Karate-Do

November 1999

Excitedly me and Mol took our first glances of a real Dojo. Shivering with anticipation, looking around nervously at the many new faces surrounding us, sticking close to each other. We were the new people. When you go somewhere for the first time, you always take in a lot more than you realise. And you always remember it so clearly afterwards. The hard wooden floors, the bright lights, the distinct smell of sweat hanging in the air. The bubble inside me was about to burst.

Take off our shoes? Are you serious? No really?

Sitting in two very uncomfortable plastic chairs at one end of the training hall, we watch closely at how things were run. The line up, the seated bow, the standing bow. The warmup. I’ll always remember trying to memorize how to count to ten in Japanese. Ich Nee San Go? Nah that’s not it. Ich nee San Shee.. There you go. I’m getting the hang of this.

“No talking in the Dojo”, said the coach strictly, pausing in the middle of his demonstration.

Me and my sister blushed with embarrassment and sat up a bit straighter, determined to set a good first impression on those who we would be seeing a lot more of in the coming months.

I was never the tough girl. Bullied in school, picked on, a bit of a cry baby, and very temperamental. Could this be the start of something new?

I loved how real it was. How different. How unique. The beautiful art of the movements. The excitement that shook the room when someone yelled. How everyone was so concentrated, mesmerised by the Sensei’s flawless technique.

End of the class I rushed home to show my Mom how I could almost count to 10 in Japanese. Laughing and eager to get to my first real training, I tried on my first karate suit, my first white belt, my first photograph taken to be put into my first Course and Exam Log Book. Never would I have guessed that from that day onward, my life would never be the same.

A month later, Mol gave up on the trainings. I will always remember walking towards the Dojo on my own for the very first time. The tears that fell as I hung on to my white belt tightly. I didn’t know that many people. I was so small. I felt so alone.

But I wanted it. I fought for it.

October 2007

Eight years and seven belts later. Four dojo changes, one academy. The one I was so excited stepping into so many years ago. One academy, one Sensei, one family. My family.

The man who once told me to be quiet as I sat whispering with my sister in those two plastic chairs, has become the closest thing to a Father Figure that I can imagine.

I love the closeness, the friendship, the respect. The one place I know where I can truly be myself, in the form of a beautiful art. It’s my sanctuary.

I sit here and write to you about my advancement into Shotokan, and I smile while looking at my belts hung up. The proof of my advancement. The reward of my persistent training. The Black belt hung neatly around the neck of my Gi, ready to be worn. Next to one another lie brown, blue, green, orange, yellow, and white. Ah the white. The belt I clutched onto for dear life, tears streaming down my face, while taking the baby steps onto the path of Martial Art.

Shotokan gave me the strength to be who I am today. To be unafraid. It taught me respect, dignity, control. It taught me to never settle for almost perfect. If you strive to reach flawlessness in one thing, that need extends to so many other aspects in your life. My Sensei always said “There’s a line, a boundary, where you should stop. Put your toe over that line, just to see what happens”.

Karate gave me the power to go the extra mile, the patience to work hard on something until I reached perfection, and the intelligence to know that I have the potential to do anything in life, as long as I believe in it.