[Apr. 23] Interview with Manon Soavi for the publication of Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia, published by L’Originel (Obernai, France). By Louise Vertigo, on AligreFM radio programme Respirations, 17 February 2023 broadcast live.

Listen to the podcast here [in French] or read the [English] transcript below:

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LV: Hello Manon Soavi.

MS: Hello.

LV: I am delighted to welcome you for the publication of your book Itsuo Tsuda, The Anarchist Master — The Art of Living Utopia, published by L’Originel. For you, the practice of energy and martial arts leads to something more, as it prompts you to reflect on and take a stance on the functioning of society itself. This is what we will discover throughout the programme. First of all, I would like to ask you to introduce yourself.

MS: Thank you for having me today. I often say that I am like Obelix: I fell into the pot when I was little, since my parents began this journey before I was born.

It started with the May 1968 revolts and the questioning of systems in the 1970s. Then their encounter with Itsuo Tsuda enabled them to truly implement and experience in their bodies and sensibilities a different way of looking at the world, at life and at human relationships. It was a turning point for putting all these ideas into practice, all the turmoil that surrounded those years: anarchists, situationists, all those thinkers who questioned the modern world. And these thoughts that nourished them found a very strong echo in Itsuo Tsuda. This encounter changed their way of life, their way of being – gradually, it was a journey.

When I was born, and then my sister three years later, something obviously continued in terms of the relationship with the children and the pace of life. In other words, there was no question of them having come all this way towards liberation, this journey to break free from these systems of domination, only to let their children start again from scratch. That’s why it was only natural that neither my sister nor I ever went to school. That’s fundamental. Because not going to school allowed us to have a very different life, a kind of continuum between childhood, adolescence and adulthood, without these separations, these boxes, these categories of child | man | woman | work | leisure – everything was intertwined. And the philosophy of Itsuo Tsuda, the philosophy of Non-Doing, the importance of the body, of the subconscious, all of that was present, omnipresent in our daily lives.

LV: Yes, we will develop all that. You are Sensei Régis Soavi‘s daughter. Your father was a student of Itsuo Tsuda for ten years. He has been teaching Aikidō for over forty years...

MS: Fifty years now, actually.

LV: Oh, right! And could you… So I imagine it was Itsuo Tsuda who brought him to this level?

MS: My father started jūdō when he was young, at the age of 12, and pursued it for a while. Then he started Aikidō, practising with several Aikidō masters, including Master Noro and Master Tamura. He had a long journey in Aikidō… and one day (in 1973) he met Itsuo Tsuda. Itsuo Tsuda was someone who completely reoriented his practice of Aikidō. Moreover, the discovery of Katsugen Undō – which translates as Regenerative Movement – was another dimension that, too, changed the nature of my father’s Aikidō. Itsuo Tsuda became his master, the one he followed for ten years, until his death. Shortly before Itsuo Tsuda‘s death in 1983, Régis Soavi decided to move to Toulouse and open his own dōjō. Itsuo Tsuda agreed and encouraged him to continue on his path. Since then, he has continued to teach every morning for 50 years. Every morning, he teaches Aikidō. And to introduce people to Katsugen Undō.

LV: Very well, yes. I was lucky enough to have this experience with you. So now we’re going to talk about Itsuo Tsuda‘s unique journey. And first, we’ll talk about his influences. Who was he? And perhaps we can start by talking a little about the beginning of everything in energy, which is the Tao. So who was he, and what was his journey?

MS: Itsuo Tsuda was born in 1914 into a Japanese family living in Korea. Korea was occupied by Japan at the time. It was a very rigid, harsh, militarised, colonialist society. At the age of 16, Itsuo Tsuda refused the right of primogeniture. He opposed his father quite violently, since he left home. He left everything behind at the age of 16 and went wandering, as he said. He travelled through China. And finally, in the 1930s, he had only one desire: to visit France. In my opinion, he had already been exposed to anarchist ideas in China through publications, and this had already made an impression on him. But when he arrived in France in 1934, it was the time of the Popular Front, a period of significant social change in France, the scale of which has been largely forgotten today, and when the anarchist movement was very strong.

These years in Paris were extremely important for Itsuo Tsuda. He studied under Marcel Granet and Marcel Mauss at the Sorbonne, studying sinology and sociology. These researchers had a profound influence on his thinking and his understanding of the world and different cultures. When the war broke out, he was forced to leave for Japan. At the age of 30, he discovered his country during the Second World War. This was also a major upheaval. He would have liked to stay in France, where he still had a whole journey ahead of him. But life decided otherwise.

After the war, he immersed himself in his own culture, which he ultimately knew little about. He discovered Noh theatre and then Seitai, with Master Haruchika Noguchi, and spent the last ten years of Master Ueshiba‘s life studying Aikidō. This journey, with these discoveries of a culture where the body is not separate from the mind, where there is this feeling of life in everything, where things are not inert matter, are not separate, as much the body as the mind, nature, ourselves… We are a whole. And this is a discovery of a way of thinking that he had already approached, through ancient China, through Marcel Granet. And his research on anthropology, which he continued all those years in Japan – he translated Marcel Granet‘s The Religion of the Chinese People, he was the first translator into Japanese, it was really something he explored in depth. And this discovery of Taoism – he is a great connoisseur of Chuang Tzu.

But Japan was also closed off for 200 years. This explains why they have preserved traces of a much older, much more fundamental culture, which continues to be expressed in traditional arts.

LV: Yes. Very interesting. So, I’m going to read a passage from your book and then we’ll take a musical break, which will give you time to think about the question. Regarding the Tao, which he is interested in:

‘ “In this initiatory geography of the Dao [Tao], there is a dark threshold represented by the bottom of a mysterious valley.” The Dao De Jing expresses this in a vague and poetic way: “The spirit of the valley does not die. It is the Dark Female, […] this is the origin of heaven and earth. Indiscernible, it always seems present and never runs out within us.” Gu Meisheng explains that this is a figurative way of talking about the active aspect of the void, which he explains in these words: “The valley is both an empty and sensitive place that echoes sounds. The valley is empty, but when we shout, the echo answers us. Such is the nature of the dao. The dao is therefore a void of extreme sensitivity.” ’

We listen to Dead of Night by Orville Peck.

MS: In this excerpt you read about the Tao, Master Gu Meisheng explains it very well. Only poetry can truly convey something that cannot be expressed in words.

You are probably familiar with the Zen story about a Zen master in a monastery who asks one of the monks to clean the garden… So the monk rakes and rakes and cleans until everything is spotless, then goes to see the master and says, ‘There, it’s done.’ The master arrives, looks at it and says, ‘Do it again.’ So the student starts again, cleaning everything thoroughly, impeccably, and returns to the master and says, ‘There, it’s done, master.’ So the master comes and says, ‘That’s not right,’ and leaves. The student is starting to get fed up. So this time he leaves a small pile of dead leaves. He returns to the master and says, ‘It’s done.’ When the master arrives, he looks and says nothing. Well, that’s what the void is: the void is active. We cannot define it definitively. But it’s true that it goes completely against our philosophy, against the way we see the world today in the West, which has spread throughout practically the entire world.

This is exactly what Tanizaki lamented in In Praise of Shadows. We have this idea that everything must be brought to light, everything must be dissected, there must be no grey areas, there must be no unknowns, everything must be explainable by rationality. Except that when we dissect a human body, an animal body, whatever, the essential is no longer there anyway. There will always be that essential that escapes us.

And in my opinion, this is completely in line with the analyses of some ecofeminist thinkers, or also Mona Chollet, who talk about this whole aspect that is unknowable by rational science, but which can be felt, experienced, which is something that human beings know, to which they have a very strong connection. Ecofeminist thinkers try to deconstruct our understanding of the world to show that rationality may not be on the side we think it is, that it may not be about dissecting everything, approaching everything from the most rational angle. Perhaps there is a whole that completely escapes us, a relationship with the Earth, a relationship with living things, perhaps even a relationship with the obscure, with the body, with all those things that we have denigrated, relegated, crushed, and that we need to revalue or rediscover.

LV: Yes. Mystery is very important, it is very precious. So here we come to the principles of martial arts: cultivating sensitivity and attention. Remaining attentive to biological speed, which requires intense concentration. I took that from your book. So we were talking about gyō in the influences of this master…

MS: Yes, so Itsuo Tsuda found in the body practices of seitai and Aikidō this embodiment, this possibility of feeling. He found the dimension of ki and breathing. Gyō is a term that is often translated as asceticism¹[see also shugyō 修行 (ascetic practices), gyōja 行者 (ascetic person) and their fusion shugyōja 修行者]. Except that the difference between Western asceticism is that we seek to leave our bodies through practices, to no longer feel, to extract ourselves from the body. Whereas in gyō, in the ascetic practices of Asia or even in India, at least in certain branches, on the contrary, we seek unity, the reunification of mind and body through ascetic practices. These ascetic practices influenced Me Ueshiba in particular, who passed on some of them through Aikidō. Through Aikidō, we can see a possibility of rediscovering this connection, this wholeness of being.

LV: You mentioned seitai again, and the regenerative movement. Perhaps you could enlighten us a little on this.

MS: Seitai was developed by Mr Haruchika Noguchi in the 1950s. It focuses on what makes each individual unique and indivisible, and on their innate ability to balance themselves in order to maintain their health. It is the unconscious movement of the body.

Among Seitai, which could be described as a philosophy, an understanding of human beings, there are several techniques and practices, including Katsugen Undō, which Itsuo Tsuda translates as Regenerating Movement, and it is precisely this aspect that interests Itsuo Tsuda: Regenerating Movement. It was this aspect of Seitai that he chose to pass on in France in the 1970s. He was interested in it because, with his personal orientation, his philosophy, his search for freedom for himself and others, this search for freedom and autonomy, he saw in Katsugen Undō a way to reactivate the body’s own means of regaining balance. No longer depending on an expert, an external practice, the opinion of a master or anyone else.

That’s why I compare it to what Ivan Illich called ‘convivial’ things, which are tools that anyone can use, no expertise required, and that’s fundamental to Itsuo Tsuda.

LV: Yes, it reminds me of how we work with that dimension in Qi Qong. We work with these dimensions of self-medication that are the body.

MS: Mr Noguchi said that we never stopped with the ‘you must’ and ‘you must not’, with external instructions, and since the 1950s, this has only gotten worse. Today, we must eat five fruits and vegetables a day, we must drink a litre of water, we must eat but exercise, we must do sport, but not too much… we are constantly bombarded with external injunctions…

LV: That’s true.

MS: And we forget our own biological needs, which depend on the day, the moment, lots of things, and which are not the same for us, for my neighbour, for my child; everyone has different needs and the only compass is ourselves. Rediscovering the ability to sense whether we want carrots or chocolate, whether we’ve eaten enough or not, is quite simply the beginning of autonomy.

LV: Absolutely. So now let’s talk a little about Ki, which is called Qi in China, for example. You write, ‘Ki defies any attempt at categorisation,’ said Itsuo Tsuda, who explained this many times. Here in the West, Ki is very difficult to explain because it does not fit into the system of categories. And you give this example: feeling observed.

MS: Depending on the circumstances, Ki can be translated as intuition, atmosphere, intention, vitality, breathing, action, movement, spontaneity… it is something fluid that cannot really be defined. Itsuo Tsuda also said, ‘Ki dies on taking form’²[see The Path of Less, Chap. IX (end), Yume Editions, 2014, p. 87. But it is something that can be felt. It is a concrete experience. He gave this example: you are walking down the street and suddenly you feel it. You feel that you are being watched, you turn around… perhaps you find “someone” watching you from behind a curtain. Maybe it’s just a cat, but either way, you felt it. You sense the intention. Obviously, in martial arts, we use it to sense the ki of aggression, of danger. That’s one form. But we can also sense the ki of danger for other reasons. Conversely, we can sense a welcoming ki, we can sense an atmosphere. We feel good in certain places. And in certain places, we feel extremely uncomfortable.

LV: And even with people. For me, there are friendships, loves of ki.

MS: Absolutely. There are people who give off something.

LV: You immediately feel at ease, immediately comfortable, because that qi – I would say qi or ki, it doesn’t matter – speaks to mine (laughs).

MS: Of course. Absolutely. The problem is that from childhood, from early childhood, we are taught not to listen to ourselves. Not to listen to our intuition, that thing that speaks to us. So unfortunately, by losing touch with ourselves, we forget that feeling a little.

LV: Very well, let’s think about that while listening to Hot Hot Hot by Matthew E. White.

LV: We’ve touched on this briefly, because it must be said that this book is very rich and I recommend it to you, but now we’re going to talk about Itsuo Tsuda‘s teaching itself. And I’m going to ask you first what he found in the practice of Aikidō by Me Ueshiba?

MS: He met Mr Ueshiba in the last years of his life. At the end of a lifetime of practice and research, Mr Ueshiba proposed an evolution of his art. He called it a path of love. I believe it is a powerful tool for human evolution. There is indeed gyō, ascetic practices, misogi, and various other things that fuelled his own research.

I believe that what fascinated Itsuo Tsuda was this master’s freedom of movement. Tsuda was already in his eighties, yet he had a freedom of movement that Itsuo Tsuda, who was forty, did not have; he already felt stiff. Through the practice of Aikidō, the daily practice of the first part, which Itsuo Tsuda called the respiratory practice, which is an individual practice with all kinds of movements that bring the body back to life, into movement, that deepen the breath, it is something that actually nourishes, that nourishes the life within us.

What is rather strange, or curious, is that even among rebels and revolutionaries such as The Invisible Committee, we find this sentence where they say: ‘the depletion of natural resources is probably much less advanced than the depletion of subjective resources, the vital resources that affect our contemporaries’. It is this exhaustion that is at issue, and it is a matter of revitalising internal resources, this root. Itsuo Tsuda said that he was there to propose ‘to revive the root’³[see The Unstable Triangle, Chap. I, 2019, Yume Editions, p. 15]. And I think that is what he also found in Aikidō.

In any case, that is what “this practice” taught him, that is what it gave him as a direction. Because here again, as with Seitai, where he took up Katsugen Undō, in Aikidō there were also more martial and other aspects that did not interest him, which other students of Master Ueshiba developed, each following their own path.

But what interested him was the aspect of breathing, the circulation of ki, this possibility through the body. That’s what struck him and that’s what he passed on in his school.

LV: It’s true that Master Ueshiba‘s aikidō is a great treasure and that some have developed their own path. And there is also Master Noro, who created a movement, an art of movement.

MS: Absolutely, yes.

LV: It is no longer a martial art but an art of movement. In fact, they were friends..

MS: Yes, absolutely. He knew Master Noro, who created Ki no michi, quite well. There was a big age difference, since Master Noro was a student of Master Ueshiba at a very young age, he was a live-in student, he was 17, 18 years old, whereas Itsuo Tsuda actually started Aikidō at the age of forty-five. And despite this big age difference, they had a lot in common, a fairly strong affinity.

The fact that Itsuo Tsuda started Aikidō so late also gave him the opportunity to acquire intellectual knowledge, as he also had a background in Sinology, to have these references because Mr Ueshiba spoke in a poetic, literary way, with references to mythology and Chinese culture. Itsuo Tsuda had a background, he was truly an intellectual, and he had the knowledge that allowed him to get into it. He was also the translator, the interpreter in fact at the beginning, and he continued to be the interpreter for Westerners who came to see Ueshiba. Like André Nocquet and others. So it was also a way for him to be very much in touch with Master Ueshiba‘s discourse, which he had to translate to make it understandable to these Westerners.

LV: Very good. So there’s another aspect that I found interesting about Master Itsuo Tsuda, which is ‘the mnemonic that consists of forgetting’⁴[see The Unstable Triangle (op. cit.), Chap. VII.

MS: (laughs) It’s about reconnecting with yourself, as he said. It’s about trusting our inner abilities, our own resources, and also our unconscious and subconscious minds.

We think that we are the ones who decide to do this or that, but in fact, 90% of our vital activity, if not 100%, is completely unconscious. We can’t speed up or slow down our heartbeat, except perhaps a few yogis, but most of the time we have no impact on our vital functions. And we have an illusion of control over ourselves, over nature, over others… we are completely under the illusion of control.

Instead of stressing out about ‘I mustn’t forget to buy milk on my way home’ – that’s stress, it’s the mind trying to remember. And we all know very well that most of the time we get home, put down our keys and say to ourselves, ‘Oh! I forgot the milk…’. Whereas Itsuo Tsuda says, ‘Visualise yourself getting off the tube and popping into the little supermarket next door to buy milk.’ Visualise this action, you can see it, OK? And now, forget about it, don’t think about it anymore.

LV: Thank you for that advice, which I will put into practice right away. So, what happens in the dōjō? The dōjō allows you to regain control over your body, and this extends to everyday life. Let me quote you: ‘The dōjō is one of those unique places where time passes differently, where the world stops for a few moments.’

MS: In our school, we have several dōjōs, which are places entirely dedicated to Aikidō and Katsugen Undō. They are not gyms, they are not sports halls, there are no other activities. They are places that are managed by associations. So people manage themselves, organise themselves. All members are responsible for their dōjō. There is no distinction between the dōjō on one side and customers on the other. Everyone is at home and at others’ homes at the same time. So it’s a space that’s a little out of time, out of this world, thanks to the direction Itsuo Tsuda gave it, and the direction that Régis Soavi, my father, has continued for 50 years, and which I myself am now trying to continue. To continue to provide this impetus. To make people understand that it’s possible to live differently.

LV: Yes, so the dōjō is the place where we come to practise the Way. I’d like to come back to this notion of martial arts, which cannot be something mechanical where the body is an object. So it’s much more connected to this dimension of breath. And therefore to spirituality. So your father recites a norito in the morning.

MS: Yes, and not just my father. We all begin the session with this norito, which is a recitation. To be honest, we don’t even know what it means. It’s a moment, a way of putting ourselves in another state, another frame of mind. Sometimes my father uses this example, talking about a Schubert Lied that is in German – and maybe we don’t understand German. Yet when we listen to it, something resonates within us. We feel it, we hear it, it’s inexplicable.

LV: Yes. There are vowels that are sacred, particularly in Sanskrit, and the sound and vibration really have an effect. So it comes from Shintoism. It is an invocation to the original gods. I will read an excerpt where your father talks about this:

‘Régis Soavi says: “The norito does not belong to the world of religion, but certainly to the world of the sacred in the animistic sense. The vibrations and resonance produced by the pronunciation of this text bring us a feeling of calm, fulfilment and sometimes something that goes beyond that and remains inexpressible. Norito is misogi. In essence, it is never perfect; it changes and evolves. It is a reflection of a moment in our being.” ’

So let’s think about that while listening to Shannon Lay‘s song Sure.

LV: So today we’re talking about Master Itsuo Tsuda. And we’re talking about anarchism.

MS: Anarchism is a word that has become taboo. A word that is associated with violence and chaos. And in fact, we completely forget, we forget, and I would even say that it is surely done on purpose to detach it from what it was, from what anarchist philosophy still is. Anarchist philosophy is about self-organisation, self-management. It is order without power. It is simply a rejection of the domination of some over others. Ultimately, it is something that is not so unfamiliar. Even before the creation of states, let’s say around 3000 or 4000 BC, there were societies that were self-managed, and they existed for many thousands of years. And even after the creation of states, there were many places on earth that continued to be self-managed, with various ways of functioning.

There are a number of historians and researchers, such as Pierre Clastres and David Graber, who have conducted research and shown that all kinds of social organisations exist. What is certain is that even if there is a leader, the leader’s role is not one of coercion, it is not to direct others. It is often a mediating role, someone who has to find a way to organise things but who does not decide anything alone. The leader cannot give orders to others. Anarchism is about rediscovering this individual power and something that is being organised with others.

Anarchist movements have been very powerful. There have indeed been a few acts of violence that have been blown out of proportion in order to discredit the movement, to discredit a whole rich and complex body of thought. There is not one form of anarchism, there are many. And this is something that greatly influenced the thinking of Itsuo Tsuda, including the thinking of my father, Régis Soavi. This search for freedom, not only inner freedom, of course, but also freedom with others.

In the dōjō, it is really a question of taking charge of all aspects of our existence. Therefore, it is important to understand that this is not a matter of freedom that is detached from reality. Aurélien Berlan contrasts the fantasy of deliverance, where we would be freed from all material contingencies, but obviously freed alongside other people who are slaves, whether they be energy slaves, technological slaves or other dominated people. So, as opposed to the fantasy of deliverance, he talks about the quest for autonomy. Taking back control of our own abilities in all aspects of our lives. This obviously ties in with subsistence feminists, who also talk about this very important aspect of reclaiming all aspects of our lives.

And that’s what we’re looking for in a dōjō. In ours, at least, there is obviously the practical aspect of the body, but there is also the fundamental aspect of this organisation, of breaking out of a relationship where we arrive, we are customers, we pay and we want something in return. We are all involved, we are all working to keep this dōjō alive so that the place exists, for ourselves. It’s not about saying we have to do it for others, I’m sacrificing myself… not at all. Each of us does it for themselves but in collaboration with others.

LV: Yes, what I find really interesting about this path – and here we find, as you mention in your book, things in common with the Kogis in particular – is that ‘True morality arises from within’⁵[see Even if I don’t think, I am, Chap. X, 2020, Yume Editions, p. 76]. This work, this inner change, will lead to outer change. And you also say that the creation of the state has led to the dispossession of the creative values of the individual.

MS: Morality comes from within, as Kropotkin, the anarchist, says, as does Itsuo Tsuda, and indeed the Kogi people. It is not a question of having external rules, prohibitions, or injunctions, but of rediscovering the morality that makes us want to collaborate with one another.

There is also the notion of attentiveness. The Kogis live without leaders. But we live with domination. We are both dominated and dominant towards others. We cannot simply say, ‘Ah yes, this is freedom, we will do without leaders and everything will be easy.’ That is not reality. The reality is that we need to re-educate ourselves to understand the attentiveness and self-discipline that this requires. We need to rediscover both our power and our capacity for organisation.

Ultimately, there is a realisation that is somewhat similar to what Winona LaDuke says about Native Americans: they know they are oppressed, but they do not feel powerless. On the other hand, white people do not consider themselves oppressed, but they feel powerless. Well, that’s exactly it. We rediscover that ultimately we are dominated, we are dominant, but we are not powerless.

I think that was also the meaning of Itsuo Tsuda‘s statement, ‘Utopia exists nowhere except where we are.’⁶[quote from a 1975 letter written by Tsuda to Geneva dōjō (Katsugen Kai). See also The Way of the Gods, Chap. 1 & 2, 2021, Yume Editions] It is about rediscovering that power today and now. And I am here to say that it is possible.

LV: Definitely. (laughs)

MS: Even if it takes time! It’s not a magic wand. It’s something you have to work at, discover. It requires a journey within your body, as well as within your mind. There are philosophical tools, tools for intellectual understanding, and tools for breaking free from what we have fully integrated since early childhood. From early childhood, children are taught not to listen to themselves, not to say ‘no’, not to be themselves. So, we end up with people who internalise domination, and we have to work to break free from that, but it is possible. It is possible to follow this path and become at least a little bit freer.

LV: Yes, we are on that path anyway. So you talk about this culture of separation, particularly when you mention babies crying, saying that it is not particularly normal for babies to cry in other cultures. In Kenya, there is more of a culture of closeness and attachment.

MS: The culture of separation is a way of separating ourselves from ourselves, from our bodies, from our feelings, and obviously from each other. It means thinking that it’s normal to let a baby cry, to drag a child down the street who is screaming because they don’t want to go to school, that it’s normal, that life is like that, that in any case you have to ‘lose your life earning it’, as the 68ers said.

And yet, is that what life is all about? Isn’t it possible to refuse to play this game altogether? Can’t we rediscover that we are free inside ourselves? Of course, people will say to me, ‘Yes, but what about money? Yes, but there are debts… Yes, but we have to pay for this, that’s how it is, in life we have to suffer…’ – but who actually said that? Really? Why? In fact, maybe just, no. Maybe we feel like we have all these chains, and in a way we do, of course. They don’t just fall off with a wave of a magic wand.

But we can forge a path that brings us together and where we will realise that the children’s tears may indeed express the fundamental truth that things are not right at all!

LV: I think that’s a very nice conclusion! So Manon Soavi, I really recommend this book, The Anarchist Master, Itsuo Tsuda – The Art of Living Utopia.