In Lebanese culture, your life does not only belong to you, but to your family as well. Your family name defines your reputation, and this is even woven into the Arabic language, where family is referred to as ‘baait’ — your home. It is common for strangers to ask you, “What house are you from?” when enquiring about your last name.
This comes with a heavy burden as well: it is not uncommon in Lebanese families to find the shackles of expectation holding back individuals from fully exploring themselves.
My family never saw me for the rebellious type, especially when I was younger. My mother constantly remarked, “You were such a well-behaved child — so quiet that you inspired us to try for another child.”
My issues with my identity began when I was around 13, and it was around the same time I began to question my sexuality as well. I struggled with the traditional image of a ‘Lebanese Muslim woman’ that my parents wanted me to embody. Even prior to coming out as a lesbian, I received a lot of backlash from my family, most notably from the males, including my older brother, because of my general ‘masculine’ behaviour.
When I came out, my family insisted that my sexuality and identity were a ‘phase’ that could be resolved if I just applied myself to ‘acting like a girl’
When I came out, my family insisted that my sexuality and identity were a ‘phase’ that could be resolved if I just applied myself to ‘acting like a girl’. One of the worst reactions came from my brother-in-law, Youssef, who warned that unless I was willing to literally ‘straighten myself out’, my family was good as dead to me. Youssef and I stopped speaking after that…
Throughout my youth, I was jealous of my brother and the ‘freedom’ that he so effortlessly received from our parents. But I also sympathised with him: As the only son, there were financial and emotional expectations that our parents placed squarely on his shoulders. Meanwhile, we wrestled until I reached puberty. Then my brother stopped completely. I would try to instigate a tumble but he always batted me away or yelled at me to get out of his room. It’s not because he’d lost interest in fighting; he’d still mess around and play fight with our younger cousins. But that was different. They were boys. My mother would always look at me disapprovingly if she found me in their midst, and eventually, I was forbidden to hang out with them.
I started training MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) and BJJ (Brazilian Jiu Jitsu) in 2019 at the age of 24 — initially taking it up as a way to blow off steam and lose weight. When we were learning and practicing drills on the mats, there was a certain quietness in my mind that I couldn’t replicate in my day-to-day life. In the moments I was holding down a submission, with a person’s neck lodged between my forearm and chest, I felt safe and in control.
My BJJ classes reminded me of my youth in the best ways. When I was on the ground and wrestling for or against a submission, I remembered the exhilaration of wrestling with my brother. How proud I was when I pinned him and how happy he was to have someone to practise his latest karate hold on — back then I begged my parents to sign me up for karate too, but they told me that it wasn’t appropriate. I constantly felt shackled by a gender I didn’t even identify with!
My brother was excited to hear I’d taken up a martial art as well, but he didn’t realise how seriously I was invested in it until I invited him to my debut fight
When I began MMA, my family noticed. Mum was happy about the weight loss but she gasped when I explained what I had been doing to shed the kilos. My father, on the other hand, surprised me. When I explained the logistics of BJJ to him, he remarked that he’d done something similar when he was working in Dubai. I found out he’d trained in Judo for a year. He was proud to see me take an interest in a familiar sport. My brother was excited to hear I’d taken up a martial art as well, but he didn’t realise how seriously I was invested in it until I invited him to my debut fight.
In my first professionally sanctioned bout, I took a fist to the face early on. My guard has always been a weak spot for me, but I didn’t want to lose in the first few seconds of the fight in front of my best friends and my brother. I had a job to do, and I was determined to grit my teeth and survive long enough to give a good show. I didn’t care about winning so much as not losing — not going the distance.
By the second round we were both covered in sweat, and I could feel myself starting to sway from exhaustion, until finally I got her to the ground, a triangle locked in on her neck.
I won!
Leaving the cage, I basked in my triumph, my muscles aching for a hot shower. But before entering the dressing room, I searched for my brother and spotted him amongst the crowd of white faces. He was a tall bearded man, wearing a red shirt and sporting those comically sized red Nikes that every ‘Area Leb’ was wearing that year. He ran up to me and embraced me. “I’m proud of you,” he cried. It was the only time I’d ever heard him say these words.
Combat sports rely on cooperation. You can’t train and spar without a partner and you can’t fight without a willing opponent. This means there needs to be respect both in and out of the ring
Following my first match, even the most traditional males in my family — the ones that expected me to marry a man and have eight of his kids — were now treating me like one of ‘the boys’. All of a sudden, my two brother in-laws were popping around to our family home in Lakemba, and starting grappling battles with me in the backyard. I used a move I learned in class to drop Hamed on his back as Youssef watched on. Hamed prided himself on being a bodybuilder, and he was built top heavy with huge biceps and a wide strong chest, but he was one of those guys that always skipped leg day, so when I managed to get my feet on either side of his hips and grasp the back of his ankles, it was easy to tip him over and make him lose his balance. He was stunned, eyes widening in surprise and mouth taking the shape of an ‘o’ when the back of his head met the grass.
I expected my in-laws to be angry at me for crossing these lines, but instead they were both praising me for my technique and asking me to show them some moves. Youssef was finally speaking to me since our falling out almost a decade ago.
Combat sports rely on cooperation. You can’t train and spar without a partner and you can’t fight without a willing opponent. This means there needs to be respect both in and out of the ring. Ironically, these are the same values that the men in my family hold dear. By adhering to these values as a professional fighter, I was able to cross boundaries that the younger me would have never dreamed of. I was 13 when it was no longer appropriate to wrestle with my older brother, and now, almost 15 years later, we wrestle in the backyard like we’re children, free from the constructs of gender, all over again. Whenever I’ve got my cheeky teenage nephew in a headlock, my brother chuckles with pride, “Oh you better be careful, my sibling’s a fighter now, they’ll have your head!”
*Names in this story have been changed
This article has been published in partnership with Sweatshop: Western Sydney Literacy Movement.
