Foreigners flock to ninjutsu as Japanese stay away

Noda, Japan: The teachings of Grand Master Masaaki Hatsumi echo through my head as he entreats me to attack a blackbelted disciple with a practice sword. "Always be able to kill your students," he says.

Chilling words from a shockingly fit 76-year-old man who bills himself as the world's last ninja and stocks his training chamber with weapons such as throwing stars and nunchucks. Especially to a neophyte whose closest brush with martial arts was watching Bruce Lee matinees as a kid.

As I cautiously raise the sword with a taut two-handed samurai grip, my sparring partner gingerly points to Hatsumi. I avert my eyes for a split second and WHAM! The next thing I know, I'm staring at the rafters.

Keeping your focus is just one of the lessons thumped out on the mats of the Bujinkan Dojo, a cramped school that is a pilgrimage site for 100,000 worldwide followers. They revere Hatsumi as the last living master of ninjutsu, the mysterious Japanese art of war practised by black-masked assassins of yesteryear.

"He's unlimited in body, mind and spirit," says Richard VanDonk, who flew in from California to practise body throws in the dojo's warm glow of rice-paper screens and flickering votive candles. "He's a master of change."

Hatsumi is the only living student of the last "fighting ninja," Toshitsugu Takamatsu, the so-called 33rd Grand Master who was a bodyguard to officials in Japanese-occupied Manchuria before the Second World War and fought, and won, 12 fights to the death.

Today, Hatsumi's enemies are stereotypes and flagging interest in the ancient art. He seeks to leave the task to a worthy successor as speculation mounts about his retirement.

In many ways, the curly-haired, wide-eyed Hatsumi has been a victim of success: He has helped make ninja an international household name by training followers from Chile to South Africa. But he also has watched his legacy co-opted by goofy caricatures and schlocky Hollywood send-ups like Beverly Hills Ninja.

"I think it's pathetic," Hatsumi says of the ninja's modern image.

A glance around the dojo suggests the average Japanese might agree. The vast majority of students are foreigners, often with a military background, who learned of Hatsumi overseas. That's because in Japan, ninjutsu is swept up in the wave of apathy that has sapped the ranks of traditional martial arts like sumo and judo.

As he nimbly glides across the padded floor, Hatsumi showers students with cryptic proverbs straight out of Confucian scrolls, such as "anything can be used as a weapon."

"Timing is the most difficult," he adds, while casually deflecting a gleaming metal sword swung at his neck by a veteran student. After turning the blade on the attacker, Hatsumi gives his arm a slight twist, eliciting a baleful yelp.

Today, hundreds of ninja schools across the globe trace their roots to Hatsumi.