VELVET HANDS AND IRON FISTS
By Dania Akkad

Syria Today
August 2009

Ruba Ajdat has fallen in love, but her family just doesn’t seem to
understand. By day, this attractive, outgoing 28-year-old works as
an executive secretary at a bank in Damascus. After work, however,
she throws on a pair of dark sunglasses and rushes across town into
the open arms of her love – one that not only breaks hearts, but
noses and teeth as well.

Ajdat is in love with full-contact kickboxing – and she’s not the
only one: 32 women, fighting in eight different weight classes, train
on her team in Damascus, one of several women’s kickboxing clubs in
Syria. "We are doing something unusual, we are defending ourselves,
we are hitting and kicking," Adjat said. "It’s not boring, I like it
so much."

The women, many of whom wear the hijab, say they are drawn to the
sport because of the confidence it gives them, both inside and outside
the ring. Several team members are regional trophy holders and are
so dedicated to their sport that they plan to quit their day jobs
to train full-time in a bid to turn professional. "This is the job
for me," Kinana Abo Adlah, a 27-year-old trophy winning team member,
said. "I don’t want another job, I want this one."

Sponsorship wanted Abo Adlah has been training as a kickboxer for
five years. Staying in competitive shape while earning a living is
not easy. Until a recent accident (this one unrelated to the ring)
left Abo Adlah with a broken arm and a sliced chin, she worked in
a friend’s beauty salon during the day, before hitting the gym for
several hours of training at night. "This sport is really beautiful,
but I want support from my government," Abo Adlah said.

While Sports Union officials speak encouragingly about the future
of women’s kickboxing in the country, government funding is hard
to come by. Instead, female kickboxers rely on private sponsors to
cover the cost of training and travel. Attracting sponsorship is
another constant struggle. Team coach Manar Berzeh said the team had
to cancel a planned trip to Armenia this month to participate in an
international tournament due to a lack of funds.

Ajdat puts the team’s difficulties in securing sponsorship down
to gender prejudice. "If we were men we would have a sponsor," she
said. "If we were belly dancing, maybe we would have a sponsor. But
we are kickboxers so they say: ‘go to the devil’."

Sponsors are not the only ones averse to the idea of women fighting in
the ring. Many of the women said their families and friends question
why they participate in a "man’s sport" which has such a violent
reputation. Aisha Miro, a beginner at kickboxing, said her parents
disapprove of her decision to take up the sport because they believe
it will make her "behave like a man".

The 34-year-old school teacher had never played any sport before one of
the team’s trainers who lives near her family home, encouraged her to
pad up. "I tried to play sports when I was little, but I was too weak,"
Miro said. "I like this kind of sport because it makes me stronger."

Miro’s sister, Sukina, circles the ring restlessly at practice,
occasionally jabbing at a punching bag as if ready to pounce. The
unemployed 32-year-old, described by her sister as "very manly",
said she spends her days smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and
shunning catcalling men on the street who, intrigued by her boyish
haircut and bow-legged style of walking, can’t resist making comments.

Sukina, who seems to be the direct opposite of her sister, proudly
pulls away her boxing wraps to reveal a fresh scar. She explains that
when a bus driver recently asked her to run away with him, her response
was simple: she smashed her first through his side window. With a
disapproving look, Ajdat whispers: "Peace is more practical."

A life philosophy For Berzeh, kickboxing is a life philosophy rather
than a conflict sport. "Some of the women think kickboxing means
blood," he said as he drained a carton of milk through a straw. "It’s
doesn’t. It’s a way of life – you have to be strong."

After a series of wins as a professional kickboxer on the international
circuit, Berzeh returned to Syria in 1997 to teach karate. He also
started holding secret kickboxing classes for men, which, he said,
was inexplicably illegal back then. By 2000 all this had changed and
Berzeh was coaching Syria’s national men’s kickboxing team. That same
year, the team returned from the Arab Games in Jordan with a bronze
trophy, a milestone for the sport in Syria which greatly raised its
profile in the country.

In 2001, Berzeh started holding kickboxing classes for women at
Damascus’s Barada Club gym. He said he coaxed women into trying the
sport by telling them it was a great way to lose weight. In addition
to his women’s team, Berzeh also teaches mixed kickboxing classes at
Barada Club. The classes attract a range of people, including mothers
and several women aged over 40.

"If you look at kickboxing from the outside, you would say it’s not
good for you," Berzeh said. "But you get your violence out of your
system and that makes you happy. For women, it gives them confidence
and when you feel confident you can make anything happen."