January 24, 2026
In the heart of Fukushima Prefecture, where the Pacific winds sweep across ancient rice fields and the echoes of hooves have thundered for over a millennium, lives a man who carries the weight of forty-two generations on his shoulders. Soma Takeshi, the hereditary master of the Soma Nomaoi Festival, represents one of Japan's most remarkable living traditions—a direct line of samurai warriors who have preserved their military heritage, ancestral armor, and sacred ceremonies since the tenth century. This exclusive interview offers unprecedented access to the man who stands at the intersection of ancient Bushido values and contemporary cultural preservation, revealing the profound responsibilities, hidden challenges, and spiritual dimensions of maintaining Japan's most authentic samurai festival in the twenty-first century.
Can you tell us about your family lineage and what it means to be the 42nd-generation master of Soma Nomaoi?
Being born into the Soma clan is not simply a matter of genetics or family pride—it is accepting a sacred duty that began before the first shogun ever drew his katana. My ancestors established these horseback military exercises over one thousand years ago as a means of training the clan's cavalry forces, but what they created transcended mere military preparation. They forged a spiritual discipline that connects the living with the ancestors, the present moment with centuries of warrior tradition, and the individual with something far larger than himself. Every morning when I open the wooden chest containing my family's ancestral armor, polished by forty-one pairs of hands before mine, I feel the weight of every ancestor who has worn this same ō-yoroi into battle and ceremony. The armor is not metal and leather alone—it is crystallized spirit, condensed courage, and the accumulated wisdom of generations who faced death with dignity.
The position of festival master does not come with wealth or privilege in the modern sense; rather, it brings responsibilities that consume one's entire life. I maintain the clan's sacred artifacts, including armor that has been authenticated to the Kamakura period, ceremonial banners that are recognized as Important Cultural Properties, and the oral traditions that explain every gesture, every movement, every moment of the festival's three-day program. My training began before I could walk, as my father would place me on the backs of our family's horses to absorb their rhythm and develop the intuitive connection between warrior and mount that defines the Soma cavalry tradition. By age five, I could recite the sacred prayers that open each day of the festival; by twelve, I was participating in preliminary races; by eighteen, I had earned the right to wear the ancestral armor in the main procession. Yet despite these milestones, I will tell you that true mastery remains forever out of reach—a humbling realization that drives me to deeper study, more rigorous practice, and greater reverence for the traditions I am charged to protect.
What makes the relationship between Soma clan samurai and their horses so special, and how has this bond evolved over the centuries?
The bond between a Soma warrior and his horse represents one of the most sophisticated examples of human-animal partnership ever developed, a relationship that transcends the master-servant dynamic and enters the realm of spiritual communion. In our tradition, the horse is not merely transportation or military equipment—he is a brother-in-arms, a partner whose spirit and courage must match or exceed that of the rider. We select horses not just for physical characteristics but for temperament, courage, and what we call "kokoro no tsuyosa"—strength of heart. A horse who panics at the sound of battle drums or shies from the chaos of the flag-capturing ceremony cannot serve the Soma clan, no matter how swift or powerful. I have spent decades developing the ability to understand my horse's moods, his physical limitations on any given day, and his preferences in everything from tack to training methods. This understanding transforms the horse from a beast of burden into a trusted ally whose movements anticipate my own as if we share a single consciousness.
Historically, the Soma clan maintained vast herds of horses specifically bred for cavalry warfare, selecting for traits that might seem contradictory: explosive sprinting power for charges, but also the stamina to fight battles that lasted hours or days; the courage to face enemy arrows and musket fire, but also the calmness to stand motionless during lengthy ceremonies; the strength to carry armored warriors at full gallop, but also the sensitivity to respond to subtle shifts in the rider's weight or the slightest pressure from knees and calves. Over centuries, our breeding program created horses ideally suited to the demands of mounted samurai combat—animals that could turn, charge, and maneuver with precision that European cavalry of the same period could not match. Today, maintaining these bloodlines has become increasingly difficult as modern horse breeding prioritizes different characteristics, particularly in racing or show horses. Our clan maintains a small breeding program with approximately fifty horses, but we constantly struggle against genetic dilution and the practical challenges of keeping military-grade horses in a society where such animals have no contemporary military purpose.
The training methods we use have remained essentially unchanged for centuries, passed down through master-disciple relationships that emphasize patience, respect, and the gradual building of trust. We do not break horses through force or domination; rather, we guide them through a process of acculturation that teaches them to understand their role in ceremonies and competitions. A young horse first learns to tolerate the sounds and sensations of festival conditions—drums, chanting, the crash of armor against armor, the chaos of hundreds of riders moving simultaneously. Only after he has mastered these environmental challenges does he learn the specific movements required for competitions. This training typically takes three to four years before a horse is ready to participate in the main festival events, and even then, each horse continues learning throughout his life, developing deeper understanding and more refined responses as he gains experience. The oldest horse in our current program is twenty-two years old, and his wisdom and calmness during ceremonies provide an example that the younger horses naturally follow.
The Kachidori flag-capturing competition is legendary for its danger and intensity. Can you describe what happens during this sacred ceremony and what it demands of participants?
The Kachidori ceremony represents the supreme test of courage, skill, and horsemanship in our tradition—a sacred free-for-all where hundreds of armored riders surge forward simultaneously to capture two sacred flags launched into the air by Shinto priests. This is not choreographed entertainment or safe historical reenactment; this is genuine competition with real risks, genuine physical danger, and genuine spiritual significance. When the sacred flags (goshiki-maku) ascend into the dawn sky, blessed with prayers and carrying the hopes of the entire region for prosperity and protection, what follows is controlled chaos that has remained essentially unchanged for over one thousand years. Riders charge at full gallop, jostling and competing at close quarters, their horses thundering across the field in a thunder of hooves that you feel in your chest as much as you hear with your ears. The captured flags are believed to bring good fortune to the warriors who seize them, but this blessing must be earned through demonstration of exceptional courage, skill, and spiritual readiness.
The physical demands of Kachidori are extraordinary. Riders must control powerful horses at maximum speed while wearing armor that weighs between twenty and thirty kilograms, maintaining balance and precision despite the chaotic movement of hundreds of surrounding riders. The armor itself presents unique challenges—historically designed for mounted combat where protection mattered more than mobility, the ō-yoroi limits flexibility and peripheral vision while concentrating weight on the shoulders and torso. Modern participants spend months preparing their bodies for these demands, focusing on core strength, leg endurance, and the ability to maintain calm focus despite overwhelming sensory input. The mental preparation is equally rigorous, involving meditation, prayer, and visualization exercises that help riders enter the state of focused awareness we call "mushin" or "no-mind"—a state where action flows spontaneously from the moment without hesitation or conscious thought.
What many observers do not understand is that Kachidori is not simply about individual glory or athletic achievement. The ceremony represents a sacred reenactment of the Soma clan's military traditions, a prayer for continued prosperity, and a demonstration of the warrior virtues that have defined our people for centuries. Each rider represents not only himself but his family lineage, his local community, and the entire tradition of Soma cavalry warfare. When I participate in Kachidori, I feel the presence of my ancestors surrounding me, their spirits urging my horse forward, their hands steadying my grip on the reins, their courage flowing through my veins like an electric current. This spiritual dimension transforms what might seem like mere dangerous sport into profound religious experience—a moment where past and present merge, where the individual warrior becomes part of something that has transcended death and time.
How are the traditions of Soma Nomaoi passed from one generation to the next, and what challenges does modern life present to this ancient system?
The master-disciple relationship that preserves Soma Nomaoi traditions represents one of the most sophisticated educational systems ever devised—a method of knowledge transmission that balances explicit instruction with experiential learning, individual mastery with collective responsibility, and respect for tradition with necessary adaptation to changing circumstances. Unlike modern education systems that prioritize standardized curricula and measurable outcomes, our approach to training emphasizes the slow, careful development of character, intuition, and what we call "kan"—the intuitive understanding that comes from years of observation, practice, and gradual internalization. When I take on a student, whether a young member of the clan or an outsider committed to learning our ways, I begin not with techniques or facts but with character development. Can the student demonstrate patience, humility, and the willingness to endure hardship without complaint? Can they show respect for elders, for the traditions we preserve, and for the horses who are our partners? Without these foundations, technical skill becomes meaningless or even dangerous.
The training process typically spans fifteen to twenty years before a student is considered ready to assume full responsibilities as an independent practitioner capable of teaching others. The first five years focus on fundamentals: learning to care for horses properly, understanding the historical context of each ceremony, developing the physical conditioning necessary to handle armor and prolonged riding, and memorizing the prayers and rituals that structure our festival calendar. Students spend countless hours performing what might seem like menial tasks—cleaning tack, grooming horses, maintaining equipment—yet these activities serve profound educational purposes. Through this repetitive, attentive work, students learn to notice subtle details: the slight change in a horse's gait that indicates developing lameness, the minor imperfection in armor that could cause injury during competition, the subtle shifts in weather that affect how horses respond to commands. These observational skills, developed over years, distinguish the master from the merely competent.
The middle years of training introduce progressively more complex skills: learning to handle armor while riding, mastering the specific techniques required for different competitions, developing the judgment and timing that separate successful from unsuccessful participation in chaotic events like Kachidori, and understanding the spiritual dimensions of each ceremony. During this phase, students begin participating in festival events, first in minor roles and gradually taking on greater responsibility as their skills and maturity demonstrate readiness. This progression is never automatic or predetermined—each student advances at their own pace, and some never achieve the highest levels of mastery despite decades of effort. The final years of training focus on assuming leadership roles: organizing events, teaching younger students, making decisions about festival modifications while respecting core traditions, and developing the wisdom to preserve what matters while adapting what can be changed without losing essential meaning.
Modern life presents profound challenges to this traditional educational system. Young people today have vastly different opportunities, expectations, and life patterns than their ancestors. Where a young Soma clansman in the Edo period might have had few options beyond learning the family trade, today's youth can pursue university education, careers in cities, or paths that take them far from the ancestral responsibilities that once defined their lives. Economic pressures also complicate maintaining our traditions—maintaining horses, armor, and the time necessary for proper training requires significant financial resources that do not generate corresponding income. We have adapted by creating programs that allow young people to balance traditional responsibilities with modern careers, by seeking government and private funding for preservation efforts, and by developing educational tourism initiatives that generate income while maintaining authenticity. These adaptations are necessary but constantly challenge us to distinguish between what can be changed and what must remain unchanged.
How do you balance the need for economic sustainability with the imperative to maintain the authenticity and spiritual integrity of Soma Nomaoi?
This question lies at the heart of my daily struggles as festival master, representing perhaps the greatest challenge facing traditional Japanese festivals in the twenty-first century. The tension between preservation and commercialization, between authenticity and accessibility, between spiritual meaning and entertainment value creates dilemmas that have no perfect solutions, only constant navigation through gray areas where compromise seems inevitable but never feels entirely correct. When I was a boy learning these traditions, the Soma Nomaoi Festival was essentially a local celebration, attended primarily by people from the surrounding region who understood its significance through generations of cultural familiarity. Today, we welcome thousands of international visitors, media crews, and cultural tourists who arrive with cameras, curiosity, and expectations shaped by movies, anime, and guidebooks that simplify complex traditions into marketable experiences.
We have implemented various measures to protect the festival's core integrity while accommodating legitimate public interest and generating necessary revenue. We have established designated viewing areas that allow spectators to experience the festival without interfering with ceremonies or putting themselves in danger. We have created educational materials and guide programs that help visitors understand what they are witnessing rather than simply treating it as spectacle. We have developed photography guidelines that balance the desire to document these events with respect for participants' privacy and the sanctity of certain ceremonies. Most importantly, we have maintained strict standards for participation—you cannot simply buy your way into wearing ancestral armor and riding in the procession. This means that despite economic pressures, the core ceremonies remain performed by people with genuine connections to the Soma clan traditions, by individuals who have undergone years of training and who understand the spiritual dimensions of what they are doing.
The financial realities of maintaining our traditions cannot be ignored. The festival requires significant expenses: maintaining the clan's horses, preserving and restoring armor and artifacts, providing meals and accommodations for hundreds of participants, compensating priests and ceremonial specialists, and organizing logistics for an event that now attracts tens of thousands of visitors. We have developed revenue streams that respect tradition while generating necessary funds: selling authentic crafts and educational materials rather than cheap souvenirs, offering premium viewing experiences that include genuine educational content rather than simply privileged access, partnering with cultural institutions that understand preservation ethics rather than commercial tour operators. We have also established preservation foundations and sought government recognition that provides both funding and legal protections for our cultural property. These efforts have been successful enough to sustain the festival, but every financial decision requires careful ethical consideration, and we constantly struggle against the temptation to prioritize revenue over authenticity.
What gives me hope despite these challenges is the increasing number of young Japanese who are rediscovering pride in traditional culture and international visitors who genuinely want to understand rather than simply consume our heritage. We have seen remarkable moments of connection—Japanese visitors who discover pride in their own history through Soma Nomaoi, international visitors moved to tears by the depth and authenticity of what they witness, young people from our region who initially saw the festival as inconvenient obligation but grew to understand it as precious birthright. These moments remind me that preservation is not merely about maintaining practices but about continuing to create meaning through those practices, ensuring that they remain alive and relevant rather than frozen museum pieces.
The 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, followed by the nuclear disaster at Fukushima Daiichi, profoundly affected your region. How did these events impact Soma Nomaoi, and what role did the festival play in the community's recovery?
The events of March 11, 2011, represent a wound that will never fully heal—a day when the earth itself seemed to turn against us, when the ocean that has always sustained our region became a weapon of destruction, and when the invisible radiation released from the Fukushima Daiichi plant created a threat no warrior could defeat with sword or courage. Our region suffered on every level: the physical destruction of homes, businesses, and infrastructure; the devastating loss of lives, including several members of our extended Soma clan; the displacement of entire communities as evacuation zones were established around the nuclear plant; and the psychological trauma that comes from watching one's world collapse in a single day. In the immediate aftermath, with radiation concerns, ongoing aftershocks, and the overwhelming task of rebuilding basic infrastructure, the question of whether to hold the Soma Nomaoi Festival that July seemed almost absurd—how could we celebrate when so much lay in ruins, when so many grieved, when the very land beneath our feet felt unsafe?
Yet it was precisely in that moment of despair that the festival revealed its deepest purpose. In the weeks following the disaster, as we struggled to comprehend the scale of what had happened, an ancient conviction began to emerge among the clan elders and local community leaders: the ancestors had guided the Soma people through wars, famines, plagues, and countless lesser disasters for over one thousand years. Our festival had survived because it served a function deeper than celebration—it was an affirmation of life, a declaration that despite whatever devastation we endured, the essential spirit of our people would continue. The decision to hold the festival in 2011 was not made lightly, and it was not made without controversy—some argued that continuing traditions felt disrespectful to those still searching for missing family members, that the festival would draw attention and resources away from more urgent recovery needs, that participating in joyous ceremonies while the region suffered was somehow immoral or inappropriate.
The debate itself revealed something profound about Japanese culture—our understanding that grief and celebration are not opposites but connected experiences, both necessary for human wholeness. When the 2011 festival took place, it was a transformed event, stripped of any unnecessary spectacle, focused entirely on prayer for the victims and affirmation of community resilience. The flag-capturing ceremony that year carried particular weight—as warriors charged forward to capture the sacred flags, they carried with them the spirits of those we had lost, they demonstrated that courage endures despite catastrophe, they proved that the bonds connecting past, present, and future remain unbroken by even the most devastating events. I have participated in Kachidori dozens of times, but that year was different—every movement felt like both prayer and declaration, every galloping horse carried the weight of ancestral expectation, every captured flag became a promise that our people would not be destroyed.
The festival played specific practical roles in recovery beyond its symbolic importance. It provided structure and purpose for young people whose lives had been thrown into chaos, giving them something to prepare for, something to believe in, something that honored their heritage while pointing toward the future. It attracted media attention and visitors who brought not only economic activity but also the simple human presence that counters isolation and despair. It demonstrated to the world that Fukushima was not merely a disaster zone but a living culture with traditions worth celebrating. It gave our people a way to process grief through action rather than passive suffering, through demonstrating continued capability rather than acknowledging defeat. Most importantly, it connected us to our ancestors' experience of surviving previous catastrophes, reminding us that resilience is not new to our people but rather an essential quality that has been forged and reforged through centuries of adversity.
What would you say to young Japanese people—and young people globally—about the value of engaging with traditional practices in the modern world?
When young people ask me about the value of traditional practices, I begin by acknowledging their legitimate questions: in a world of smartphones and space travel, of global connection and unprecedented opportunity, why should anyone care about ancient ceremonies, old-fashioned values, or the seemingly irrelevant habits of their ancestors? My answer begins with the observation that human beings have not fundamentally changed despite technological advancement—we still face the same essential questions: how do we live meaningful lives? How do we connect with something larger than ourselves? How do we develop the qualities of character that enable us to face adversity with dignity? Traditional practices evolved over centuries specifically to address these questions, tested by countless generations who discovered what worked and what did not through the hardest school imaginable: survival.
The benefits I have experienced from dedicating my life to Soma Nomaoi traditions extend far beyond cultural preservation or family pride. Through years of training, I developed qualities that have served me in every aspect of life: the patience to persist through long, difficult processes without immediate rewards; the humility to recognize my own limitations and the wisdom of those who came before me; the courage to face physical danger and psychological pressure without losing my composure; the ability to focus intensely on the present moment without being distracted by past regrets or future anxieties; the understanding that true mastery requires lifelong learning and that the greatest experts remain forever students. These qualities are not outdated or irrelevant—they are precisely what modern life seems designed to erode, yet they are exactly what enable success, fulfillment, and resilience in any era.
I would encourage young people to explore traditional practices not out of obligation or sentimentality but with the same curiosity and critical thinking they bring to other pursuits. Try learning a traditional craft—calligraphy, pottery, martial arts, music—and pay attention not just to the external techniques but to the internal transformations that occur through practice. Spend time with elders who carry knowledge that cannot be found in books or on the internet, and listen not just to their stories but to the underlying wisdom about how to live well. Investigate your own cultural heritage, wherever you are from, and discover what traditions have sustained your people through difficult times—you may find surprising relevance to contemporary challenges. Most importantly, approach this exploration with both respect and critical judgment: respect for the accumulated wisdom contained in traditions, but judgment to recognize what should be preserved and what can be left behind.
What I find particularly encouraging is the global movement of young people rediscovering traditional practices—from Japanese youth taking up tea ceremony or swordsmanship to young Americans learning traditional crafts to European young people reviving folk music and dance. This is not mere nostalgia but a conscious recognition that modern life, despite its conveniences and opportunities, lacks certain dimensions that traditional practices provided: connection to place, connection to ancestors, connection to community through shared rituals, connection to one's own deepest self through disciplined practice. The Soma Nomaoi Festival is not merely Japanese heritage but human heritage—a demonstration of how communities can maintain meaning, identity, and resilience through practices that connect them across time. The specific traditions may vary from culture to culture, but the underlying human needs they address are universal: the need to feel part of something larger than oneself, the need for practices that develop character, the need for connection to place and people, the need for ceremonies that mark life's transitions and acknowledge its mysteries.
As you consider the next decade and beyond, what gives you hope about the future of Soma Nomaoi, and what concerns keep you awake at night?
What gives me the greatest hope is the quality of young people who are taking up the mantle of preserving Soma Nomaoi traditions. When I was young, my generation assumed our responsibility to learn and continue these practices without really questioning it or seeing it as a choice—tradition was simply what you did because it was what your family had always done. Today's young people make conscious decisions to involve themselves in Soma Nomaoi, sometimes against significant practical obstacles, and this conscious choice creates a different but perhaps stronger foundation for preservation. I see young people in their twenties who have graduated from prestigious universities, who could have pursued lucrative careers anywhere in Japan or internationally, but who choose to remain in this region and dedicate themselves to learning our traditions. I see young women challenging historical exclusions and bringing fresh perspectives to practices that were once restricted to men. I see young people from outside the Soma clan who, having experienced the festival as spectators or participants, feel called to learn more deeply and eventually become part of our preservation community. These developments give me confidence that the festival will not merely survive but evolve in ways that maintain its core meaning while finding new expressions of that meaning relevant to changing times.
I am also encouraged by technological innovations that enhance rather than diminish tradition. We have developed digital documentation of our practices that allows us to preserve knowledge more comprehensively than ever before—high-resolution video of ceremonies, detailed measurements of armor, audio recordings of prayers and chants that capture nuances of pronunciation and rhythm. We have created virtual reality experiences that allow people who cannot attend the festival to understand its significance, potentially generating interest and support from audiences who might otherwise never encounter our traditions. We use social media to share the stories behind the spectacle, the years of training behind the moments of glory, the spiritual dimensions behind the physical competitions. These technologies do not replace direct experience but create pathways toward that experience for new audiences.
What concerns me most is the gradual erosion of conditions that allowed traditional practices to flourish in the first place. The economic pressures that make it difficult for young people to dedicate themselves to intensive training without earning immediate income; the fragmentation of community life that reduces opportunities for intergenerational connection and shared experience; the dominance of entertainment culture that trains people to expect constant stimulation and immediate gratification rather than the slow, patient development that traditional practice requires; the environmental changes that affect the horses, the fields, the weather patterns that have shaped our ceremonies for centuries. These trends operate slowly and invisibly, making them harder to resist than obvious threats, yet they may be more dangerous in the long run precisely because they operate below the threshold of awareness.
My strategy for addressing these concerns focuses on building bridges rather than walls. We work with universities and research institutions to document and study our traditions, creating academic legitimacy that attracts funding and recognition. We partner with tourism organizations on our own terms, developing experiences that are educational rather than exploitative. We create programs that allow young people to engage with traditions gradually while pursuing other interests, rather than demanding all-or-nothing commitment. We emphasize the universal values embedded in our specific practices—courage, discipline, respect, community—making them accessible to people from all backgrounds. Most importantly, we continue performing the festival itself, trusting that the power of these ceremonies, refined and preserved through forty-two generations, will continue to speak to whatever part of the human soul that recognizes its own deepest nature when witnessing authentic expressions of human excellence, beauty, and meaning.
As our conversation draws to a close and Master Soma prepares for the demanding physical and spiritual work of maintaining this ancient tradition, his parting words offer profound insight not merely into festival preservation but into the very nature of what it means to be human in a world that often seems determined to make us forget our deepest nature. The path of the warrior, as he understands it, is not about fighting or conquering but about cultivating those qualities that enable human beings to face whatever life brings with dignity, courage, and grace—qualities that are perhaps needed more now than ever before.
When you watch the Soma Nomaoi Festival, whether in person or through video, you are not merely witnessing a colorful spectacle or historical curiosity. You are witnessing one of humanity's oldest and most sophisticated answers to the question of how to live well—a system of practice and belief that has guided countless generations through suffering and celebration, prosperity and catastrophe, changing and unchanging times. The horses thundering across the field, the armored riders charging toward sacred flags, the ancient prayers rising into the Fukushima sky—these are not remnants of a dying past but vibrant expressions of what makes us most fully human: our capacity to create meaning, to connect across time, to maintain dignity in the face of mortality, and to demonstrate that the warrior spirit is not about violence but about the courage to remain fully human regardless of what life demands.
Master Soma Takeshi and the generations who came before him and will follow him remind us that tradition is not about worshiping the past but about carrying forward the best of what previous generations discovered, adapting it intelligently to new conditions, and passing it on improved for those who will come after us. In this sense, the preservation of Soma Nomaoi represents not merely Japanese heritage but the universal human project of wisdom transmission—the endless task of learning from the past, living fully in the present, and ensuring that the best of what we have learned continues to serve future generations. As the thunder of hooves continues across the fields of Fukushima, as ancestral armor continues to be polished by hands that are both ancient and new, as prayers continue to rise toward the sky unchanged in their essence though adapted in their form, the Soma Nomaoi Festival stands as testament to what is possible when human beings honor their heritage while embracing their future.
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