The hahoetal is a traditional Korean mask, carved from alder wood and hinged at the mouth. The grotesque smiling faces were used by shamans to banish evil spirits. They are also used to guard the identity of a fighter who trains by night.
He pulls the mask over his face and walks just outside of Foster-Walker Complex. Raising his arms above his head, he swings them violently downward to warm up his muscles. The practice evolves into a stilted dance; slow, weighted steps lead to a sudden forward jerk, catching the air with a head-strike. Passersby exchange strange looks but, protected by his mask, he carries on.
“Get on the ground and take your mask off,” the policeman yells, mistaking discipline for disturbance. He complies, confused. He thought it was safe to practice next to a dorm.
The policeman tells him, from now on, to train where he cannot be seen. He must take to the streets instead, searching for abandoned stretches of pavement on which to dodge imaginary opponents. He cannot let his skills dull; he cannot abandon his practice.
***
Hyung-Soon Daegon Kim, a Weinberg freshman, eschews modernity for traditional martial arts. He speaks fondly of his chosen styles, softly and with a British accent. Xinyiliuhequan, a powerful form once banned by the Chinese government, and shimmudo, Korean techniques that center on swiftness and evasion, have little in common, save the intense training required of them.
Daegon is disciplined by nature, from his simple style of dress to the still way he sits, hands clenched and placed squarely on the knees. He will be returning to his native South Korea to serve in the military this October, putting aside his study of computer science until 2013. But Daegon is accustomed to movement. He was born in Korea, then displaced to England for a spell. Another move, back to Korea, and then another to Singapore took Daegon to his 18th birthday. He took a gap year and tried different activities — instruments, dances, even ice sculpting, which he loved. But it was his study of martial arts that would define him.
“I know that my body’s changed,” he says. “I didn’t know I could bend my spine to make more energy. I didn’t know that I could make a vertical jump over a meter. Learning about the body and being able to actually use it is a very fun experience for me.”
Daegon took up these martial arts when he felt lost. Ennui, perhaps, and confusion — of what to do with his life, his time — created great frustration and, he admits, self-hatred. In the beginning, it was a way for him to punish himself. He says this matter-of-factly, explaining how he searched the Internet for the most rigorous practices. At first he trained from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m., destroying himself every step of the way. The harder it was to endure, the more he liked it; he states this with some difficulty. The struggle continued for a few months before he began to notice a change. He felt happier, lighter. Daegon smiles as he describes the transformation, raising his hands — palms up — and gesturing gently.
“When I first started I told you I wanted to punish myself, but I came to realize that I didn’t really hate myself anymore,” he says. “I liked what I was doing. I liked myself. And I really owe it to the styles of learning.”
Xinyiliuhequan relies on brute force to take out the opponent, ramming your body into theirs and using every limb at your disposal. It is a head-on attack style that is based on 10 animals — the first step you learn is the basic walking step, or “chicken step.” Daegon demonstrates, bending his arms and legs at right angles, his left arm up and right one down to create a sideways S-curve. He takes four steps to the right, then flips his arms and switches direction. He crouches a little lower to demonstrate a fighting stance, and his legs shake from exertion. When he first started training, his sa bu — roughly translated to “teaching-father” — would ask him to hold the stance for about 15 minutes. Daegon chose to hold for more than two hours, pushing himself even further.
He shows a few more techniques, including one of his favorites, jiposhi, in which he drags his opponent’s front arm down, grabs the other hand, and rams forward, head-butting him to the ground. He does this with joy, smiling politely after the brutal thrust. Daegon practices daily, three hours during the week and four to five hours on weekends. Every night he finds an abandoned street, safely hidden from confused neighbors and policemen, and dons the hahoetal. It’s a shield that protects his identity and lets him focus on maintaining his skills. In Korea he practiced six to seven hours each day. It was imperative that Daegon learn the techniques properly and learn how to manipulate every muscle with absolute precision to avoid injury and build the foundations for more advanced forms.
“The thing about many Chinese martial arts is that, for example, you wouldn’t know the difference between this palm strike” — Daegon demonstrates — “and this. It’s a very small angle difference, right? A lot of people don’t understand it. They just practice this and this and this, they don’t look inside their own body to see what’s actually happening.”
There is only one school of shimmudo, located in Seoul. Shimmudo emphasizes the art of evasion and uses the palms and bones of the forearm to attack. A sword is added at more advanced levels, but the basic movements — the graceful sweeps and strikes — remain the same. There are no specific skill names, just the bending and unfolding of the arms and legs and striking with um jang and yang jang.
“Um jang is striking to hurt the opponent’s insides, the internal organs,” explains Daegon. “That’s a very thick feeling. You can feel the strike going inside the person and echoing inside the body. That’s something I like. Yang jang causes damage that spreads throughout the skin.”
Daegon stretches his right arm up, then sweeps it diagonally down and up to his left shoulder. He continues the motion with swift strokes, his eyes calm and focused. It is difficult to practice shimmudo without a partner; you must move swiftly out of the opponent’s hands to land a fatal attack. At the studio in Seoul, students train their um jang with a cloth. When hit properly, the cloth will bounce into the sky.
He trained in Seoul for about eight months, honing his skills in both styles. The sa bu note his progress as he advances through techniques, keeping track of his individual level. There are no belts in either school, to prevent students from showing off. Belt levels act as a good incentive to practice and improve, but Daegon laughs when they are mentioned. He relies on dedication and personal ambition; he relies only on himself.
“With belts, you have something to look to for reassurement in order to push on,” he says. “These traditional styles don’t have belts or anything. The only motivation people have to go on is either the fact that they like it, that they want to grow stronger. It’s mostly the reason why so many people drop out.”
To become a true student of these martial arts, you must promise to pass the knowledge on to another — you must become part of the family. A sa bu must be a father as well as a teacher. The techniques that you learn must shape your way of life and stay with you. This is something Daegon understands. It is a credo to live by.
He bends forward again, slapping the ground with his palm. The sound echoes through the room, and he hangs his head in silence. Sweat trails down his cheek and, under the hot lights, he seems at peace.
“I didn’t try to change myself,” he says. “It just came a point that things didn’t really look differently, but I approached them differently without knowing. And I owe that to my sa bu.”