Warriors Indifferent to Death

Not every mantra leads to enlightenment. Some lead to the battlefield. In Western imagination, Buddhism is often seen as a haven of peace — a path of gentle words, meditation, and compassion. But it wasn’t always so. In medieval Japan, it had another face: wild, merciless, ready to bring death as readily as it carried the sutra. As imperial power waned, and a new class — the samurai — reached for dominance, Japan ran red with blood — and in this time, faith, too, became a weapon. Sōhei — “warrior monks” — were not passive defenders of their temples. They formed an organized, well-trained military force, prepared not only for defense but also for assault. From childhood, they trained in the martial arts, and also in how to enter through meditation into a state of complete and absolute indifference toward brutal violence (including their own) and the threat of death.

Militant Buddhism — a military power born from the weakness of the court and the strength of faith — was one of the most ruthless phenomena of medieval Japan. During the Kamakura era, temples became fortresses, and monks became soldiers. Monastic complexes such as Enryaku-ji or Kōfuku-ji gathered thousands of armed sōhei — warriors who marched onto the battlefield with chants on their lips calling for their own death. What must an enemy have felt, standing opposite a soldier trained from childhood to be devoid of the instinct for survival? The daily life of these Buddhist warriors outside of combat was a mixture of meditation and battle drills, contemplation of death and actual killing.

This is not a tale from anime — it is a chapter from Japan’s history. The sōhei were no exception — they were the rule of their time. Their military discipline, brutal rituals, and death-bound philosophy based on mushin — going into battle with a clear mind — would later inspire generations of samurai and form the prototype for the idea of bushidō. A monk immersed in the state of mushin learned to purge the mind and focus solely on the present moment — to fight more effectively, kill without hesitation, and accept death without fear — and paradoxically, this brutal ideology became the spiritual ancestor of what we now, in the 21st century, call awareness or mindfulness. In today’s article, we will explore how prayer became a command, how the monastery became a barracks, and how reincarnation became a long-term military strategy. How Buddhism in Kamakura did not seek enlightenment in serenity… but in the smoke of burning temples and a sea of blood.

In Hand, Not Sutras — But Naginata

Mist, like the heavy smoke of incense, rolled down the mountain slopes. It smelled of wood, blood, and ash. Deep in the forest, where twisted cedars and moss-covered maples grew, echoed the low, rhythmic beat of a taiko drum. Dawn was near, but there were no birdsong. No one awoke that day — all were waiting. For death.

On the stone courtyard of Enryaku-ji Temple, one of the most powerful strongholds of Buddhism in eastern Japan, an army of monks was gathering. There was nothing of tranquil contemplation, nothing of the serene saints portrayed in Buddhist iconography. Their faces were tense, carved by rage and vows of vengeance. Their heads were shaved to the skin, not out of humility — but as a warning to their enemies. Their robes were short, brown, often frayed, tied with thick hempen cords. Instead of juzu (a kind of Buddhist rosary), they held naginata — curved halberds, their blades gleaming like tongues of fire. Fire that would loyally follow their march of death. Some wore lamellar armor; others only had bamboo guards or leather breastplates stained with old grease and rust-red blood.

The commander — a shōryō (senior monk — a title more rightly associated with a military rank than a spiritual one) — stood on the temple steps, reciting lines from the Heart Sutra, his voice sounding more like a call to war than a prayer. Around him, younger sōhei — literally “soldier-monks” (not a fantasy of 21st-century anime, but the reality of medieval Japan) — raised banners adorned with Sanskrit inscriptions interwoven with black bonji characters. On some banners were images of Fudō Myōō — the wrathful deity with burning eyes, holding a sword and rope to bind demons. This was the patron they had chosen — those who today would set their enemies’ valley ablaze.

Some monks whispered mantras under their breath, as if preparing to walk into fire — and indeed, that was exactly what they were about to do. Their faith was not a solace but a blade. They believed in karma — but also that today’s massacre would cleanse them of sin. If they died — they would return as even more powerful warriors. Reincarnation was not punishment or reward, but a long-term war strategy and combat tactic.

Off to the side stood a young acolyte, not yet armed, a sutra wrapped around his chest. He looked on in awe and fear — knowing that today his task was to carry buckets of water and bandages, but tomorrow there might be nothing left to dress. Next to him, another monk hung juzu beads around his neck, etched not with the names of saints — but of slain enemies. Here, even prayer was an act of violence.

From afar came the sound of the musha-bue war horn — a signal that the rival monastery’s army, from Kōfuku-ji, had already begun to cross the valley. As the drums fell silent, a moment of stillness reigned, broken only by the creaking of armor and the quiet pounding of fists against chests — a purification ritual before slaughter.

The sōhei advanced. Not in formation, but as a wave — like an avalanche rushing down the mountains. They carried with them banners, fury, doctrine, and fire. In the Kamakura era of Japan, Buddhism sought enlightenment through a baptism of blood on the battlefield.

The Kamakura Background – When Poetry Yields to the Blade

The cultural landscape of Japan in the late 12th century no longer resembled the refined scenes of the Heian period, painted in shades of incense, poetry, and silk. The era of court poets and calligraphers enchanted by the impermanence of morning mist and subtle allusions in letters to lovers behind bamboo screens had come to an end.

The old capital — Heian-kyō, today’s Kyōto — flickered out slowly like a paper lantern. The aristocracy, descendants of the ancient imperial officials from the Fujiwara clan, were losing their grip, immersed in a ceremonial life rich in form but devoid of substance. Their palaces were filled with lovely scents, sweet idleness, and endless poetry contests. But elsewhere — in valleys, mountains, and the remote corners of the provinces — a new power was awakening: the Japan of the samurai. Warrior clans, soon to claim power — not by the emperor’s decree, but by the blessing of blood spilled on battlefields.

It was they — seizing upon the court’s weakness, embittered by injustice, hungry for control — who began building a new order. Their time came with the outbreak of the Genpei War (1180–1185), a clash between two great clans: the Taira and the Minamoto. These were not elegant duels drawn from literary tales — they were slaughters in the mud, ambushes in the forests, nights filled with screams and the groans of the wounded. Bows, swords, mounted archers, networks of alliances and betrayals — all played out on the stage that would forever change Japan.

The victor, Minamoto no Yoritomo, did not ascend the imperial throne — he had no need. In 1192, he declared himself sei-i taishōgun, the “great general pacifying the barbarians,” and established his own government in Kamakura — a city distant from Kyōto, humble and wooden, but pulsing with new power. Thus was born the first bakufu — a military government that would shape Japan for centuries to come. Power no longer belonged to poets, but to men of the sword. From that time on, throughout Japan’s history, the emperor’s authority would return only once — and only briefly — at the end of the 19th century.

The Daily Life of the Kamakura Period Knew No Luxury

The life of the samurai—a newly emerged warrior class—was hard, simple, and brutal. Homes were not adorned with refined silk, but with armor and weapons. Men did not recite poetry over sake, but practiced katana cuts on straw mats and wooden logs. Women did not write letters scented with incense but put on protective sleeves and learned to wield the kaiken dagger.

Buddhism, which had previously been the domain of intellectuals and poets, also had to change in order to survive. New forms emerged—harsher, more accessible to those who fought and endured the pain of war. Zen brought silence and discipline—not to soothe, but to sharpen the mind like a blade. Amidism, on the other hand, offered hope to those who had no time for contemplation—it was enough to repeat the name of Amida to attain rebirth. Both currents struck at the very heart of the era’s soul: hungry for meaning, but devoid of illusions.

Some temples became fortresses. Their monks, the sōhei, replaced prayer beads with bows and naginata. Rituals were accompanied by military discipline, and sermons often sounded more like orders than parables. Faith and war were not contradictory—they were two sides of the same struggle.

Such was the world of Kamakura—a world where poetry had to give way to the blade, and prayer to the battle cry. And although history remembers this era as the beginning of the samurai order, it was a system born of chaos, steeped in the mud of battlefields and the iron of temple bells that rang not for peace, but for war. We know the samurai not only as warriors, but also as philosophers and poets (see here: 10 Facts About Samurai That Are Often Misunderstood: Let's Discover the Real Person Behind the Armor and here: What skills a Samurai Must Have – Skilled Assassin, Sensitive Poet, Disciplined Philosopher?). But we know them from a different era—the Sengoku and Edo periods. In the time of Kamakura—they were entirely different people.

The Beginnings of Military Buddhism in Japan

Rain streamed down the roofs of Enryaku-ji Temple, nestled on the slopes of Mount Hiei like a stone hydra. But no sounds of sutras or the resonant strikes of bells came from within. This was a different time. In the main hall, dozens of men had gathered—bald, clad in thick, soaked robes, but each with a weapon in hand. They carried naginata, longbows, and sometimes long tachi swords. There was no air of contemplation above them—only tension, like the moment before a lightning strike. Warrior monks. Sōhei.

Outside, a column of porters awaited with banners, crates of provisions, and messengers. Their destination: Kyoto. Their target: the Kōfuku-ji temple, a rival that needed to be silenced.

This was the twilight of the Heian period—a time when the imperial court was losing real power, and each of the major Buddhist sects began to resemble not so much a spiritual community as an armed faction. The former Buddhism, full of sophisticated treatises and courtly patronage, had transformed into something far more brutal. At the center of this phenomenon stood temples like Enryaku-ji—the headquarters of the Tendai sect—which did not hesitate to use force to defend their interests.

Enryaku-ji vs. Kōfuku-ji — A Holy War of Japanese Buddhism

Founded in the 8th century on Mount Hiei by Saichō, Enryaku-ji was not only the spiritual cradle of Japanese esoteric Buddhism, but over time rose to the rank of a true bastion of political and military power. Likewise Kōfuku-ji—the main temple of the Hossō sect, tied to the powerful Fujiwara clan. These two institutions—both wealthy, influential, and armed—became embroiled in brutal armed conflicts over influence, land, and patronage.

The clashes between these centers were not symbolic. In the year 970, Kōfuku-ji sent detachments of monks to the capital to attack officials unsympathetic to their interests. In response, Enryaku-ji began its own marches to Kyoto, staging shows of force that often ended in bloodshed. In 1081, Kōfuku-ji was almost entirely burned down by sōhei from Mount Hiei. Such incidents repeated themselves over the decades.

The sōhei—"monk-soldiers"—were not passive defenders of their temples. They formed an organized, trained combat unit, prepared not only for defense but also for offense. They were sent into street battles in Kyoto, to suppress uprisings, or to enforce demands on the court. Sometimes they burned rival monasteries. Sometimes they blockaded supplies to the capital. Their actions differed in no way from the military operations of samurai clans.

Monks in Politics — Buddhism as Sword and Land

During the late Heian period, Buddhist temples owned vast land estates (shōen) and were exempt from taxes. Their economic influence grew, as did the dependency of local peasants on their "spiritual care." At the same time, these temples served as intellectual centers, drawing in young monks—many from aristocratic families. In practice, this meant that spirituality was closely tied to political families. Kōfuku-ji supported the Fujiwara clan, while Enryaku-ji sought alliances with the Minamoto.

The warrior monks did not act in a vacuum. They exploited the weakness of central authority, engaging in conflicts where Buddhism was at most a "spiritual backdrop." In reality, these were wars for dominance over provinces, over the minds of the faithful, and over the court's budget.

The vision of a Buddhist monk as a gentle, ascetic being was becoming outdated. Sōhei were tough, brutal, yet disciplined. Their weapon was the naginata—a long, curved blade ideal for fighting in tight formations. They fought in simple armor, often without head protection, armed with headbands inscribed with invocations to the Buddha Amida. Their rituals combined prayer and violence—contemplation and disdain for death.

Beneath the high temple roofs, behind gates adorned with dragon carvings and gilded sutra inscriptions, lay not a place of contemplation, but a fortified war machine and martial arts academy. Buddhist monasteries in medieval Japan resembled miniature military states, where spirituality, tactics, and violence were one and the same creed.

Hierarchy – Zasu (“Abbot”) as Daimyō

At the top of this structure stood the resident “abbot” (zasu, 座主), who served as both a spiritual leader and a feudal lord—a daimyō with a rosary in one hand and a seal in the other. He commanded an army of monk-soldiers (sōhei, 僧兵), whose numbers in the largest complexes, such as Enryaku-ji on Mount Hiei, reached 3,000 to 4,000 armed and highly trained warriors. Under the zasu operated unit commanders, training masters (often drawn from samurai classes), logistics officers, as well as monks responsible for relations with the aristocracy and imperial court.

This was not a life of spiritual retreat—it was a quasi-military system, with its own barracks, weapon workshops, rice warehouses, and forges.

Discipline and Rules — Buddhism with a Sword

Although Buddhist rules such as the prohibition against attachment to material possessions remained in place, in practice, the warrior monks wore tatami or lamellar armor and carried at their sides naginata, yari, yumi bows, or tachi swords.

The monastic orders maintained internal discipline based on a system of rewards and punishments. Regular prayers and sutra recitations were interwoven with daily physical training, patrols, and observation of the region’s political situation. Monks were subject to a code of conduct—breaching discipline resulted in corporal punishment, and desertion could be treated as betrayal of the faith.

Some monasteries developed their own schools of combat, such as Hōzōin-ryū, founded by the monk Hōzōin In’ei, who devised techniques for fighting with a cross-shaped spear—yari fashioned in the shape of an X, reminiscent of the Buddhist cross.

Daily Life: Prayer, Training, Tactics

The day of a Buddhist warrior began at dawn with the sound of the bonshō bell, followed by meditation, recitation of sutras (e.g., Nehan-gyō), and then physical and military training.

They practiced marching, hand-to-hand combat techniques, siege tactics, and the use of fire—some monastery-led attacks included setting villages ablaze or sabotaging bridges.

In times of peace (a rare phenomenon), monks walked with alms bowls. But in times of war, they became knights of the sacred doctrine—and often gave their lives shouting the name of the Buddha.

The Symbolism of War and Religion — Fudō Myōō

The central figure of their spirituality was not the gentle Amitabha, but Fudō Myōō (不動明王)—the Enlightened One of Wrath, holding a sword and a rope, his face twisted in fury, surrounded by flames.

Fudō was the patron of resolve, inner determination, and the fight against illusions—including those that took the form of enemies of the temple. His images were hung in monks’ barracks, painted on banners, and his bonji (Sanskrit characters) were inscribed on armor and helmets as protective talismans.

Monastic banners (hata) did not bear heraldic emblems but fragments of sutras, most often verses from the Hannya Shingyō or Shōshin Ge. Their presence was believed to protect from injury and ensure a favorable rebirth.

Before battle, gomadō fire rituals were held, in which votive tablets bearing the names of enemies were burned. Monks drank consecrated water, recited prayers asking for death and reincarnation as an even more powerful warrior. They nurtured a state of detachment from their own lives—not out of pacifism, but to joyfully die in service to the doctrine.

Some wrapped their chests with parchment inscribed with sutras, like spiritual armor—in the hope that the sacred text would halt the blade.

In this way, monasteries became places where Buddhism met the pragmatism of war. Their inhabitants were half-monks, half-soldiers, and their lives a mixture of strict discipline, sacred wrath, and bloody clashes. Death was not an end to them, but a passage to the next incarnation, where they could once again fight on the battlefield.

The Philosophy of Death and Combat

When a blade sliced through the air above the bloodstained courtyard of a temple, there was no anger in it. Nor was there triumph. There was only silence—empty like the mind of the monk who wielded it. In medieval Japan, where Buddhism fused with iron and fire, a peculiar philosophy of combat was born—one that did not reject violence, but contemplated it.

From Religion to the Ideology of Combat

Originally, Buddhism in Japan was a religion of introspection, prayer, and liberation from the cycle of saṃsāra. But during the Kamakura period, in contact with the rising warrior class, it underwent a radical transformation. Theological subtleties were abandoned in favor of simple, austere, and direct practices that better suited a life under constant threat.

Zen schools (especially Rinzai), which flourished in the 13th century, preached not so much doctrine as experience—awakening (satori) was to be immediate, intuitive, achieved through silence, paradoxes (kōans), blows of the staff, and meditation in motion.

These very practices penetrated the militant monasteries and samurai schools. As the monk and warrior Takuan Sōhō (1573–1645) wrote in his treatise Fudōchi Shinmyōroku: “The sword does not think—it is a tool of emptiness. A warrior should not cling to life or death—for then he becomes invincible.”

Meditation Before Battle — Contemplation of Death

Warrior monks (sōhei), like the samurai, often practiced zazen before battle—sitting motionless, in silence, for an hour or more, gazing at a wall or into the flame. They did not seek calm—but familiarity with death.

In monasteries such as Mii-dera or Enryaku-ji, it was common to read Dōgen’s Shōbōgenzō and to recite excerpts from the Mahāparinirvāṇa Sutra, which described the moment of the Buddha’s death as enlightenment through dissolution. They believed that one who clings to life hesitates. And he who hesitates—dies without hope for a good reincarnation.

Mushin – The Clear Mind

The key concept of this philosophy of combat was the state of mushin (無心)—literally “no mind.” It was not the absence of thought, but rather action unclouded by ego, emotion, or analysis. Mushin meant pure, fluid responsiveness, free from the fear of death and the desire for victory. Though the context is entirely different, it can be seen as a kind of precursor to what we now call “awareness” or “mindfulness.”

In the treatise Heihō Kadensho by Yagyū Munenori (the founding father of the Yagyū Shinkage-ryū school of swordsmanship, which served the Tokugawa shoguns), we find the words:

“When the mind stops on the enemy’s blade—you will die. When the mind stops on your own blade—you will also die. The mind must be free like the wind.”

The same ideals of mushin can be found in the lives of warrior monks, who chanted sutras as they went into battle—they did not seek victory, but emptiness, which knows no fear.

Zen, the Sōhei, and the Birth of the Samurai Code

The influence of Zen was not limited to the monasteries. When Bushidō—the “way of the warrior”—began to take shape in the 13th century (though the term Bushidō itself originates from the later Edo period), it was Zen philosophy that became the spiritual foundation of the samurai worldview.

Bushidō adopted from Zen:

• acceptance of death as a form of liberation,
• the idea of action without desire (mushin),
• the cultivation of solitary practice and perfection of form,
• the belief that truth reveals itself through action, not through words.
•  

Instead of songs and prayers, the samurai was to perfect the strike of the sword as a form of contemplation. As Yamamoto Tsunetomo wrote in Hagakure:

“The way of the warrior is death. Contemplating death every day—that makes life bearable.”

The Fall of the Warrior Monks — and What Remained

When gunpowder replaced the bow, and the armies of the daimyō grew in both numbers and discipline, the days of the independent temple-fortresses were numbered. In the late Muromachi period, and especially during the Sengoku era—the century of unending wars—the powerful daimyō began to view the sōhei less as allies and more as a threat (as discussed further in the article here: Ikkō-ikki: Buddhist Monks Build Fortresses and Lead Peasants to War Against the Warlords of Sengoku Japan).

The power of the temples, which had grown over the centuries into something akin to feudal domains, began to be systematically curtailed. Their lands were seized, and their influence at the court was gradually pushed out. The culmination of this policy came through the decision of one man, who chose to end the era of militant monks using their own arguments—steel and fire.

In the year 1571, the great Oda Nobunaga—a daimyō both ruthless and modern—carried out an act that shook all of Japan. He sent his armies to Enryaku-ji—the ancient temple complex on Mount Hiei, cradle of the sōhei, a place full of relics and sacred texts, but also of armed monks who for centuries had played a double role as clergy and warlords. He spared no one. According to chronicles, between 20,000 and 30,000 people died—monks, novices, women, children. Prayer halls burned, bells cracked from the heat. From the smoke arose a new order—feudal Japan under the future shoguns.

It was the end of the era of armed Buddhism.

Legacy of the Warrior Monks

Today, the sōhei return not in reality, but in legend and image. The iconic figure of the monk with a shaved head and a long naginata—a warrior who unites meditation with a deadly strike—still inspires artists. He appears in Kurosawa films, in manga and anime, on video game screens, and in history books. This is no coincidence—the sōhei embody the paradox of martial mysticism, the contradiction between prayer and violence, serenity and the ecstasy of battle.

What’s more, the echo of militant Buddhism reverberated even into the 20th century. In the ideology of the Japanese Imperial Army, in the rhetoric of honor, selfless sacrifice, and death as a virtue—Bushidō and Zen once again merged into a form the world came to know from its tragic side (on the young boys sent to die—the kamikaze—see here: Kamikaze – Two Divine Typhoons of Life, One Grim Wind of Death). The kamikaze were no accidental invention of war—they were the ideological heirs of the sōhei era. Their souls were not to fear death. Their minds were to be empty.

In the ashes of Mount Hiei, among the ruins of faded sutras, listening to the echoes of war drums, we find not only the history of Buddhism in Japan—but also a warning:
that faith and the sword blend together with surprising ease.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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