Okay, before I get into this post, I need to post this.
⚠️ Disclaimer: This video is a dramatized documentary-style story inspired by real events, created for educational, informational, and entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental unless explicitly stated. Viewer discretion is advised due to potentially sensitive themes. The use of public figure imagery is representational only and does not imply endorsement or affiliation. The video is for informational and commentary purposes only. The use of public figure imagery is purely representational and does not imply endorsement or affiliation.
Now, I can deeply relate to the sentiment expressed in this story, as I am personally immersed in the study of Capoeira Angola, a martial art that frequently encounters skepticism, often leading to dismissal or outright ridicule when the topic of its combat practicality arises. It’s a common misconception that its flowing, dance-like movements equate to ineffectiveness in a real confrontation. However, to truly understand Capoeira, one must appreciate its historical context as a disguised fight and resistance art developed by enslaved Africans. Its deceptive nature is its strength.
Furthermore, I am also a devoted student of FMA, the Filipino Martial Arts, which is a vast and intricate system encompassing a wide array of skills, including stick fighting (Eskrima/Arnis/Kali), blade work, empty-hand techniques, and grappling. From my personal experience and training, I can emphatically attest that to label FMA as “basic” is a profound understatement. FMA is anything but simple; it is a complex, principles-based martial system that demands deep understanding, adaptability, and high-level motor skills, often transitioning seamlessly between weapons and unarmed combat. The depth, speed, and sophistication of its techniques—especially its footwork and angles of attack—are testaments to its sophistication and combat provenience.
Anyway, enjoy the story.
The martial arts hall in Beijing fell silent, the oppressive weight of expectation settling over the gathered masters. It was September 2017, and the air was thick with palpable tension and the scent of polished wood. China’s most respected and highly decorated Kung Fu master, Liu Chen, stood opposite his challenger, his expression a mixture of amusement and arrogance. The challenger was Rafael Cortez, a Filipino martial artist who had traveled thousands of miles for this very confrontation.
Liu Chen’s laughter, sharp and dismissive, echoed in the vast space as he addressed Cortez and the assembly of esteemed martial arts experts. “Filipino martial arts?” he scoffed, waving a hand with casual disdain. “Just basic weapon techniques, not true martial arts. It’s a crude system for street brawlers, useful perhaps for farmers protecting their chickens, but hardly a sophisticated fighting discipline.” His gaze was condescending, fixed on the simple rattan sticks Cortez carried. “Kung Fu has three thousand years of history, a profound philosophy, and countless intricate forms passed down through generations of disciplined study. We have depth, tradition, and spiritual enlightenment woven into every movement. What do you have? Stick patterns. No sophistication. No inner truth.”
The insult, delivered with such open contempt for an entire cultural fighting heritage, hung heavy in the air. The other Chinese masters in the room, initially polite but skeptical of the foreign art, now nodded in agreement, their faces mirroring Liu Chen’s haughty confidence. This was a spectacle of cultural supremacy, and they expected nothing less than a quick, embarrassing defeat for the upstart Filipino.
Unfazed by the ridicule and the hostile atmosphere, Rafael Cortez remained calm, his eyes holding a quiet intensity. He stepped forward and, with unhurried precision, began to demonstrate the core principles of Filipino martial arts—specifically, the concepts of flow, economy of motion, and simultaneous attack and defense. He didn’t execute flashy forms but showcased practical applications. He used the “live hand” to check, trap, and manipulate an opponent’s body while the weapon hand delivered strikes. He demonstrated how a stick, blade, or even an empty hand worked on the same fundamental framework of angles and footwork.
What followed shocked every master in the room. Cortez didn’t just show techniques; he demonstrated principles that transcended the weapon itself. His movements were fluid, deceptively simple, yet devastatingly efficient. When he invited one of Liu Chen’s top students to engage him in a mock exchange, Cortez adapted instantly, effortlessly countering a powerful Kung Fu block with a simultaneous disarm and joint lock, transitioning from a long-range stick strike to a close-range elbow attack in the blink of an eye. The speed, practicality, and seamless integration of defense and offense—often using the opponent’s own force against them—was breathtaking. It was martial artistry stripped down to its brutal, elegant essence. The masters, witnessing a system that valued immediate combat effectiveness over stylized form, exchanged looks of bewildered respect. The silence returned, but this time, it was the respectful hush of profound revelation.
This story is a powerful tribute to the rich and sophisticated heritage of Filipino martial arts, a tradition often underappreciated on the global stage. It is a chronicle that elevates the concept of principle-based fighting systems, illustrating their profound, timeless efficacy beyond mere complex choreography or brute force. The narrative centers on a singular, pivotal demonstration—a moment where the essence of this ancient art was distilled and put on stark display.
Jogo Corpo Fechado 