By Ng Kwan Hoong
Somewhere above the clouds on a recent flight back from Japan, I found myself unexpectedly absorbed by an old samurai movie. I had grown up watching these — fascinated not only by the graceful swordplay but by the quiet dignity of the warriors. They didn’t just fight; they studied calligraphy, composed poetry and performed tea ceremonies. Their lives were as disciplined as they were poetic.
Only later did I learn that much of this depth came from a philosophy known as Shuhari. Rooted in martial arts but applicable to all of life, Shuhari describes a path of learning that moves from following tradition, to adapting it and finally, to transcending it. It is the slow unfolding of mastery.
The journey begins with Shu: to protect, to obey. In this stage, the student follows the master, repeats the movements and learns without questioning. In the samurai’s world, this was kata: structured patterns repeated over and over until they became part of the body. To the outsider, this can seem tedious. But there is beauty in that repetition. It teaches rhythm, respect and patience, the very qualities often overlooked in a world that rushes toward results.
We see this elsewhere too. The pianist who plays scales long before improvising. The writer who copies the style of those they admire before finding their own voice. These early repetitions are not meaningless. They are the foundations upon which everything else is built.
Then comes the second movement, Ha which means ‘to break’. After years of repetition, the student begins to question, to experiment. In martial arts, this might mean adjusting techniques to suit one’s own body. In writing, it might mean bending the rules of grammar for expression. In teaching, it might mean stepping away from the standard template to reach students more meaningfully.
This stage requires courage. There are mistakes. Sometimes what we try does not work. But those missteps are not failures: they are the beginning of understanding. We move from following instructions to thinking for ourselves. We begin to ask not just “how,” but “why.”
Eventually, if one stays long enough on the path, something shifts. The movements become intuitive. The rules are no longer followed or broken; they are absorbed. This is Ri, the stage of separation, of transcendence. Here, the artist no longer imitates. The leader no longer clings to frameworks. The teacher no longer teaches from a script, but from the heart.
And yet, Ri is not about ego. Quite the opposite. It is the quiet wisdom that emerges after practice and introspection. A kind of maturity that allows one to move freely, with clarity and purpose, unburdened by the need to prove anything.
What makes Shuhari so powerful is that it reminds us: mastery is not a straight line. Even the most experienced among us return to the beginning when entering something new. An accomplished surgeon learning a new technique becomes a student again. A seasoned professor stepping into another discipline re-learns the basics. A parent, facing a new challenge with their child, must adapt all over again.
In this way, Shuhari is not just a model for learning, but a life companion. Whether we are picking up a new craft, refining a skill, or simply trying to grow as people, we pass through these stages again and again. First, we follow. Then, we explore. And finally, we create.
The wisdom of Shuhari also applies to less visible parts of life: how we form our values, how we relate to others, how we deal with change. Sometimes, we are in Shu, needing to listen and observe. Other times, we are in Ha, learning through trial and error. And occasionally, we reach Ri where understanding flows without force.
As the flight descended and the movie ended, I found myself thinking less about the swordplay and more about the discipline behind it. The grace came not from speed or strength, but from years of repetition, of refinement, of quiet dedication.
Mastery then, is not the end of learning, but the beginning of understanding.
The author is an Emeritus Professor of Biomedical Imaging at the Faculty of Medicine, Universiti Malaya. A 2020 Merdeka Award recipient, he is a medical physicist by training but also enjoys writing, drawing, listening to classical music, and bridging the gap between older and younger generations. He may be reached at ngkh@ummc.edu.my