The way of the foot and the fist

Chapter 4 (2/2) Mehdi

Nour had come to pick me up at home. When I saw him arrive in a dobok and a blue belt, I paused for a moment, examining him from head to toe. I was so used to seeing him in jogging attire, dressed in dark colors, that the bright white of the dobok made his tan complexion stand out. For once, he had tamed his curly hair, of which he was very proud, with a Hello Kitty elastic stolen from his little sister. When he saw my gaze fixed on it, he hastened to explain, "Don't judge me, it's either this or we turn back as soon as we get there. The coach told me that if he saw me again with my big mass of hair, he would shave me like the sheep on Eid."

"And you couldn't find anything else to use besides stealing your sister's elastic?" I responded mockingly.

"What do you want me to do? I remembered it just before leaving."

The dojo, which Nour called a dojang in Korean, was nestled between a bakery and a pharmacy. Nour had ignited my imagination with tales of self-mastery and ancient martial arts. I had pictured a completely different ambiance – a room with pristine tatami mats covering the floor evenly, mirrors along the wall reflecting symmetry and discipline, with Korean flags and hanja decorating wooden-paneled walls reminding us of martial arts fundamentals. I was preparing to enter a unique world where time would seem to stand still, and where values of respect and discipline would reign supreme.

The place I entered was, in fact, a small shabby room provided by the city's martial arts club, generously given by the municipality, a far cry from what I had envisioned. The walls were rough cement, barely sanded, or adorned with yellowed posters half torn against a corkboard. No one seemed to have bothered reading them for a good ten years. Some metal cabinets, padlocked and storing rackets, focus mitts, pads, and other training equipment, adorned the room. The electric blue rubber floor was covered with worn-out tatami mats, and about ten children were waiting more or less patiently for the session to begin. A punching bag hung from the ceiling, on which a slightly older blue belt than me was practicing a series of kicks. Nour noticed my interest and suggested that I try hitting the bag. I should have been wary.

I clenched my fist and struck the lower part of the bag, trying to reproduce the movements I had seen in boxing training videos. I let out a cry of pain amid the hearty laughter of Nour and the big guy who had left his spot for me to hit. My fist met a surface as hard as stone; if I had punched my fist against the wall, I wouldn't have noticed any difference. The throbbing pain in my knuckles made me understand the importance of boxing gloves.

The big guy gave me a pat on the back. "You fell for it, and Nour deliberately raised the punching bag. He did everything to make you hit the bottom, except that no one hits that part. All the sand compacted by the impact of the blows is packed there; you should aim for the top, it's softer. Didn't you pay attention when you saw me hitting before?"

"I thought you were hitting the top because you wanted to practice head strikes, and since you looked super flexible, I thought you were taking advantage to impress me a bit. Nour told me there was a big guy who liked to show off; I assumed it was you, Nurcan, is that right?"

"That's right, I wonder what else he could have told you," Nurcan retorted to Nour, giving him a sideways glance followed by a friendly sweep.

The coach's entrance put an end to the commotion that was starting to build in the room. In a firm voice, he announced, "Everyone in line, we're starting the session!" The students arranged themselves in a gradient of colors based on their belts; I saw Nour join the front of the line and followed suit. He stopped me and explained, "The higher-ranked students go on the right, the red belts are the highest, you have to go with the white belts, get to the very end, that's reserved for those without a dobok."

"The outcasts, right? What's with this segregation?"

"Big words right away! It's your first session; if it bothers you so much, buy a dobok at the end of the session, and we'll talk about it," he replied pragmatically.

So, I took the assigned place a bit grumpy, but my disappointment quickly evaporated. I had come to be transported, and this first session had exceeded my expectations. The session began with the traditional salute; the students faced the master, dressed in a black-collared dobok and a black belt. We saluted each other with respect, and then the warm-up began. We moved in a single file, running in circles around the room. We added strides, knee lifts, and accelerations to our steps. Next, the coach asked four of the highest-ranked students, including Nurcan, to hold the focus mitts. He chose Nurcan to demonstrate the exercise. The goal was to maintain guard against the chest, take a step back, change the guard, and then kick with the rear leg. Throughout the session, he repeated this sequence in various combinations, adding punches, imposing handicaps; the possibilities were endless. I tried to concentrate as much as possible; I was completely lost with the names of the techniques in Korean. The coach even counted in Korean rhythm, ana, dul, set, net. Some instructions were given in Korean, and in the mix, a few Arabic words escaped the coach when he was in the heat of action. Eventually, everyone ended up understanding. He chose to end the session with a poomse; the grading was approaching, and there were two months left to prepare. I didn't even have my dobok yet, but I dreamed of exchanging my white belt for a yellow one; I wanted at least one keup on my white belt to testify to my progress. S placed me in the beginners' group under Nour's guidance, who was tasked with teaching us the first poomse and the names of the techniques performed in it. I had noticed that the words maki, tchigui, and Eulgoul were often repeated.

"There are three levels: low, middle, head – are, momtong, and Eulgoul. You'll see, it will start to sound like French in a few sessions if you want to pass the grading; you'll have to learn these names. Poomse are fights against imaginary opponents; don't see it as a choreography. It's a real fight, and you need to put power into it, even if the beauty and technique of the movement are essential."

"How many poomse do we have to learn?" I asked.

"Eight to get the black belt," he replied.

I was a bit discouraged, but it didn't deter me. Nurcan, who had finished with his group, overheard our conversation and added, "Nour and I are blue belts; we only know five so far, but don't count too much on taekwondo sessions to learn poomse. The coach is more focused on combat. Right now, it's exceptional; he's preparing for the end-of-year gradings. I suggest you watch some po

omse videos when you get home. The names of the techniques are detailed step by step. Special mention for the Korean masters who film themselves in traditional settings and add sound effects to exaggerate the force of their movement."

The end of the sentence was drowned out by the coach's whistle, signaling the end of the session. Similar to the beginning of the class, everyone returned to their place in front of the coach for the final salute.

I joined Nour to ask him how to register when the coach called out, "It's your first taekwondo session, did you enjoy it, kid? I've been observing you a bit during the session; you did pretty well. You already have the right attitude; you're attentive and focused. If you continue like this, you'll progress well. Your friend has a good eye," he added, addressing Nour.

"Thank you very much," I replied, feeling embarrassed. I wasn't used to so many compliments. "I really enjoyed it! I'd like to register and buy a dobok too, but I don't think I have enough money." I handed him the check pre-filled by my mother, covering only the registration fees.

S glanced quickly at the amount, dismissing my concerns with a wave of his hand. "We'll figure it out," he said, pulling me into his tiny office filled with odds and ends. Since I had joined in the middle of the year, the coach had given me a discount. It was the solution he found to fit the dobok, belt, and registration with the license into my budget. S was a dedicated coach, giving his all. Taekwondo was his life. Seeing someone vibrate like him was his driving force, the reason he sacrificed his days off to teach taekwondo to about twenty kids in a run-down dojang. If he could make one person hooked, he had achieved the goal of his career. I think from that very first session, S had sensed my potential. He had decided to shape the rough diamond that I was, to polish me until I shone like never before.