Why do we go to training camps nowadays? From invisible work to inner experience

• 19 August 2026.
• Ferenc Németh
• 30 September 2026.

I originally started collecting these thoughts for a podcast conversation. But the deeper I dug into what a training camp means today, and what the real value of our domestic workshops is, the more I felt that the topic deserved an article of its own. Here are my personal thoughts on why we spend our free time stepping onto the tatami again and again.

When talking about martial arts, training camps are traditionally the primary arenas for development, community building and meeting masters. But what do we expect from a camp today in exchange for our money and free time? Why do we often return home feeling that something was missing, and what is the difference between genuine teaching and a self-serving demonstration? It is worth taking an honest look behind the scenes.

1. Opening the gates: The invisible organizational work

Many think a training camp begins the moment the master steps onto the tatami. To dispel the illusion: behind the creation of the space lie months of invisible work. Writing NEA grant applications, official accounting, bilingual communication with foreign guests, booking the venue, and continuously updating the website and the announcements – all of this is the organizer's job, so that the participant only has to focus on practising.

The organizer's job is to create the opportunity; the decision belongs to the practitioner. As an organizer, I actually appreciate it when someone tells me honestly why they cannot come. But at the end of the day, the people who really count are the ones on the tatami. We have to let go of those who do not come; the focus is on the practitioners who are willing to cross borders – literally and figuratively – for their inner development (like the international core group who regularly arrive from four or five countries for a good seminar).

2. Why do we go to camps at all? (Clarifying camp types and expectations)

Most disappointments come from participants not knowing what kind of event they have signed up for. It is worth distinguishing two main categories:

• The "workshop" (the real place of learning): Think, for example, of Kuroki Sensei's seminars in Hungary. We go there to take the technique apart, to get into the details, the angles and the micromechanics. This kind of in-depth work, where the practitioner receives real knowledge, works best in focused, smaller groups.
• The "celebration" or "anniversary" (the community event): A large, anniversary-type international camp is a good example. Let us be clear: in such a crowd we are not looking for fine mechanics. We go there to connect with tradition, to pay respect to the Hombu Dojo, and to show the strength of our domestic community.

Alongside these events, however, it is worth talking about a very real challenge. Because of dan exams and large ceremonial events, there is often an unspoken pressure on dojo leaders. It can be a heavy burden for an instructor when the system practically expects them to bring a large group, while they can clearly see that their students' financial means are limited. Let us be honest: not every dojo has crowds of 4th and 5th dan practitioners for whom only an international camp of this level can still offer meaningful progress. For lower-graded or newly graded dan holders, a smaller, more focused domestic course would often serve their technical development far better than a compulsory protocol event.

3. Stepping out of the dojo comfort zone: The lessons of an unknown partner

In our own dojo, after a while we inevitably get to know our partners' habits. A camp, however, is a huge laboratory where we face the most varied body types and temperaments. Working with a partner like me – 182 cm tall and of a heavier build – requires completely different biomechanics, distance and angle of entry than facing a shorter, more compact and quicker attacker. It is against a completely unknown uke that we really find out: is our technique based on universal principles, or does our usual partner simply help it along?

4. The art of attention: Adapting to a changing rhythm

In a larger camp with several instructors, practitioners not only have to absorb techniques but also constantly adapt to changing rhythms. One instructor asks for softer, more flowing movement, the next sets a tighter, more dynamic, more martial pace. Switching between these mental and physical states from session to session is a huge challenge – but also the greatest opportunity for growth.

Whoever can show this flexibility without losing their own centre is, in fact, practising the very essence of aiki.

5. The camp as a mirror: The trap of the ego and "beginner's mind"

A training camp is a merciless mirror: it shows not only our technical knowledge, but also how we approach learning and how we relate to the unknown. It often happens that high-graded practitioners with decades of experience visit a seminar of a style that is foreign to them. That is when it becomes clear what really lies beneath the surface.

We would think that an experienced master can adapt to a new movement system in a moment. The reality is often startling: when the familiar routine and the learned form do not work, and a completely new logic has to be absorbed, openness is often replaced by frustration. Instead of marvelling at something new and laughing heartily – "wow, I have never seen this before" – the ego takes over. The body tenses, the movement locks up, and the practitioner literally freezes on the tatami, unable to let go of their own truth and adapt to the new situation.

True mastery is not about being able to do everything perfectly at once. It is about whether we can leave our pride at the edge of the tatami and receive a teaching that differs from what we are used to with the sincere curiosity, openness and cheerfulness of shoshin, the "beginner's mind".

6. The double standard: When the master becomes uke

I am not in favour of criticising masters in public, but there is a phenomenon that, as an advanced practitioner, I unfortunately cannot overlook. There are instructors – including some who visit our country – who expect perfect, humble and continuous ukemi from their students during demonstrations. But when they switch roles during a practical explanation and the master becomes uke, they suddenly "forget" to offer the same kind of cooperation. They deliberately stiffen, block without reason and, let us say it honestly, put the student in an awkward position.

It is not only me who watches this dissonance with incomprehension; many other experienced practitioners do too. This behaviour is not about teaching. It is rather the sad proof that the person needs such pedagogically destructive tools to emphasise their own merits and superiority. A true master never needs to polish their ego at the expense and discomfort of a student.

7. Demonstration or education: The "greatest hits" and a sustainable pace

We often pay an expensive fee and feel as if we have just dropped a coin into a martial arts jukebox. The master arriving from abroad often runs through the obligatory list of greatest hits. Of course, it is impressive to watch a high-level master perform these movements skilfully, and it can be inspiring. But just because they perform it brilliantly, we will not be able to execute the form any better if the "extra information" is missing from the teaching.

This extra information can be a very simple, empty-handed biomechanical explanation: understanding how my body twists when I step, how my hand starts, and how it opens a gate for a safe step through. Equally important can be the weapons context behind the movement – when the sword or the staff comes out, and suddenly the correct angle of entry or the right distance makes sense. Without understanding these underlying layers, aikido often looks like nothing more than empty, exhausting choreography.

At the same time, let us be fair: fast and intense practice absolutely has its place at a training camp. But a multi-day seminar cannot be built solely on endless grinding. The aim of quality teaching should be that practitioners do not merely "survive" a weekend by exhausting their bodies, but learn to move sustainably, so that they can still step onto the tatami in good health decades from now.

8. The "Made in Japan" premium and domestic alternatives

We have to ask ourselves: what are we actually paying for at a camp? The name, the tradition, or knowledge that can be built into our own level and passed on? For a beginner, the patient foundational work of a committed domestic teacher is in most cases far more useful. The focus of a high-graded instructor arriving from afar at a large camp is, understandably, often elsewhere: they rarely go back to step-by-step teaching, and rather demonstrate the higher principles of aikido. What is more, the system of large, sometimes more impersonal mass camps often does not favour young people either.

Why do we undervalue our domestic professional capital? The recent appointment of six new Hungarian shihan would be an excellent opportunity for a change of mindset. In fact, it is these affordable domestic training camps that primarily build real cohesion, team spirit and community. We need much more of this kind of organic growth. After all, if these smaller domestic events strengthen the base, then when a flagship event really needs a "crowd", there will be a strong, committed community to rely on.

9. Who becomes a true role model? The power of honesty and a smile

For me, a master does not become a role model because of their title or where they come from. True greatness lies in the way they exist on the tatami: smiling, kind, doing their work with such natural ease that you can only admire it. They are a true artist of movement, someone who clearly has nothing left to prove and nothing to worry about.

And perhaps most importantly: if necessary, they readily own up to mistakes or limitations. If a technique does not work well from a given attack, they do not force it, and they do not start blaming or punishing uke. Instead, they admit with a laugh that "this cannot be done from this position, it needs a different solution". It is this human honesty that raises mere technical knowledge to a genuine, respectable level of mastery.

10. Invisible practice: What does the master do off the tatami?

The authenticity of a martial art is not decided on the tatami. As I quoted Zen master Takafumi Kawakami in an earlier article (in Hungarian) (watch the interview here): "Don't just look at the technique, look at the person. How do they drink their tea? How do they talk to the cleaner? How do they handle frustration when, for the tenth time, they cannot get the projector to work at the seminar? You learn more from these than from a perfect throw."

Form quickly becomes empty if there is no open, continuous inner presence behind it. Teaching off the tatami also has wonderful, direct forms. At one of his camps in Hungary, for example, Kuroki Sensei created a unique opportunity: on the Friday he held a two-hour informal conversation. Those who came gained something of real value that could never have been passed on through physical practice. We managed to clarify Japanese terms that many people here like to use, but completely incorrectly, and together we deciphered kanji hanging proudly on the walls of some dojos, whose meaning had nothing to do with what the person who put them there thought. :-)

Fortunately, this kind of cultural openness and high standard is also present in domestic communities. There is, for example, a dojo where they regularly practise calligraphy after training, even involving the children. Whoever truly wants to teach gives space and time to this kind of deep cultural understanding as well.

11. Life beyond the tatami: Building community outside the gi

We tend to look only at the physical training, yet the real glue of a community is the time after practice. Many people underestimate the part of a camp outside the official programme, although the evening dinners, the banquets, or a simple beer on the terrace of the accommodation are at least as important as the training itself.

At such times masters and practitioners take off their gi, and strict hierarchical distances often disappear. We discuss the experiences of the day, tell stories, and human connections and cross-border friendships are formed that hold the domestic and international community together even in the hardest times. The soul of a camp is often decided beyond the edge of the tatami, in these honest, relaxed conversations.

12. Mental retreat: The value of presence

Martial arts camps have another, at least equally important psychological side. In today's world, a training camp is not only physical development, but also a kind of mental retreat. When, for example, we go to a camp in the Czech Republic, this is exactly the magic I feel. Apart from the training itself, the whole process – the preparation, the journey, being there and finally coming home – is an incredibly complete experience. Nothing world-changing necessarily happens on the tatami, but thanks to the break from everyday life, the honest community and the presence, the whole thing still feels extremely pleasant and refreshing. For those few days the external pressure disappears, and nothing remains but the tatami, the focus and the inner silence.

13. The Monday integration: The real work happens on weekdays

Going to a camp is a serious commitment. This sacrifice has only one real measure: that when we return to our own dojo, the quality of our practice changes. The true measure of a camp is the "Monday integration". Many people tend to leave the insights and the enthusiasm behind at the event, and on Monday carry on at home exactly as before.

We must never forget that the real work happens in the everyday training sessions. At the camp, the master shows the direction, but it is the home instructor who then translates it into practice, struggling with every single instruction. They carry it on and drill that knowledge into the students day after day. That is why the hardest job always belongs to the instructor who actually works with people and accompanies them from their very first, uncertain minutes throughout their aikido journey.

When we return to our dojo, are we willing to consciously build the correction of the mistakes we have recognised and the new movement principles into our daily routine, thereby also helping our own instructor's work? Because real development does not end at the camp – that is where it truly begins!

A good example of what this looks like in practice is our September seminar: Kuroki Sensei also summarised in writing the mistakes he had observed and the points he recommended for further practice, which are now the focus of our everyday training (What Kuroki Sensei Saw).

This article was originally published in Hungarian: Miért járunk manapság edzőtáborba?