Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 4

Thank you for…

Thank you for showing me how to be myself.

Anyone that hides behind ego won’t survive in this sport.

I learned pretty quick that the only thing I could do was be myself on the mat.

The people that I do jiujitsu with have seen me at my worst: crying and bloody and bruised, immature and emotional. You can’t hide it. You can't hide behind ego in jiujitsu.

My teammates have also seen me at my best: the moments where I accept defeat, the moments where I accept failure and confusion with grace. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to fail.

They are also there to witness the moments when I get the move for the first time in drilling; when I get the move for the first time when flow rolling; for the first time with a white belt; for the first time with a colored belt. And they share my joy in that moment.

Thank you for showing me that I am athletic; that I am coordinated; that I am strong. Thank you for showing me that I persevere through challenges.

Thank you for showing me community, love, and family. For teaching me what the cliche “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts” means; that as a whole we are greater together than we are as individuals. Through this, I learned a source of power greater than myself.

Thank you for everything.

Me with three of my female teammates at a jiujitsu tournament in February 2020.

A compilation of photos with my team from the tournament in February 2020.

Group photo from Rox and my Adventure Jiu-Jitsu Camp in June 2019. The camp was cancelled this year due to COVID-19.

Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 3

This is a continuation of the letter of grief I write to one of my main sources of connection in my life: jiujitsu. You can read the beginning of the letter in Part 1 and Part 2.

One thing I admire about jiujitsu is… 

The way jiujitsu makes me forget about my fatigue; it allows me to ignore the burn in my chest. With jiujitsu, I don’t even notice the fire creeping up my throat. I don’t even care about the punch in my stomach, the knee to the jaw, the elbow to the eye. 

Jiujitsu shuts down the voice that tells me, “You can’t do this. You can’t keep going. You’re going to stop or you’re going to die.” When I’m doing jiujitsu, I turn off that voice in my head, and I can keep going through the pain and impossibility. It’s magical. 

The voice--the one that tells me “you can’t do this”--is powerful. Yet also weak because when we shut it down? PIGS FLY. We transcend physical limitations.

With that voice silenced, our focus totally on the technique at hand, our mind blank and silent, we keep going. And even in our struggle, it is peaceful in those moments. There is no fear, there is no anxiety. I just am, in that moment, present. Just rolling. There is nothing else. Doing the thing you thought was impossible two seconds ago. You are in the moment, drowning and yet at peace. Because there is nothing to worry about. Just this moment, here and now. 

In the meantime, breath gasping, heart pounding, legs burning, gums aching, lungs on fire, and sweat dripping, I feel powerful. I feel strong and at peace. 

From jiujitsu, I learned the importance of…

When it gets hard, that’s when I keep going.

I learned that I don’t give up. When I want to stop, that’s the moment when I say, “No, I can do this.” At the moment when we want to give up, that’s when we keep going because it’s not supposed to be easy. If it was easy, it would be boring. 

Jiujitsu introduced me to people that don’t run from pain and challenge and fear, but turn toward it. With jiujitsu, we embraced pain.

With jiujitsu, I shared tears that mixed with sweat. What’s the difference really? Both are a release of the pain and stress of the day. 

We said, EVERY SINGLE DAY: “This sucks but I’m going to do it anyway. Not for the gold medal, but for the journey and for the process because it makes us better people. Because becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable is what it’s all about, is what life is about.”

Because nothing is ever comfortable. Even sitting and doing nothing is uncomfortable. Emotions are uncomfortable. Criticism and being in the unknown is uncomfortable. But those moments of discomfort are when joy is planted and sprouts. 

Jiujitsu taught me pain.

Frustration. Anger, sadness, and confusion. Those uncomfortable emotions allowed me to empathize with others’ suffering. That pain showed me how to hold others’ suffering. And perseverance through it all showed me how to keep moving through challenges--my dissertation, learning foreign languages, writing articles, human rights advocacy, my job, just to name a few. Right when I wanted to give up on all of those things, I kept going and in the process I learned that life begins with suffering. 

From jiujitsu I learned that I’m nothing by myself. But I am everything with community. 

I learned that if you feel like you’re getting attacked all the time, then you will always be frustrated because attacking is not the point. The point is to play a game. That’s all it is: just playing, a back and forth challenge, a dance. It’s not about right or wrong, it’s about playing and dancing. The play isn’t fun if you just do the same thing all the time. So it’s more fun if you bring it to the next level by challenging the other person. In jiujitsu, that is brought about through trying new submissions or offensive and aggressive moves. Not to make you suffer, but just to explore, to play, and to converse with each other in exploring those edges of physical and mental abilities. 

Jiujitsu taught me to question: Who is the person I want to be in this world? What is the kind of world that I want to live in? 

I’m still thinking about the answers. But a few things I've learned are:

• Life is about play
• Love yourself.
• You can be the rock that creates the ripples that rocks the boat that changes the world. 
• Suffering is part of the human condition. 
• Becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable allows for joy later down the road.  

I’ve always wanted to tell you [jiujitsu]… 

Sometimes I used to hate you. Sometimes I used to dread you. Your cold air, hard floors, loud environment, chaotic and crowded mats, and annoying people. Sometimes I didn’t want to go see you. 

Sometimes I complained about the sweaty group photos we took after class. Now there is nothing I cherish more as I scroll through my photos on Facebook.

God, I miss you guys so much. 

I was wrong. I was wrong to not appreciate every single part you. I was wrong to take you for granted.

Now I wish I had appreciated what I had more when I had it. I didn’t realize how much I cared until it was gone.

Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 2

This is a continuation of the letter of grief I write to one of my main sources of connection in my life: jiujitsu. You can read the beginning of the letter in Part 1.

A special memory I have of jiujitsu is...

The laughter after my head hits the mat hard on a good sweep. The fist bump, the messy hair, the shared smirk, the face plant on the mat, the extra credit rolls “just because,” the freezing showers when the hot water runs out, the “have a good day” from the front desk, the drilling with Beth and bullshitting on Saturday mornings, the sharing of knowledge, the mish-mash of creativity, getting up for 6 am Friday training when it’s still dark outside, the knee on belly right after drinking too much water, the foot in the face, the cross-face pressure that made my jaw hurt, the hook of my left leg behind my partners knee on De-La Riva.

The Pho lunches afterwards. The Indian buffet after War. The shared sense that we’re all a little crazy.

Prof. Alex telling me, “When you don’t believe in yourself, think of me. Because I believe in you.”

Drilling with Kevin, especially when he tries to hide his annoyed tone when I don’t get something. Him believing in me when I do get something. Random goofy faces and jokes, “Oh, REALLY?” in a cartoon voice.

Marika choking me out with the bow and arrow when I least expect it. Mike almost breaking my arm and trying to stifle his laughter about it. Ben making me laugh until I cried with pretending to fart in my face.

The thing I remember the most is laughing. I don’t really remember the tears that much. I don’t really remember the frustration. I know I had it at times. I know I was tired at times. But when I think about jiujitsu the first thing I remember is all the people I laughed with while I was rolling with them.

I don’t think I can ever take jiujitsu seriously again. Because now with separation I realize that it’s all just a fucking game. And guess what? That game can be taken from you in an instant when everything you knew is suddenly ripped from you, everything you had and everything you did actually means nothing and is worthless.

So when I do have jiujitsu again, I won’t take it so seriously. Because in the end, what you’re going to remember are the smiles and the laughter, the jokes and the goofiness. It’s not the technique that matters. It’s the playing of the game, the back and forth, the gives and the takes, the ups and the downs, the failures and the triumphs, not when you’re taking it seriously. Yes, going hard is one of my favorite things, my lungs burning and my muscles fatiguing. I remember that. But I don’t remember the submissions. I remember the laughter afterward.

Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 1

Last week I was foam rolling, and I asked my body: “What hurts?”

“My heart,” it replied.

“Why does my heart hurt?” I asked.

“My heart is grieving the loss of jiujitsu,” it answered.

“What do you need? What can I do to heal this pain?” I inquired.

“Write a letter. Express your grief over this loss,” came the answer.

So I present to you my letter to jiujitsu as one way to heal my hurting heart.

I intentionally wrote the letter in the past tense as a way to express my grieving. I know that in the future we will be able to start training again, but for now I write in the past tense to illustrate the loss.

This is dedicated to the people I used to see at training every single day that I don’t get to see anymore. 

Dear Jiujitsu,

I miss you so much. You were my sanctuary, my church, my home, my breath of fresh air. You were my life blood, my muse, my source of inspiration, my anti-drug, my anti-depressant, my energy, my reason for getting up in the morning.

One thing I’m glad we shared is… 

Smiles and hugs. Handshakes and pats on the back. Ass-kicking. Being the nail one day and the hammer the next. Chatter. Shared fears and common struggles. Stepping onto your mat, I never knew what other people might be going through. They could have just had the worst day of their life. But they showed up. And as long we kept the electricity that courses between us alive, then we had a reason to keep going.

The electricity that buzzed between me and my teammates: Whether rolling with my face pressed against their sweaty gi, or talking and laughing on the mat, or greeting someone with a smile when they came in, a current of energy pulsed within and between us. A touch, a giggle, an inside joke, an eyebrow wiggle, a wink. We shared sweat and blood and tears and pain. Those people and that place was my home and refuge. Why? Because it fostered community and connection, which we are all starved for.

Who else can say they have the closeness of gifting your sweat in their eyeball? 

Now our world has changed. Sharing sweat is no longer okay. Now sharing skin contact is dangerous and forbidden.

Demolition and Eviction: Part 4

The next day, I approached Aygul’s shop. I saw Aygul’s husband outside the shop with their son, and they were piling household goods—a water boiler, a fan, a lamp, blankets—into the back of a tricycle mo-ped. I chose not to stop and say hello, too nervous about being seen and not wanting to draw attention to her husband or the situation or me. By the end of the first week of May, the entire neighborhood was completely demolished.  

This is the where those shops with the green shutters from the previous post used to stand. Source: Photo by author, May 2017.

Later, in mid-May 2017, I met up with Aygul and she told me:

“I tried delaying going back to Kashgar as long as I could. But the situation is just out of control,” she explained, shaking her head. They are cracking down like never before. I have to leave. I have to go back to Kashgar now, or else I’ll get arrested. They might arrest me or send me to ‘re-education’ training school.” She shook her head and raised her eyebrows while pursing her lips.

That was the last time I saw or heard from her.

This story illustrates the way that poor, rural migrants were evicted from the city through a slow escalation and tightening of rules. The evictions were carried out as targeted neighborhood policing action that profiled rural Uyghurs and used demolition, for the purpose of re-development, as a pretext to force Uyghurs economically and politically from the city and into internment camps.

Aygul’s experience was a common one I observed during the spring of 2017. 

At the time, nobody knew what was going on. The rules kept changing and escalating. It was confusing and scary. We didn’t realize it at the time, but the purpose of demolishing Uyghur homes and shops, and eventually forcefully evicting Uyghur migrants from the city, was to force poor Uyghurs to go back to the countryside where they would be met with forced internment, held without trial or criminal conviction, never to return.

After Aygul, many of my friends started disappearing. The confusion and fear was palpable in the whispers and looks exchanged when people made eye contact and just shook their heads. Words did not need to be exchanged to know that a relative or friend had been sent to internment for “re-education.”

Now, a year later, we have satellite images of large internment camps and analysis of government documents that tell us the Chinese government holds more than 1 million Uyghurs without trial.

The end.

Demolition and Eviction: Part 3

This is a continuation of Part 1 and Part 2.

The next day, as continued from Part 2: 

“Beep boop!”

My phone alerted me to the arrival of a new text message. It was from 10639585, one of several each day sent to all the phones with the city’s area code. This one informed me:

“The Process of ‘Old City District Renewal’: The capital government has started the renewal of old city districts to improve living space. The process will include the surrounding Tengritagh District and Sayabagh District, covering the space of 173 square kilometers and 1,600,000 people from every ethnicity. Old city renewal is for the preservation and improvement of all the people’s lives and is part of public service for the benefit of the people.”

The end of every text message told us in parentheses which government department the text came from. This one read at the end: “From the City Council’s Propaganda Bureau.” My chest tightened and my breathing quickened. I lived in Tengritagh District. We had known this was coming. Rumors had been circulating for weeks and Aygul had told me about this particular decision yesterday.

Walking home that day at 9:00 pm, I noticed the authorities had put up red banners with white Chinese characters across a few of the evicted shops on my street. It was late and nobody was around, so I quickly snapped a few pictures in the dark. 

“Demolition and eviction is bitter for a moment, but having a new residence means fortune for life.” For those of you that read Chinese: 搬迁过渡艰苦一时，搬迁新居幸福一生. In Uyghur (with the modified Arabic alphabet written above the Chinese characters), it reads: Kochkende bir mehel japa tartsaqmu, yengi dewalghuga kochup bir omur bextlik otimiz.

“Dependable advancement to carry forward demolition and find a place to settle down will ensure that Tengritagh District’s old city transformation will be implemented smoothly.” Or, in Chinese: 稳妥推进拆迁安置，确保天山区老成改造顺利实施. (The Uyghur was too faded out to read in the photo and I didn't have the Uyghur translation in my field notes for this picture.)

Then, I saw a family leaving their home behind the shuttered shops pictured here. They piled into the back bed of a pick-up truck that was filled with furniture and a television set. None of them were carrying bags. The older ones were carrying infants, and the younger kids were holding hands with each other with tiny backpacks on, leaving their home for good. There were about ten kids in the bed of the pick-up truck.

The next day, the rest of the shops were shuttered and locked with big white X’s to prevent anyone from getting back in. I saw through the window of Aygul's shop that there were still some abandoned blankets inside. But she and her family were nowhere to be found. The white X’s read the name of the neighborhood community center office.

The notification of demolition by the local government. Both of the pieces of paper say the same thing: Victory Road Management Committee Nanliang Neighborhood Committee Letter: May 2017. The words "Committee" here signal that this was a government operation. Source: Photo by author, May 2017.

I noticed a big white X taped firmly across the front doors of the noodle restaurant next door as well. I walked up to the window and looked inside. The display case for cakes was still illuminated, with half a watermelon sitting inside. Tables and chairs were stacked inside, with a metal basin filled with white porcelain cups. A container of spicy chili peppers and a basin of vinegar on the table sat closest to the window. It was as if they hadn’t even been informed of the demolition with enough time to clean out the inside of the shop.

“It’s closed!” a police officer yelled at me loudly. I ignored him, turned and walked away. Next to the noodle shop was a recently built a police station, which also had a huge Chinese character reading “demolish” in red and a number spray-painted on it. Its doors were locked shut with a chain around the front. The neighborhood was going to be flattened, even the police stations.

This all happened within 24 hours of receiving that first text message that notified the residents of the demolition. 

The Chinese character for demolition (拆) marks a Uyghur restaurant in Ürümchi. Source: Photo by author, May 2017.

Demolition and Eviction: Part 2

This is a continuation of Part 1.

One day in spring 2017, I stopped at Aygul’s shop in the evening as I often did on my way home. 
Aygul kissed each of my cheeks in greeting. Guzelnur screamed out, “Hello! How are you! Good!” in English. 
“We’ve been studying your recordings together,” Aygul explained. I had recorded some simple English phrases on her cell phone for her to study.
Aygul was sitting on the carpet in the front room playing on her phone. Her eyelids drooped with sleep.

“How are things?” I inquired.

“Well…They are kicking everyone [the Uyghurs] out of Ürümchi. I can’t go back to rural Kashgar… The politics, the economic situation—it’s so much worse than here. So, I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said with a wavering voice, tears pooling in her eyes.

It was then that I realized that the entrance to their back room was boarded up. A pipe had been installed and poked through the board to allow them to get water from the spigot inside.

 “What happened with the door?” I asked.

“Oh, the government made us do that. They said we can’t live here. We can open the shop but we can’t live in the back, they said. They didn’t give a reason. So much that they are doing right now is without logic. The real reason is that they want us [Uyghurs] to leave the city. The purpose is to make us leave. But they don’t say that. They just say, ‘you can’t live in the shop.’

“So we boarded up the living space, and I’m living with my parents nearby. I mean, I sleep there at night. I didn’t tell the government about Guzelnur,” she said, pointing her chin towards her daughter and looking at my concerned face and laughing.

“Everything’s fine! It’s not a big deal. We just need to take it day by day. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. We’re helpless,” she shrugged and rolled her eyes.

The next night, the lights were on in Aygul’s shop, a curtain and a table pressed up against the window and everything boarded up. I suspected this was to prevent the police from seeing that anyone was still living inside. But I could see the light leaking out into the night from inside. Aygul and Guzelnur were still living there despite orders not to. 

A couple weeks later at the end of April 2017, I went to visit Aygul again. 

I went inside the shop where Guzelnur was lying on the carpet on a raised platform. There was a thick blanket on top of her and pillow behind her head. She was ready for bed. Her smile revealed her crooked baby teeth and her bright, brown eyes greeted me. I knelt down next to her and embraced her with hugs and kisses. She played a peek-a-boo game with me where she hid herself under the blanket. 

“Guzelnur nede?” I said. “Where’s Aishe?”  She then suddenly threw the blanket off, and I acted shocked, giving her a shower of kisses as she squealed and giggled.

Aygul sat down next to me on the carpet.

“Our family has run into another difficulty. We just got word today that all the shops on this street will be demolished in three days. So our shop will be gone soon. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Where are you moving to?” I asked.

“There is no place to move to!” she said, as though she was talking to an incompetent child. “They are evicting all migrant Uyghurs from the city. They [government agents] are all so evil, they are breaking up families and they don’t even care.”

I told Aygul I was sad to hear this, but my words sounded flat as my heart sat in my throat.

“All of us here have broken hearts here, eh? We can’t do anything here, they won’t rent to us [Uyghur people], they won’t let us buy a house, they won’t let us live here or work here, nothing. They just want to send us away. So they’re evil. There’s nothing to be done.”

Some people came to buy naan, so she abruptly got up. I felt like I just got slapped in the face, even though I am not the one with a serious threat to my family’s livelihood. And yet, I felt strangely numb to the situation, my head blank and my mouth dry, empty of words as I sat in helplessness. 

I gave two more kisses to Guzelnur as she shrieked and laughed. I buried my face in her pillow for a moment while I fought hard to hold back the tears welling up in my eyes. I didn't want her to see my crying. I reluctantly said goodbye and left.

As I approached home, I felt sick. My brain was too full with everything. I felt suffocated as if I needed to get out for a breath of fresh air even though I was already outside. 

As I walked toward my apartment, behind me a few pairs of men were speaking loudly in Uyghur, wobbling down the street with their arms around each other. As they walked passed me, I smelled the alcohol. I heard them promising to always be there for each other in slurred and loud voices.