From time to time I am getting requests to write about a specific topic or to dig into something that sounds simple on the surface but turns into a small historical minefield the moment you touch it. And I will be honest about this – I cannot fulfil all wishes. Not because I do not want to, but because there is always a limit. A limit of time, a limit of accessible sources, and sometimes a limit of what is actually knowable without months of archival digging in places that do not exactly answer emails quickly. Time, more than anything, is the real enemy here. It is always the one thing I have the least of.
But every now and then, a request lands in front of me that does something interesting. It does not politely ask for attention. It grabs it. It refuses to leave. And then I make the mistake of thinking, “Alright… just a quick look.” That is usually the moment I lose several evenings, a few cups of tea, and any illusion that this will be a short answer.
This topic was exactly that kind of trap.
Because on the surface it sounds almost straightforward – the question of whether Okinawan karate, specifically Tomari-te, had already established itself in Hawaiʻi before the early twentieth century developments we usually talk about. It sounds like something that should have a clean answer. A date. A name. A neat little historical footnote.
It does not.
And that alone should already make people suspicious when they hear very confident claims.
What I found – and I am deliberately saying “found” rather than “know,” because that distinction matters more than people like to admit – is that the actual documented history is far more cautious, far more fragmented, and frankly far less romantic than what gets repeated in certain circles.
Let me start with something solid. Something that is not debated.
The formal introduction of karate to mainland Japan is tied to Gichin Funakoshi in 1922. That is not speculation. That is documented. It is one of the key anchor points in modern karate history. Before that, karate existed in Okinawa in forms such as Shuri-te, Naha-te, and Tomari-te, but it had not yet been systematised and spread in the way people often imagine today.
Now here is where things get interesting.
If karate was only formally introduced to mainland Japan in 1922, then any claim that fully developed Okinawan systems were already widely established in Hawaiʻi before that needs very strong evidence. Not assumptions. Not “someone said.” Evidence.
And that evidence simply is not there.
What we do have is something much more grounded. Migration. Real people. Real timelines.
The first documented group of Okinawan migrants arrived in Hawaiʻi in 1900 under Kyūzō Toyama. Twenty-six individuals. Not an army of martial arts instructors quietly planting dojos across the islands. Labourers. People trying to survive. People working in plantations. That matters, because context matters. These were not travelling martial arts ambassadors. They were migrants building new lives under hard conditions.
So when people imagine secret karate traditions quietly flourishing in Hawaiʻi before the 1920s, I always ask myself a very simple question. Where are the records?
Because when something exists, especially something structured like a martial art school, it tends to leave traces. Names. Advertisements. Newspaper mentions. Membership records. Letters. Something.
And here is the uncomfortable part.
Those traces are missing.
What we do see instead are later, very specific events that are actually documented.
In 1927, Yabu Kentsū travels to Honolulu and performs what is considered one of the first major karate demonstrations on U.S. territory. That is not a vague rumour. That is recorded in newspapers like the Hawaii Hōchi. It is visible. It exists.
And notice the wording carefully. Demonstration.
Not “continuation of an already established tradition.” Not “returning to a thriving karate community.” A demonstration. Something being shown, introduced, presented.
A few years later, in 1934 and 1935, Chōjun Miyagi, the founder of Goju-ryu, visits Hawaiʻi and teaches. Again, documented. Again, temporary. Again, not evidence of an earlier deep-rooted system already in place.
Then we move into a slightly different direction, and this is where things become more layered.
James Mitose returns to Hawaiʻi in the mid-1930s after spending time in Japan. He begins teaching what he calls Kenpō. Now this is often where people start to blur lines, sometimes deliberately, sometimes out of misunderstanding.
Mitose’s system included the Naihanchi kata, which has clear Okinawan roots, particularly linked to figures like Motobu Chōki. But here is the crucial detail that tends to get ignored when people want a cleaner story.
Mitose taught essentially one kata. One.
That is not the structure of a preserved Tomari-te tradition. That is a fragment. An influence. A piece carried across, adapted, integrated into something else.
And then comes William K. S. Chow, who takes Mitose’s teachings and develops what becomes known as Kenpo Karate. He blends influences. Japanese. Okinawan. Chinese. He names techniques in English. He reshapes the system.
At that point, we are no longer talking about the transmission of Tomari-te. We are talking about evolution. Hybridisation. Something new.
And this is where I quietly start to lose patience with certain narratives.
Because there is a difference between influence and lineage.
A very big difference.
Saying that Okinawan elements influenced Hawaiian Kenpō is accurate. Saying that Tomari-te existed as a structured, continuous tradition in Hawaiʻi before the 1920s is not supported by the evidence we currently have.
And I am choosing my words carefully here. “Currently have.”
Because this is the part where intellectual honesty matters.
There are gaps.
Real ones.
Primary sources are limited. Passenger lists exist, but they are not always fully analysed. Newspapers contain fragments, but not a complete picture. Oral histories exist, but they are, by nature, inconsistent and sometimes shaped by memory rather than documentation.
So yes, it is possible that something existed that has not yet been uncovered. That is always possible. History is full of surprises.
But possibility is not proof.
And this is where I think things get a little uncomfortable for people who prefer cleaner, more heroic narratives. The kind where traditions travel intact, untouched, almost like sacred artefacts moving from one place to another.
Reality is messier.
People move. Systems change. Knowledge fragments. Techniques survive in pieces. Names get reinterpreted. Entire lineages get simplified or reinvented depending on who is telling the story and why.
And Hawaiʻi, with its unique cultural mix, was not a place where traditions stayed pure. It was a place where they collided.
Japanese, Okinawan, Chinese, Filipino influences all blending under very specific historical conditions. Labour communities. Military presence. Post-war shifts. Social adaptation.
Of course the martial arts changed there. It would be strange if they did not.
So when I read claims about “ancient Tomari-te traditions in Hawaiʻi,” I cannot help but raise an eyebrow. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Because the timeline we can actually trace tells a different story.
A slower one.
A later one.
And in some ways, a more honest one.
Karate arrives visibly in Hawaiʻi through demonstrations in the late 1920s. It gains more presence in the 1930s. It begins to take root in adapted forms through figures like Mitose and Chow. And from there, it evolves into something distinctly Hawaiian in character.
That does not make it less valuable. If anything, it makes it more interesting.
Because it stops being a story about preservation and becomes a story about transformation.
And personally, I find that far more compelling.
Still, I am not going to pretend this is the final word. It is not. Not even close. There are archives that have not been fully explored. There are documents sitting somewhere in boxes that nobody has bothered to digitise. There are family records, letters, private notes that could shift details we currently think are fixed.
That is the frustrating beauty of this kind of research. You never quite finish it. You just get closer.
Or you think you do, which is sometimes the same thing.
What I can say, with confidence, is this: based on the material we have right now, there is no documented evidence that a fully developed Tomari-te tradition was independently established in Hawaiʻi before the 1920s.
Everything points instead to later introduction, gradual interest, and eventual transformation into hybrid systems like Kenpō.
Not as poetic as some might like.
But far more grounded.
And if there is one thing I will always choose over a beautiful myth, it is a slightly inconvenient truth.
Even if it takes me far too long to dig it out.