When I first stepped onto the mats at Warren Levi Championship Martial Arts in Cedarhurst, NY, it was my first time engaging with traditional martial arts in nearly a decade. After spending my youth studying taekwondo and hapkido, and then transitioning to Muay Thai and MMA, I felt I had a well-rounded understanding of what traditional martial arts could teach and provide. Discipline. Kata. Clean lines. Power. But as I’ve become immersed into this art, the more I’ve realized that to train karate isn’t just about fighting and form —it’s about understanding a people, a culture, and a history.
To really understand karate, I had to go beyond the dojo floor and look back to where it really began: Okinawa island, located within the Ryukyu Islands of Japan. In my dive into the cultural, ethnic, and geographical history of the city, I had to relearn everything about the way I see each kata, each bow, and each moment I spend in training.
Tegumi: Where It All Began
The first time I read about tegumi—Okinawan folk wrestling—I thought of the roughhousing I used to do as a kid in the backyard. No mats, no rules, just testing yourself against your friends, figuring out what worked. That’s exactly what tegumi was: village kids and young men grappling in sand or grass, learning balance, grips, and resilience without even realizing they were training for life.
It struck me that karate’s roots are playful, even chaotic. And yet, hidden in those childhood games were the seeds of control, leverage, and close-range fighting that still live in the kata we train today. Every time I practice a sweep or a joint lock, I imagine those Okinawan kids, laughing and scrapping, unknowingly shaping the martial art I study centuries later.
Weapons from the Fields and the Sea
One of the most fascinating parts of Okinawan history is how ordinary people turned their everyday tools into weapons. After the Satsuma clan banned weapons in 1609, farmers and fishermen were forced to adapt and use what they had at their disposal, to continue to train karate even under difficult circumstances.
The staff they carried loads with became the bo. The sickle they used for harvesting rice turned into the kama. The fisherman’s oar became the eku. The humble sai, which resembles a farming tool, was repurposed into a defensive weapon.
When I train with a bo now, I don’t just see a weapon — I see it’s history. An Okinawan farmer, sweating under the sun, using the same staff to carry baskets in the morning and to protect his family at night. There’s something raw and ingenious about that. It reminds me that karate isn’t about fancy equipment or “the right tools” — it’s about using what you have, creatively and effectively.
Dance, Ritual, and Hidden Training
One of the things that surprised me most was learning how Okinawans sometimes disguised their martial training in plain sight. Imagine this: a village festival, music and drums in the air, dancers moving with staffs or oars in fluid, rhythmic patterns. Outsiders saw performance. Insiders saw practice.
It made me rethink the kata I drill every day. The rhythm, the breath, the flow. These fundamental elements of the art aren’t just for show. They carry the same spirit as those dances, blending art with combat. Even when karate was pushed underground, the culture found a way to keep it alive.
Of course, Okinawa was never isolated. For centuries, it traded with China, and Chinese envoys brought their own martial arts to the islands. Kata like Sanchin and Kūsankū bear clear marks of Southern Chinese influence. White Crane, with its rooted stances and whipping strikes, left fingerprints all over Okinawan karate.
And then there’s Southeast Asia—weapon forms and tactics from there resonated with Okinawan adaptations. Karate, in other words, is a hybrid of local traditions and global exchanges. That’s something I love about it: it’s both deeply Okinawan and yet undeniably international.
Why It Matters
So why does all this matter? Why dive into dances, farming tools, and old wrestling games?
Because it changes how I train Karate. When I step into a stance now, I don’t just think “block.” I think about farmers holding their ground with a tool in hand. When I practice a lock or a sweep, I imagine the echoes of tegumi. When I move through kata, I feel the rhythm of ritual and festival behind the steps.
To train Karate becomes more than technique—it becomes a story. A story of resilience, creativity, and culture. And every time we bow as we step onto the mat before training, we’re stepping into that story.
Closing Thoughts
For me, discovering karate’s folk roots has been like finding hidden layers beneath something I thought I already understood. It’s humbling. It’s inspiring. And it makes me want to practice with even more respect for the people who came before us.
Karate isn’t just about fighting. It’s about farmers, fishermen, dancers, and kids wrestling in the dirt. It’s about survival, adaptation, and expression. It’s a living reflection of Okinawan culture—and when I train, I feel connected to all of that.
That’s the real soul of karate.