Enter the Shredder: Infiltrating a Martial Arts Cult

Martial Arts is proven to develop confidence, fitness and self defence. But could it also be a cult? New recruit, Will McGuire, tests the wrath of Academy Master, the Shredder!

‘Three!’ I show my pads.

Humpty crashes in his punches. I push him back and side step. The mat squeaks.

His eyes are hidden behind condensation-covered glasses.

‘Two!’ I shout it louder.

Humpty crashes in again, his breathing haggard. His bald, egg-shaped head beads with sweat. He’s trembling, as if about to crack.

‘Three!’ I don’t let up. But drops of his sweat splash onto my face. As I step back to gag he stays tight on me.

‘One!’ I stammer.

His fist hits the pad, showering me in sweat. I even taste it in my mouth; shouldn’t have worked him so hard.

‘Time!’ Steve calls.

‘Sir!’ We answer.

Jen and I are eight months into martial arts training at our local academy. We go every Tuesday and Thursday night. We should have moved up to the advanced class but we aren’t willing to pay the extra membership fee. I’m like the giant kid in the classroom who has to keep repeating fourth grade.

‘Remember to shake those hips. Shakira? Elvis? Take your pick!’ Steve, a recent black belt, is instructing our class. He’s a good martial artist but tries too hard to be funny. It’s the tenth time we’ve heard him tell that joke this month.

‘Alright. Knock yourselves out!’

‘Sir!’ Billy Brownnose shouts louder and longer than everyone else.

The stereotypical image of your usual martial artist as a ripped, fighting machine is total fantasy. The three types of martial arts student are Scrawny, Fat and Timid; the kind that needs self defence. Basically “Gorms,” – as Jen puts it.

I’m still trying to figure out which type we are.

The most reviled of all the students is the dreaded Pitbull, a boxy-framed bitch with no neck.  She clamps onto Jen at the beginning of each class, so they have to be partnered. Like the mean lesbian in a woman’s prison, she has taken Jen as her wife. Pitbull sucks out all the fun by telling Jen what to do and what she’s doing wrong (even if she’s not). She won’t continue the drill until Jen does as she’s told. It’s Pitbull’s way – or no way.

Our God is Bruce Lee - or “Gung” Lee as we call him. A painting of his face hangs on the wall, watching us. We bow to his image as we enter the mat and salute him to begin training. The instructors are either ‘Sir’ or ‘Miss’ and every time they explain a move or give an order we shout back ‘Sir!’

The style of discipline and hierarchy in martial arts turns some off. For others, especially those who feel marginalized, they are welcomed into a new family where they feel validated and hold positions of respect.

On the other side of the wall to Gung Lee are two massive prints of Mr. Powell. One shows him choking a man with a bamboo pole and the other has him breaking the man’s leg.

Mr. Powell is the owner of the Academy and one of the few accredited disciples of Bruce Lee. I’m not sure what his first name is. He rarely appears and when he does I only ever dare a furtive glance. He usually stands arms crossed; looming in the background, flanked by grim faced Instructors. His name is spoken in hushed whispers as if blasphemous to take in vain. When he arrives at the front door, the instructors drop to one knee. ‘Sir Sir’ they grovel, clasping their hands together.

I joined an integrated class one Saturday with a mix of students across the academy from seniors to kids from the junior division. Instructor Naomi ran us through a crippling warm up. There were shocked faces as Mr. Powell entered the mat. He had spiked shin guards strapped to his legs. He looked like Master Shredder, the villainous leader of the Foot Clan in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  The group fell into a reverent silence. Instructor Naomi dropped to one knee ‘Sir Sir’ she chanted.

Mr. Powell stood at the front of the class and let the quiet grow uncomfortable. He peered around the room, sizing us up. He was older and more grizzled than the prints on the wall. His lip upturned into a sneer and he muttered an inaudible quip. Everyone buckled with laughter, as if the person who laughed the least might not make it out alive. I didn’t even catch what he said but still laughed until it hurt. His smile dropped and we stopped at once.

He summoned Steve, his favourite whipping boy, with a single, curling finger. Steve tripped over himself with enthusiasm. Shredder threw Steve to the ground and dug in his knee. He rested his entire weight on Steve while twisting his arm into locks. Steve was so desperate to impress the Shredder that he resisted tapping out. Nobody impresses the Shredder. He switched into a more dominating position and we heard a crack as Steve’s elbow snapped.

‘Thank you, thank you Sir,’ Steve gasped, as two other students dragged his writhing body off the mat.

Shredder summoned for a fresh partner. I pushed Pitbull forward. But Instructor Naomi was faster, taking one for the team. He pulled her to the ground and climbed on top. From here, he explained, he ‘can assume the Full Mount.’ He could too and nobody would stop him. He kept her pinned down and rolled over her. She gagged as he wrapped his crotch around her mouth.

 ‘The North South position,’ he illustrated, looking up from between her legs.

 ‘More like the Sixty-Nine!’ I wanted to shout. But didn’t dare.

We heard a parent murmuring from off the mat. Shredder stopped lunching on Naomi to leer over. ‘Are you on the phone? I can hear you!’

The woman’s face froze like she’d been spanked.

In the presence of the Shredder, nobody dares speak unless spoken to.

I wonder what Gung Lee thinks as he watches down on us. Was this his vision? To raise an army of Gorms in his name? Provide shelter for those looking for something to believe in? Or is it all just for money?

The last eight months have led me to believe the latter.

In the Beginners class we are all White Shirts and not yet fully initiated. We exist in the Academy on the fringe as if in a holding cell, waiting to learn our fate.

Every so often Instructor Dennis will appear, at the end of a lesson, to walk a student into his office. Once the door closes, Instructor Dennis shuts the Venetian blinds. Some students I never see again. Others I’ll one day pass in the stairwell or see them training in a different class - donning a black shirt; the dress of the initiated. They have been invited deeper into the ranks of the Academy. They look embarrassed to see me. I guess bumping into an old school mate always is.

Instructor Dennis has walked us several times into his office for The Chat, but each time we have resisted his sell. Advancing in the Academy costs an outrageous amount.

I was caught discussing with Momma’s Boy, another beginner, what happens after the initiation. I suggested it wasn’t necessary to pay the higher membership. A Black Shirt overheard as he walked past. I panicked. We are expected to always toe the party line. Paying more for our membership is good – paying less is bad. At the end of that class Momma’s Boy was walked into the office and I never saw him again.

I was paranoid they were onto me. At the end of our next class, two senior Instructors hovered at the end of the mat. They had called in the heavies. I saluted Gung Lee, plotting my escape. They glanced at each other. I grabbed my bag and broke through the group, dashing down the stairs. After a brief scramble they gave up the chase, not wanting to cause a scene.

I can’t give the Instructors the slip much longer. They’ll haul Jen and me into the office and make us answer to the Shredder. There will be no choice but to open our wallets and don the black shirt.

Or we’ll both disappear, never to be seen at the Academy again.