggesting that his legacy, while influential, has been heavily curated for symbolic legitimacy rather than strict factuality.

1. Introduction Masami Tsuruoka occupies a central place in the canon of North American karate. The prevailing account asserts that he travelled to Japan in 1945 or 1946, trained under Dr. Tsuyoshi Chitose in Kumamoto, received his black belt by 1949, and returned to Canada to establish the country’s first karate dojo in 1957. However, recent scholarship and archival cross-referencing raise serious doubts about the accuracy and verifiability of these claims. This paper re-evaluates Tsuruoka's early biography, interrogating the gaps between the mythology and available historical evidence.
2. Historical Context: Repatriation and Postwar Realities After World War II, Japanese Canadians were subject to forced relocation, internment, and coerced repatriation to Japan. Internment did not begin in 1945, as some narratives suggest, but in early 1942 following the Canadian declaration of war on Japan. Over 21,000 Japanese Canadians were forcibly relocated from the West Coast and sent to internment camps such as Tashme (correctly spelled, not “Tashimi”) and Rosebery. The Tsuruoka family was reportedly among them.

The war ended in August 1945, and deportations to Japan began only in May 1946. These deportations were politically and morally contentious, often pressured and framed as “voluntary” under threat of asset seizure and family separation. Masami Tsuruoka’s claim that he left for Japan “after the war in 1945” and began training under Chitose at age 17 (in 1946) lacks documentary support. For him to have arrived in Japan in time to begin formal training in early 1946 would require that he was among the earliest deportees—something not corroborated by immigration or repatriation records. Thus, the timeline presented in popular accounts compresses and simplifies a much more complex and politically charged process. While Tsuruoka did train with Dr. Chitose, the claim that this began in 1946 should be approached with caution unless more concrete evidence emerges.

1. Chitose’s Activities in the Late 1940s. Dr. Tsuyoshi Chitose, founder of Chitō-ryū, did not resume formal karate teaching immediately after the war. In fact, sources indicate that Chitose was attempting to establish a department store in Kumamoto during this period and did not formally open the Yoseikan dojo until March 1946. There is scant evidence that a structured, open karate programme existed at that time. Moreover, early dojo photographs and rosters do not include Tsuruoka, further undermining the claim of extensive postwar training.
2. Silence in the Shared Timeline: The Dometrich Omission A particularly telling inconsistency lies in the near-total absence of Masami Tsuruoka in the records and recollections of William J. Dometrich, a U.S. serviceman who trained with Chitose in Kumamoto between 1953 and 1954. If Tsuruoka had indeed been a senior student during this period, it is surprising that he is not referenced more prominently in Dometrich’s autobiographical writings or organisational histories. However, it must also be noted that the two men did recognise and interact with each other later. Tsuruoka provided an endorsement for Dometrich’s memoir The Endless Quest, and Dometrich acknowledged Tsuruoka as his senior and visited him in Toronto in 1963. This mutual respect and later collaboration complicate the historical picture. While they likely did not train together in Kumamoto, their later relationship reflects a shared commitment to the expansion of Chitō-ryū in North America. That said, the lack of detailed references to one another in early narratives still invites scrutiny, especially given their overlapping roles and timelines.

Additionally, it is important to note that Dometrich’s direct training under Chitose was limited by geography. Stationed in Beppu, Dometrich could only travel to Kumamoto intermittently. His training with Chitose, while formative, likely occurred only a handful of times, supplemented largely through instruction by Ichiro Shirahama. This suggests that while Dometrich's contact with Chitose was sincere and legitimate, it may not have provided him with sustained exposure to the core dojo environment—raising questions about how both Tsuruoka and Dometrich represented their respective experiences for the purposes of legacy-building.

1. The Okinawa Fundraising Absence: Despite claims that Chitose was active in postwar Okinawan cultural and karate reconstruction efforts, he does not appear in photographs or documented rosters of the major fundraising campaigns that included other Okinawan luminaries - however we do have one of him in an event in Kumamoto. This absence aligns with the narrative that Chitose was focused primarily on rebuilding his civilian life in Kumamoto, and not yet playing a major role in the broader karate world—contrary to what retrospective accounts often suggest.
2. Limitations and Interpretive Boundaries: This paper does not dispute that Masami Tsuruoka trained under Dr. Chitose. Rather, it questions the timeline and narrative clarity surrounding that training. The absence of evidence—particularly photographic, testimonial, and administrative documentation—from the key early years forces us to be cautious in accepting the 1946 start date as historical fact. Based on the available records, it seems more plausible that Tsuruoka’s training occurred later in the 1940s, perhaps in the early 1950s, and concluded before William Dometrich began his own training in 1953. Until stronger evidence is produced to corroborate the 1946 claim, the current account should be treated as a constructed origin story rather than an established historical truth. This is not a dismissal of Tsuruoka’s importance, but rather a call for precision and honesty in representing karate’s transmission.
3. Myth-Making in Martial Arts Lineage: The inflation of lineage and rank is not uncommon in martial arts traditions. In Tsuruoka’s case, the drive to assert legitimacy and authority in a nascent Canadian karate scene likely encouraged an idealised version of his training background. The narrative of direct tutelage under Chitose from 1946, culminating in a black belt and eventual propagation of the style abroad, is clean and inspiring—but possibly selectively remembered.
4. Conclusion: Legacy vs. Literal Truth Masami Tsuruoka undoubtedly played a formative role in the development of Canadian karate. However, historical scrutiny reveals that the foundational story of his training under Dr. Chitose contains notable inconsistencies, omissions, and possible embellishments. Recognising these issues does not diminish his contributions, but it does call for a more honest, historically grounded account of his life. Martial arts communities must be willing to separate legacy from literal truth in order to preserve integrity in historical scholarship.

Keywords: Masami Tsuruoka, Tsuyoshi Chitose, Chitō-ryū, karate history, martial arts mythology, Dometrich, postwar Japan, Japanese Canadian deportation

Jikishin-Ryū (直真流) Tōshinkai (東心会): A Way of Being
直真流 東心会：模範となる生き方
Jikishin-Ryū Tōshinkai: Mohan to naru ikikata
(Jikishin-Ryū Tōshinkai: A Life Worth Emulating)
​
Jikishin-Ryū (直真流) Tōshinkai (東心会) is not merely a name—it is a waymark on the path, a quiet declaration of what matters in life and in practice. It stands not as a brand or institution, but as a living philosophy. A rhythm. A way.
Jikishin-Ryū (直真流) translates as the “School of the Straight or True Heart.” It originates in the teachings of Inomoto-Sensei, whose vision for budō was not one of division between disciplines, but of integration—a return to unity through simplicity. In his eyes, the mechanics and spirit of swordsmanship, karate, and kobudō were all tributaries of the same river. What mattered was not the weapon or the technique, but the clarity of intention and the refinement of character behind it.
In this sense, Jikishin-Ryū (直真流) is less a collection of movements and more a lived rhythm. The blade teaches distance and timing; the hand teaches discipline and control; the ancient tools of kobudō teach balance, continuity, and humility. Each informs the other. There is nothing wasted.
This path rejects spectacle in favour of quiet precision. It does not seek to impress, but to express. The emphasis is always on alignment—between mind and movement, heart and action. A strike must be honest, a step must be placed with awareness, a bow must carry the full weight of one's intent. Jikishin is not simply "straightness" of form, but of spirit.
The companion name, Tōshinkai (東心会)—“Association of the Eastern Heart”—is a homage to the teachings and traditions of the East that have profoundly shaped my own martial and personal journey. From the austere beauty of Zen to the structured compassion of Confucian ethics, from the silence of the dōjō to the echoes of Okinawan footwork, there is a spiritual coherence in these traditions that resonates deeply. As someone raised with the contemplative and nature-rooted rhythms of Irish life, I have long felt a kinship with the Eastern emphasis on stillness, humility, and depth. Tōshinkai (東心会) is my gesture of respect to that inheritance—and an invitation for others to walk the path with care and sincerity.
At the heart of Jikishin-Ryū (直真流) Tōshinkai (東心会) lies the principle of:
率先垂範 (Sossen Suihan)“To take the initiative in setting an example.” of to "live a life worth emulating"
This is not an aspiration to perfection, but to presence. To live in such a way that one's conduct becomes a quiet guidepost for others—not through status or authority, but through consistency, kindness, and discipline. It is about allowing your training to permeate your decisions, your interactions, your silences. It is about letting your values show in how you hold a door, how you listen, how you respond under pressure. It is about leading without needing to be seen as a leader.
As someone who holds both faith and discipline close, I have come to believe that a life well-lived is one that is worthy of imitation, not because it is grand, but because it is grounded. This is as true in the classroom as it is in the dōjō. It is not the loudest voice or the most forceful technique that shapes a legacy—it is the quiet steadiness of those who live their values each day, with grace and with resolve.
Jikishin-Ryū (直真流) Tōshinkai (東心会) is thus not just a martial system—it is a living practice. It is rooted in tradition but open to growth. It is structured but never rigid. And it is shaped, above all, by the belief that through training, through service, and through reflection, we become not just better martial artists—but better people.
Footnote:While the commonly used expression in Japan is 率先垂範 (Sossen Suihan)—to take the initiative in setting an example—this tradition also quietly honours the rarer Classical Chinese phrase 垂範率光 (Suihan Sokkō), which evokes the idea of radiating as a moral light. It is a poetic and ancient expression, reflecting the deeper spirit behind this way of budō: not just to act rightly, but to become a quiet illumination for others.

The past three years have taken everything from me.

Not the surface things—not position, not comfort—but what was most precious.
What gave my life its deepest meaning.
What rooted me, gave shape to my days, and steadied my hands.
Gone.

What remained was silence.

Not peace—silence.

The kind that follows collapse. The kind that strips you down to breath, body, and question.
You do not recover from that.
You begin again.
Not out of strength—but because you have no choice.

I had nothing left. But I was not empty.

I had knowledge.
Experience.
And something even harder-earned: the beginning of wisdom.
So I turned back to the path I have always known: Budō.
Not as technique. Not as title. But as a way of seeing. A way of enduring.

From that space, four dragons emerged—not myth, not fantasy, but memory and metaphor. They have become a way to name what I have lived through. A quiet, personal cosmology.

The Red Dragon – Flame of Intention (Sekiryū)
The Red Dragon is anger turned into motion. It is refusal.
It is the voice that says: “You will not disappear today.”
In Budō, it is action with purpose—fighting not to win, but because standing still would mean death of the spirit. When everything around me collapsed, this was the dragon that stayed close. The will to act when nothing makes sense. It is the warrior’s breath drawn through clenched teeth.

The Black Dragon – Guardian of the Shadow (Kokuryū)
The Black Dragon is where you go when even anger runs dry.
It is grief without a name. Self-doubt that wraps like smoke. The long hours alone with your own face, stripped of role, status, illusion.
This dragon does not destroy you—it shows you that you are already broken, and asks what you will do now.
In Budō, this is the most brutal truth: you are your own opponent. And unless you learn to sit with that, you will never rise.

The Green Dragon – Breath of Growth (Seiryokuryū)
The Green Dragon has no interest in your suffering.
It waits. Quiet. Patient. It speaks only through repetition: one breath, one form, one return.
It is the path after the fire—where nothing feels inspired, but the body moves anyway. This is discipline without reward. Structure without comfort. It is how I began to move again. No audience. No milestones. Just the slow rhythm of survival becoming something like life.

The Purple Dragon – Spirit Beyond Mastery (Murasakiryū)
The Purple Dragon is not strength—it is what remains when strength no longer matters.
It is the calm after collapse.
The dignity of restraint.
In Japanese tradition, purple is a colour of spiritual depth—not victory, but presence. This dragon does not fight. It teaches by not teaching. It leads by no longer needing to lead.

In Budō, this stage upon which I now stand is beyond form— beyond the silent walking, the quiet knowing.

No show.

Just truth.

Why These Four
Because they came when everything else left.
Each dragon marks a part of what I have become:

• Red – motion from anger, from instinct, from the will to live.
• Black – the mirror that showed me who I was when nothing was left.
• Green – the breath that returned each day.
• Purple – the presence that speaks in silence.

They are not symbols of recovery. They are markers of a path forged in fire, shadow, repetition, and release. For me they are only seen when I have lost all that was dear and precious to me.

The Three Battles
What the fire made clear to me is this:
We all face three battles—and none of them are visible from the outside.

• The first is with yourself—with ego, illusion, denial.
• The second is with others—the world that misunderstands, resists, abandons, forgets.
• The third is with time—the slow, inevitable decline of the body.

Some avoid one. Some pretend none exist.
But if you live long enough—and lose deep enough—you will face all three.
And if you are lucky, you do not emerge victorious. You emerge honest.

The Hat
I wear these four dragons—Red, Black, Green, and Purple—stitched in a quiet arc on a simple black hat.
To others, it is just a design. A curiosity. A symbol without a story.
But I know.
I wear it not to display what I have been through, but to remember what survived it.
The fire took much. The silence took more.
But every time I wear that hat, I remember what Budō taught me:
I do not need to be who I was.
I only need to become what is true.

破滅即再生 – Hametsu soku saiseiDestruction is Rebirth.
This is not a motto.
It is a scar. A rhythm. A law.
I did not walk through fire to return to what was.
I walked through to become something else.
Something I am still becoming.
And the dragons walk with me.

Intro:
Earlier this month, I sat down to watch the Netflix series The Days, a powerful dramatization of the 2011 Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. As someone who lived in Japan during that time—and still calls this country home—the series brought back a torrent of memories. The horror. The helplessness. The scale of it. But more than anything, the frustration.
For many, Fukushima is remembered as a natural disaster. But as years of investigations have since confirmed, this was not merely a tragedy of nature. It was a failure of leadership, of preparation, and of moral responsibility. A preventable tragedy.

A Disaster Waiting to Happen
Fukushima Daiichi’s reactors were built on a flawed foundation—literally and figuratively. The plant used the GE Mark I reactor design, long criticised for its vulnerability. Critical backup diesel generators—needed to power cooling systems in emergencies—were placed at or below ground level. When the tsunami struck, they were wiped out in moments, triggering a complete power failure. Cooling systems failed, and three reactor cores melted down.

This was not unforeseeable. TEPCO engineers had already modelled tsunamis higher than the seawalls protecting the plant. Government scientists had warned of the risks. Even historical records spoke of giant waves in that region. But those warnings were downplayed, and safety upgrades delayed.

Even the site’s elevation had been cut down from a protective bluff to near sea level—trading safety for construction convenience.
“Fukushima was not an unforeseeable act of nature—it was a crisis that had been quietly predicted and quietly ignored.”

Failures in the Heat of Crisis
As the disaster unfolded, the response was chaotic. Evacuations were slow and confusing. Venting the reactors to release pressure was delayed by indecision and poor communication. And at one point, TEPCO’s leadership even considered pulling their staff out of the plant entirely. It took the direct intervention of Prime Minister Naoto Kan to prevent a full withdrawal.
What I found especially galling—then and now—was the obfuscation. TEPCO knew within days that full meltdowns had occurred. Yet for weeks, they avoided using the word “meltdown” in public, offering euphemisms that misled both the public and international observers. This was not a lack of information—it was a lack of honesty.

No Panic—But Plenty of Outrage
I was never afraid—not in the way some foreign press imagined. There was no panic. No rush to leave. Japan is my home. What I did feel was outrage—not for myself, but for the thousands of people in the affected areas who were left out in the cold, quite literally, by an inept and fragmented response.

What added insult to injury was the theatre. I remember watching government officials and cabinet ministers appear before the nation dressed in “boiler suits”—as if they were part of the emergency response teams, shoulder to shoulder with those risking their lives on the ground.
But they were not. They were role-playing. They were performing competence. These were not frontline responders. They were career bureaucrats cosplaying as emergency workers while real communities dealt with the horror of loss, radiation, and displacement.
“Donning a uniform does not make you a responder. It makes you a performer—if you lack the dignity to step aside for those actually doing the work.”

The Old Boys Who Got Away With It
The Fukushima Daiichi accident could have been the worst nuclear disaster in history. That it was not—thanks to the heroism of frontline workers—should not distract us from the fact that those most responsible walked away untouched.

Masataka Shimizu, TEPCO’s president, vanished from public view in the early days of the crisis, only to resurface in a cushy boardroom job at a TEPCO-affiliated oil company. Tsunehisa Katsumata, TEPCO’s chairman, and vice presidents Sakae Muto and Ichirō Takekuro were the only executives ever indicted. They were acquitted. Courts ruled the tsunami was unforeseeable—despite TEPCO’s own internal projections showing otherwise.

Even a symbolic ¥13.3 trillion civil judgment years later changed little. No jail time. No meaningful accountability. They live out their retirements untouched.

On the government side, Naoto Kan resigned as Prime Minister but stayed active in politics, reinventing himself as an anti-nuclear advocate. Yukio Edano, who fronted the daily briefings during the disaster, continued his career, despite his role in muting the gravity of the situation. Haruki Madarame, head of the Nuclear Safety Commission, admitted regulators failed—but simply returned to academia.

This was not just a failure to prosecute. It was a system protecting its own. The nuclear industry, regulators, and political elite—what has often been called Japan’s “nuclear village”—closed ranks.
“They did not just avoid justice—they were protected from it. The old boys’ club saw to that.”

Meanwhile, People Remain DisplacedWhile these men salvaged their reputations or quietly moved on, tens of thousands of ordinary citizens remained in limbo.

At the disaster’s peak, over 160,000 people were evacuated from Fukushima Prefecture. As of 2023—twelve years later—more than 30,000 people still remain displaced, many living in temporary housing, still waiting for safe, permanent resettlement. Some communities will never return. Livelihoods were destroyed. Mental health impacts continue to ripple across generations.

And yet, the government pushed ahead with business as usual.

In 2019, Japan hosted the Rugby World Cup, and just two years later, during a global pandemic, the Tokyo Olympics went forward—despite the continued suffering of evacuees and the unresolved legacy of Fukushima.

Billions were poured into new stadiums, infrastructure, branding campaigns, and diplomatic optics. But for many Fukushima survivors, those billions never translated into a return home, or into long-term health care, or into justice.
“We were told to move on. But how do you move on when the country is cheering in new stadiums, and you are still waiting for a place to live?”

Why This Still Matters
I stayed in Japan during the crisis not because I was brave, but because I believed in the resilience and civility of this country’s people. That belief remains. But Fukushima exposed something deeper and more troubling: how systems built on self-preservation can fail those they are meant to protect.

The meltdowns at Fukushima were not just technical failures—they were failures of courage, transparency, and responsibility. The impact is still felt today in communities that were uprooted, in land that remains unusable, and in a lingering distrust of those in power.
The story of Fukushima must not fade. It is not just a tale of radiation and reactors, but of what happens when leadership becomes theatre and accountability dissolves into silence.

​福島第一原発事故は「自然災害」ではなく、人災だった。
安全対策の怠慢、政府とTEPCOの無責任な対応、そして「お仲間文化」による責任回避。
メルトダウンは起こったが、最悪の事態は避けられた。しかし、16万人以上が避難し、今もなお数万人が帰れないままだ。
「放射線で死者ゼロ」とされるが、避難中の死亡や精神的負担による自殺は2,000人以上。
一方、責任者たちは罰を受けることなく、再び要職へ。
福島の教訓を忘れてはならない。
​