Mike Stone is using AI! At more than 80 years old, martial arts legend Mike Stone is living on a remote island in the Philippines and embracing artificial intelligence, creating music, traveling around the world and riding in autonomous cars while contemplating a future in which robots may teach martial arts. His message is surprisingly simple: Don't fear the future. Learn from it. When I sat down with Mike Stone over Zoom, I expected our conversation to eventually return to karate. After all, this is Mike Stone—one of the legendary figures from the golden age of American martial arts. Instead, we talked about ChatGPT. We talked about AI-generated music. Driverless cars. Humanoid robots. Consciousness. Creativity. Fear. And whether some version of Mike Stone's knowledge could one day live on through artificial intelligence. The setting made the conversation even more remarkable. Stone, now in his 80s, was speaking to me from a remote island in the Philippines, a place he first came to decades ago when roads were primitive and communication with the outside world was anything but instantaneous. Yet here he was, talking about the future. And the more we spoke, the more obvious something became: Mike Stone is still a student. “I Wanted to Understand It” Stone explained that artificial intelligence really came onto his radar about a year ago. He was hearing many of the same things everyone else was hearing—particularly the fear surrounding where AI might lead. But Stone's reaction was curiosity rather than avoidance. He wanted to understand the technology instead of simply being afraid of it. That decision eventually led him to ChatGPT. For a man who has accumulated decades of writings, martial arts philosophy, personal observations and creative material, Stone quickly discovered a practical use for it. He had an enormous amount of material that needed to be sorted and organized. Doing it manually could have taken months or longer. With AI, he said, he could organize and categorize material that had accumulated over a lifetime in a matter of minutes. That realization changed the way he looked at the technology. AI wasn't replacing what Mike Stone had created. The experiences, ideas and philosophy were still his. What AI could do was help him unlock what was already there. And once he understood that, he started experimenting. 59 Songs in a Month from the Heart to the Cloud One experiment led Stone to Suno, an AI music creation platform. Stone began taking poems, philosophical writings and thoughts inspired by his martial arts journey and turning them into songs. Then he kept going. And going. Within approximately one month, Stone had created 59 songs. For someone in his 80s who had spent his life known primarily as a martial artist, champion and teacher, AI had suddenly opened another creative door. Stone explained that the process allowed him to take ideas that previously existed as poems or written thoughts and experience them in an entirely different form. More importantly, it made him want to create more. His enthusiasm was obvious. AI wasn't diminishing his creativity. It was expanding the number of ways he could express it. “Fear Is a Choice” That same curiosity carried over into another new technology. During a visit to California, Stone took a ride in a Waymo autonomous vehicle. There was no human driver. For many people, that first experience produces anxiety. Stone told me people had warned him about it and described how uncomfortable they would be getting into a car controlled entirely by technology. Mike got in anyway. He wasn't frightened. His explanation went beyond driverless cars: “Fear is a choice.” Mike began riding Waymo's in 2025 and hasn't looked back, now every trip to California includes his driverless trips. Stone's point was that we often create fear in our minds before we actually understand or experience something. Education can change that. Knowledge can change it. And so can the way we choose to approach an unfamiliar situation. That philosophy didn't begin with karate. Stone traced it back to when he was only 15 years old. His coach, Jimmy Gregg, gave him advice that stayed with him throughout his life: “Always be my best.” Stone explained that this mindset existed before he became a martial artist. It helped shape the competitor he became and ultimately the way he approached his life. More than six decades later, he's applying the same principle to AI. Could an AI Robot Teach Karate? Then I asked Mike a question that would have been pure science fiction during the golden age of karate. Could an AI-powered humanoid robot actually teach martial arts? Stone's answer was essentially yes. He believes a sufficiently advanced machine could learn techniques, movements and training methodology. With access to enormous amounts of information, it could conceivably possess more technical martial arts knowledge than any single human instructor. It could demonstrate a technique perfectly. It could repeat it endlessly. It could analyze the student's movements. It might even become a better technical instructor than many humans. But Mike immediately added an important qualification. Martial arts instruction, he explained, shouldn't begin with teaching someone how to punch or kick. It begins with values and principles. Something as fundamental as the bow matters. A student shouldn't simply learn how to bow. The student needs to understand why we b ow. And that's where Stone believes the limitations of an artificial instructor begin to appear. “Consciousness, Compassion and Empathy” I asked Mike what a machine would be missing. His answer came down to three profoundly human qualities: “Consciousness, compassion and empathy.” A machine could potentially possess enormous knowledge. It could know kata. It could know fighting techniques. It could understand biomechanics, strategy, history and philosophy. But knowing about compassion is different from feeling compassion. Having information about consciousness is different from being conscious. And describing empathy is different from experiencing empathy for another human being. For Stone, that distinction goes directly to the heart of martial arts. The physical movements can be taught. The information can be preserved. But martial arts has always been about more than information. That led me to perhaps the biggest question of our conversation. Could Mike Stone Live Forever? I asked Mike: “Could there someday be an AI Mike Stone Sensei that lives on forever?” Imagine feeding decades of Mike Stone's writings, interviews, philosophies, videos, teachings and experiences into an artificial intelligence system. Long after all of us are gone, a young martial artist might ask: “Mike, how should I deal with fear?” “What does it mean to become a champion?” “How should a martial artist live?” And something resembling Mike Stone could answer. Mike believes we're much closer to that kind of future than many people realize. When we discussed how dramatically AI might develop, he wasn't talking about what might happen in 50 years. He suggested we look at what could happen in just five. But his answer about legacy was also revealing. Stone wasn't particularly interested in immortality for immortality's sake. His idea of legacy is less about preserving Mike Stone and more about preserving ideas that might help another person grow. For him, the real objective is personal development—becoming the best version of yourself, developing greater awareness and understanding who you really are. If that transformation positively affects one other person, and that person affects someone else, the effect begins to spread. It's an interesting answer to a question about whether a machine could make someone live forever. Technology might preserve the teacher's knowledge. Mike Stone is more interested in what the student does with it. “A Spark of Light” Near the end of our conversation, Mike described what discovering AI had felt like. The image was powerful. He compared it to being in darkness and suddenly discovering a crack where light could enter. He called AI a “Spark of light.” For Stone, that light hasn't replaced anything. It has illuminated possibilities he didn't previously know were there. AI has helped him organize decades of work. It has given him a new way to write and research. It allowed him to transform his poetry and philosophy into 59 songs. Technology allows him to remain connected to people around the world while living on a remote Philippine island. And instead of making his world smaller, Mike says the experience has expanded it. That's what stayed with me most after our conversation. Mike Stone has already lived through extraordinary change. He remembers a world before the internet. He experienced karate before it became a global industry. He witnessed the golden age of American martial arts firsthand. Now, in his 80s, he is exploring artificial intelligence and asking what comes next. Not with fear. With curiosity. Maybe there is a martial arts lesson hidden in all of this. We spend years learning from our teachers. Eventually, some of us become teachers ourselves. A very small number become masters. But perhaps the best never surrender the mindset that got them there in the first place. They remain curious. They keep experimenting. They keep asking questions. They keep learning. Mike Stone has spent a lifetime becoming a master. Now at more than 80 years old, he may still be most proud of being a student.

The Future Just Walked Into the Dojo You ask Google and ChatGPT just about everything on your mind. So why not ask: How do I throw a spinning back kick? How do I use a three-sectional staff? Show me a self-defense technique against a knife attack. But what happens when the AI answering those questions can actually stand in front of you and show you? Could a robot hold pads, spar with you, teach you kata, become your personal sensei—or even use martial arts to protect you? As AI meets humanoid robotics, Black Belt looks at a future that suddenly doesn't seem so far away. For generations, martial artists have imagined the perfect training partner. Someone who never gets tired. Someone who is always ready to hold the pads. Someone who doesn't complain when you say, "One more round." Someone who can study every punch, kick and movement you make—and instantly tell you how to improve it. We may finally have found that training partner. The only problem is ... it might be a robot. Artificial intelligence is rapidly moving from our computers into machines capable of walking, running, lifting and interacting with the physical world. And as humanoid robots become increasingly sophisticated, an intriguing question emerges for martial artists: What happens when AI gets a body? Could your next training partner be a robot? Could it spar with you? Could it teach you? Could it protect you? And someday—dare we ask—could a robot become your sensei? YOUR NEW TRAINING PARTNER This may be the easiest possibility to imagine. Walk into your home dojo and say: "Let's work kicks." Your robotic partner assumes a fighting stance. It holds the pads at exactly the right height. You throw a roundhouse kick. "Impact: 742 pounds. Hip rotation: 81 percent. You're dropping your right hand again." Thanks, Sensei Terminator. But think about the possibilities. A robotic training partner could potentially measure speed, power, balance, reaction time and technique while adjusting the workout to the individual martial artist. Want 500 kicks? It doesn't get tired. Want to train at midnight? It's available. Want another round? It doesn't have to get home for dinner. For aging martial artists or people recovering from injuries, a carefully designed robotic partner might even adjust resistance and intensity to make training safer. For the first time, your training partner could literally learn you. WOULD YOU SPAR WITH A ROBOT? Now things get interesting. Imagine telling your robot: "Bruce Lee mode. Thirty percent speed." Hopefully you remembered the thirty percent part. A sophisticated robotic sparring partner could theoretically analyze your movement and respond without needing to actually hurt you. Instead of simply attacking, it might identify weaknesses. You consistently drop your left hand? It notices. You telegraph your side kick? It notices. You always move backward when pressured? It definitely notices. Your human sparring partners may have figured these things out, too. They were just polite enough not to tell you. A robotic partner could potentially create something martial artists have never had before: an opponent capable of continuously adapting specifically to their abilities. COULD A ROBOT BECOME YOUR SENSEI? This question may make traditionalists uncomfortable. And perhaps it should. Imagine an AI system with access to thousands of hours of martial arts instruction, historical archives, biomechanics and competition footage. Ask it to demonstrate a technique, and it doesn't simply show you one interpretation. It could potentially compare dozens. "Show me three approaches to the side kick." Traditional karate. Taekwondo. Bill "Superfoot" Wallace. That could become an extraordinary educational tool. But there's an important distinction. A robot might someday teach technique. Whether it can truly teach martial arts is another question. A great sensei doesn't simply correct your stance. They recognize frustration. They know when to push you and when to encourage you. They teach humility, perseverance, courage and respect. They tell stories. They pass along traditions. And sometimes they change the direction of a student's life. Artificial intelligence may someday have access to every martial arts book ever written. That doesn't necessarily make it a master. THE PERFECT STUDENT Robots might also possess one characteristic every martial arts instructor has dreamed about. They listen. "Practice this technique 1,000 times." "Yes, Sensei." No complaining. No checking their phone. No asking when they're getting their next belt. No explaining that the technique didn't work because Mercury is in retrograde. Just practice. Then another thousand repetitions. Ironically, the machine might become the ultimate example of one of martial arts' oldest principles: Repetition creates mastery. BUT THERE'S SOMETHING IT CAN'T DOWNLOAD And that's where the human martial artist still has the advantage. You can teach a machine the mechanics of a punch. You can program balance. You can analyze thousands of fights. You can calculate the mathematically perfect kick. But martial arts have never been solely about perfect technique. They're about overcoming fear. Standing back up. Walking into your first dojo. Losing your first tournament. Earning your first belt. Learning humility. Finding confidence. Helping the student behind you. A robot may someday perform the world's most technically perfect kata. But will it understand why we bow before entering the dojo? That's a much bigger question. SO ... ARE YOU READY FOR AI IN MARTIAL ARTS? The combination of AI, robotics and martial arts may eventually change the way we train. Your robot could hold pads. It could analyze your kicks. It could spar with you. It might help teach you. It could potentially protect you. And someday, it may even walk into a tournament. Although we're drawing the line right now: No robot divisions until they learn how to pay tournament entry fees. The robots are coming. The more interesting question for martial artists isn't whether we should fear them. It's what we should teach them. Because perhaps the best qualities martial arts could give artificial intelligence aren't punching and kicking at all. They're discipline. Control. Respect. Restraint. And knowing when not to fight.

A Pioneer Who Helped Bring Professional Martial Arts to a Bigger Stage Black Belt Magazine mourns the passing and celebrates the life of Hilary J. Sandoval III, a pioneering martial arts promoter, entrepreneur and academy owner whose work helped shape the growth of professional kickboxing and martial arts promotion during the 1980s and 1990s. Sandoval’s story began in extraordinary fashion. Just months out of high school, at only 18 years old, Hilary promoted his first professional kickboxing event alongside his younger brother and business partner, Tony Sandoval, who was just 12 at the time. Together, the Sandoval brothers became two of the youngest promoters in professional martial arts, beginning an extraordinary journey that would place them alongside world champions, legendary martial artists and some of the most influential figures in combat sports. From their home base in El Paso, Texas, Hilary and Tony produced events that helped introduce professional kickboxing to a much wider audience. In 1980, Hilary promoted the first nationally televised World Kickboxing Championship held in the state of Texas. Tragedy would strike the Sandoval family only a year later. Tony Sandoval, just 19 years old, and World Champion Demetrius Havanas, 32, were killed in a plane crash while traveling to a world title fight involving the Sandovals’ fighter, Cliff Thomas. In the face of unimaginable loss, Hilary and Thomas made the difficult decision to carry on and promote the fight—a testament to the resilience and commitment that would come to define Hilary’s career. Hilary continued the work he and his brother had begun together, expanding his promotional reach beyond El Paso to events in Phoenix, Dallas, Midland and Houston. Over the course of his career, he personally worked with or promoted 21 world champions, leaving an enduring mark on professional kickboxing and the martial arts community. His events were also known for bringing martial arts together with mainstream sports and entertainment. Special guests over the years included Chuck Norris, Ernie Reyes Jr., Cynthia Rothrock, Randall “Tex” Cobb, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders and Rudy Ruettiger, whose life story inspired the motion picture Rudy. But Hilary Sandoval's contribution went far beyond individual events. Alongside Scott Coker, who would later become one of combat sports' most prominent executives, and other leading promoters of the era, Sandoval was among the original founders of the International Sport Karate Association (ISKA). The organization would go on to play an important role in sanctioning and expanding kickboxing and sport karate competition internationally. In 1988, Hilary expanded his commitment to martial arts by opening his first academy. With the support of George Chung, the Sandoval family would go on to establish ABK martial arts schools throughout El Paso, building upon a brand originally created in California by Chung and Cynthia Rothrock. What began with two remarkably young brothers promoting professional fights grew into a decades-long legacy of teaching, competition and service to the martial arts community. Hilary Sandoval belonged to a generation of promoters who helped build professional martial arts before today's massive combat-sports platforms existed. They booked the arenas, found the fighters, attracted sponsors, worked with television and convinced audiences that martial artists deserved a professional stage. And Hilary started doing it when he was barely old enough to have graduated from high school. His story is not simply one of the events he promoted or the champions he worked with. It is the story of someone who believed in martial arts enough to help create opportunities for others—and who spent much of his life helping the sport grow. Black Belt Magazine extends its deepest condolences to the Sandoval family, the ABK family, and the generations of martial artists, fighters and friends whose lives Hilary touched. His contribution to martial arts will be remembered. Rest in peace, Hilary J. Sandoval III. — Black Belt Magazine

From the Black Belt archives, Dave Lowry reflects on judo legend Keiko Fukuda and what her extraordinary journey teaches martial artists about rank, recognition and perseverance. Keiko Fukuda probably won’t make the cover of Black Belt. At nearly 100, she’s not that fierce or imposing. And after all, she didn’t get a promotion in her martial art for more than two decades. The other day I heard a black belt complain that he’d been stuck at third dan for six years and that the reason he wasn’t getting promoted was the national board that tests for his karate organization wasn’t fair. It made me think of Fukuda. She’s the last surviving judoka who was personally trained by the art’s founder, Jigoro Kano. She began practicing in 1935 at a time when the Kodokan had just opened a women’s division for its two-dozen female judoka. Fukuda was allowed to take up the art primarily because her grandfather had been one of Kano’s jujitsu teachers. Even then, her family approved only because they thought she might meet a suitable husband on the mat. Fukuda became captivated by judo. She continued training during World War II and took it up again when the martial arts ban was lifted after Japan surrendered. By 1953 she was among the senior-most female judoka in the world. She was awarded godan, or fifth-degree black belt. In 1966 she moved to the United States and opened the Soko Joshi Judo Club, where she still teaches today. Fukuda has been given the Order of the Sacred Treasure by Japan for her work in judo. She’s written books, taught around the world and created a kata championship that’s one of the art’s most prestigious events. And as of 1973, she was still a fifth dan. WHEN FUKUDA BEGAN JUDO, the Kodokan set up a separate rank system for women, recognizing only five grades of black belt. No matter how skillful one was, the rule was ironclad. Meanwhile, since 1926, men had been able to attain rank up to ninth dan. Not long thereafter, 10th dan was established. The Kodokan has a long history of bumbling in the promotion and practice of judo. Often, the hierarchy has failed to recognize opportunities and remained reluctant to act in the best interest of the art. Its refusal to even consider changing the rank system for female judoka is a perfect example. Behind the scenes, beginning in the late ‘60s, enormous pressure was exerted on the Kodokan to update this system, primarily on behalf of Fukuda. It was outrageous that male judoka who were literally decades junior to her now outranked her. The pressure was applied in a variety of ways. Some Japanese judo masters tried to use graciousness and oblique diplomacy. Some Westerners were blunt about it, almost threatening. The Kodokan refused to give in until finally in 1973, threatened with international embarrassment, it relented. Fukuda was promoted to sixth dan. It had been 29 years since her last promotion. In subsequent years, perhaps to make up for its policy, the Kodokan promoted Fukuda again. She’s now a Kodokan ninth dan. (She holds a 10th dan from the International Judo Federation, but the rank isn’t recognized by the Kodokan.) IT’S DIFFICULT TO IMAGINE the road Fukuda has traveled. Her father died when she was a child. Her uncle discouraged her participation in judo; it wasn’t something a girl of her caste should do, he said. Instead of marrying and having children, which was expected of women of her generation, she practiced judo. She endured the same injuries, disappointments and challenges as any serious martial artist, but she also faced unique obstacles related to the culture and atmosphere of the male-dominated dojo. She came to the United Sates while still relatively young and had to learn the language and customs of a foreign place. For a time, she had no home of her own and lived with one of her students. Like every other budo teacher of her time in this country, she faced enormous difficulties translating the spirit and values of the martial arts. In all those years, Fukuda has never complained about the treatment she got from the Kodokan. Her status as a personal student of Kano should have elevated her to the realm of legend. If anyone has the right to say, “Do you know who I am?” it’s her. She could point to her accomplishments, to the awards and recognition she’s received, including having been inducted into the Black Belt Hall of Fame. She could highlight the clinics she’s taught, the championships she’s founded, the scholarships she’s provided for young judoka, and ask, “Who has done more for judo than me?” Instead of pleading or complaining, Fukuda has gone about following the way of judo. She’s taught, trained, supervised and coordinated events, tournaments and clinics. She isn’t focused on grades or rank; she’s focused on her art. Irritated that you haven’t been treated “fairly” with respect to promotions in your dojo? Well, maybe you have a point. Maybe you’ve done more for your art than Keiko Fukuda has done for hers. Then again, maybe not.

Few things create as much dread as the thought of being attacked with an edged weapon. By “edged weapon,” I mean anything that can cut, slice or puncture you, whether it’s a purpose-built weapon, a utility tool, a weapon of opportunity or an improvised weapon. The same characteristics that make knives so nasty offensively make them fantastic defensive weapons. For example, they’re easy to conceal, they can injure on extension and retraction, they can injure even when they’re deflected from reaching their primary target and, frankly, they don’t require a high degree of skill to be lethal. Like it or not, however, the use of an edged weapon, both offensively and defensively, is often regarded as insidious, felonious and just plain evil. The very fact that someone carries a knife can be used to demonstrate intent, whether that’s truly the case or not. The wounds a knife attack inflicts are ugly and can easily be construed—or may be perceived—as gratuitous maiming in court. Use of a knife likely means exposure to bloodborne pathogens. Finally, it’s often the case that it’s the cumulative wounding of someone that stops him rather than a single application. All that means a knife is far from the perfect weapon. LET’S TAKE A LOOK at a few of these observations. Although it’s true folding knives are easy to conceal, it’s also true many people who carry folders don’t put in any appreciable training time that involves opening them under duress. A fouled draw while under attack may mean you just lost your weapon. Worse, it can mean your previously unarmed attacker is now armed. Moderately sized fixed-blade knives are harder to conceal and still have to be drawn, but the draw is less complex because there’s no need for fine-motor skills to open them. Of course, a criminal doesn’t have these issues; as the predator, he’ll already have his weapon out and in his hand. A knife strike, unlike a hand strike, is effective while it’s being thrown, as well as while it’s being retracted. “Backcutting” can occur intentionally or by chance. People who train with knives often develop the awareness and appreciation of the ability to cut with the tip as the weapon is re-chambered. This is a nasty, ultra-quick way to catch someone. Imagine after a failed thrust or stab, just flipping the point of the blade up toward your opponent’s face as you re-chamber your arm for a forehand slash. It’s not a separate movement. It’s an incidental strike—in other words, the opportunity to hurt exists just by preparing to strike again. Another example: After a stab, you lift the tip slightly as you retract the knife. Not only does this make the wound worse, but it also enables you to clip him again if his arms or hands are in the way. When someone punches at you and you parry it, you don’t have to be concerned with where the fist went, but with a blade, you’d better be. If he punches at your gut and you knock it offline, you don’t care if it hits your leg. If he stabs at your gut and you knock it offline into your femoral artery, you’re screwed. AN UNTRAINED PERSON who’s closing on you with a death grip on a blade, slashing and stabbing like a madman, ought to scare the sh** out of you. If it doesn’t, you don’t have a grip on reality. As I say, “You’ve got to attack to prevail.” If escape isn’t an option and you’re being attacked with an edged weapon, you can’t defend to victory. Despite the speed, power and ferocity of his attack, despite your fear and the resultant duress dysfunctions that will diminish your abilities, you’ve still got to make the attack stop. If not, bad will certainly get worse, and it’s unlikely you’re headed for a Kumbaya ending. My point is, all offensive and defense knife training has to be carefully structured to replicate reality. It also has to be conducted with an appreciation for the law, as well as the realities of our justice system—and the two are different. Prancing around with a wooden tanto or waving a rubber stiletto at your partner isn’t going to cut it. Having experienced a few live knife incidents in my life, I’d prefer to have as a defensive weapon an 18- to 22-inch-long stick rather than a knife of my own. Next month, I’ll discuss the use of sticks in the same general vein I’ve used with knives here. Until then, put a little thought and a lot of training into that piece of steel hanging on the rim of your pocket; it’s way more than just a tactical decoration.

The martial arts world has lost a giant. Grand Tuhon Leo T. Gaje Jr., legendary guardian and global ambassador of Pekiti-Tirsia Kali, has passed away at the age of 88. But there are martial artists whose influence cannot be measured simply by the years they lived, the titles they earned or the techniques they taught. Leo Gaje was one of them. Leo Gaje and Apolo Ladra appearing on the 2018 cover His life was inseparable from the history of modern Filipino martial arts. Born in the Philippines in 1938, Gaje began learning Pekiti-Tirsia as a young boy under his grandfather, Grand Tuhon Conrado Tortal. What he inherited was far more than a collection of fighting techniques. It was a family system, a warrior tradition and a piece of Filipino culture that had been protected and passed from generation to generation. Eventually, Leo Gaje made a decision that would change martial arts history: he shared it with the world. When he came to the United States in 1972, Filipino martial arts were still largely unknown to the broader international martial arts community. Over the decades that followed, Grand Tuhon Gaje became one of the pioneers responsible for changing that. Through demonstrations, seminars, personal instruction and training programs, he introduced generations of martial artists to the sophistication of Filipino blade culture and to the principles of Pekiti-Tirsia Kali. His influence reached far beyond traditional martial arts schools. Military personnel trained his methods. Law-enforcement officers studied them. Martial artists traveled across countries and continents to learn from him. His students became teachers, and their students became teachers. A Filipino family art became an international martial arts legacy. Yet perhaps the greatest measure of Leo Gaje's contribution isn't how many techniques he taught. It is how many people he inspired to recognize the depth, intelligence and importance of Filipino martial arts. He belonged to a generation of masters who reminded the world that the Philippines possesses one of the great warrior traditions on Earth. For Black Belt Magazine, Grand Tuhon Gaje was more than another master whose accomplishments deserved recognition. He represented something at the heart of what this magazine has celebrated for generations: the preservation of martial knowledge through the people willing to dedicate their lives to it. He was recognized as Black Belt Magazine's 2018 Man of the Year, another chapter in a relationship with the martial arts media that stretched back decades. Those who encountered Grand Tuhon Gaje will remember the blade and the extraordinary technical knowledge. At 88 years old, Leo Gaje leaves behind something few martial artists ever achieve: a living legacy. Every time a Pekiti-Tirsia practitioner picks up a stick or blade, every time an instructor passes the system to another generation, and every time a Filipino martial artist proudly shares his or her culture with the world, a piece of that legacy continues. Masters eventually leave us. Their teachings do not have to. Grand Tuhon Leo T. Gaje Jr. spent a lifetime ensuring that his family's art would survive beyond his own lifetime. Today, Pekiti-Tirsia Kali is practiced around the world. That may ultimately be his greatest monument. From all of us at Black Belt Magazine, we extend our deepest condolences to the Gaje family, his students, the worldwide Pekiti-Tirsia community and the entire Filipino martial arts family. Tonight the martial arts world mourns. But it also celebrates an extraordinary life. A teacher. A warrior. A proud son of the Philippines. A guardian of an ancient tradition. And a man who helped ensure that Filipino martial arts would never again remain hidden from the world. Rest in peace, Grand Tuhon Leo T. Gaje Jr. Your blade has been passed to the next generation

“It’s gritty. It’s physical. And most importantly, the martial arts feel real.” — Black Belt Magazine Photo credit Amazon Studios Orion Picture Mother Your Mother is an Amazon MGM Studios/Orion Pictures release. It begins its limited U.S. theatrical release today, September 25, 2026, with a wider theatrical expansion on October 9. The best martial arts movies have never been just about the fights. The films that stay with us combine great action with characters and stories that make us care. The Karate Kid, Rocky, Taken and The Equalizer all understood that formula. The fighting matters because the people fighting matter. Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother belongs to that tradition. At the center of the film is two-time Academy Award winner Mahershala Ali, best known for acclaimed performances in Moonlight and Green Book. Here, Ali brings that dramatic ability into a very different arena—one filled with street fighting, martial arts and swordplay. And Ali came prepared. Years earlier, he had been positioned to take on one of Hollywood's most iconic martial-arts action characters: Blade. Ali spent more than a year preparing for the role, training extensively in martial arts and sword work. “I spent a year training,” Ali has said of his Blade preparation. “I trained so hard till I blew my knee out.” Ali continued training as the production was repeatedly delayed, even relocating his family to Atlanta while waiting for filming to begin. Although Blade ultimately did not happen with Ali, all that preparation did not go to waste. When Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother came along, Ali was able to put those hard-earned skills to work. As Ali has explained, he was able to use the skills he had spent more than a year developing for Blade when it came time to make Your Mother. That background is visible on screen. He moves like someone who has trained—not simply an actor who learned a few moves for the camera. That athletic ability is matched by a first-rate Hollywood stunt team led by stunt coordinator Adam Hart, who faced the additional challenge of creating ambitious action sequences on a compressed production schedule. “I’m so blown away with what he was able to choreograph and pull off within the time that we had,” Ali said of Hart. The result is a refreshing style of screen combat. The action isn't overly polished or designed simply to show off technique. It feels gritty, spontaneous and dangerous. Street fighting collides with martial arts and swordplay in a way that fits the characters and the world they inhabit. But what ultimately elevates Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother is something Black Belt has celebrated for generations: martial arts used in service of a great story. Movies capable of moving an audience emotionally while still delivering great fight sequences are rare. When the combination works, action becomes more than spectacle. It becomes part of the storytelling—and those are often the movies audiences remember for decades. As martial artists, we should be proud when our arts are represented this way on the big screen—not simply as kicks, punches and weapons, but as another language through which filmmakers can express struggle, courage, fear, sacrifice and humanity. Mahershala Ali has the acting ability to make us care about the man. His athleticism and years of martial arts preparation make us believe the fighter. That combination is what makes Your Mother Your Mother Your Mother special. — Black Belt Magazine

Before I start, allow me to come clean. I’m actually going to examine three submission grips: the sleeper grip, the rear-naked grip and the reverse lever grip. As you know, grips are vital in wrestling and grappling. Without laying your hands on your opponent, there can be no grip; but if you lay your hands on your opponent and don’t apply a grip, there will be no retention of your opponent. Here, I’m using the word “grip” in the idiomatic grappling sense. To nongrapplers, a grip is what you do when you shake hands or grab a baseball bat and is limited to what you can do with the closed hand. To grapplers, a grip is any retention of your opponent’s body using any portion of your own body. As important as gripping is in non-submission wrestling and grappling, it’s even more important in submission wrestling because the right grip is often the submission itself. GRAPPLING GRIPS INCLUDE the palm-to-palm grip, finger-hook grip, three-finger grip, butterfly grip and bar grip. These are a few of the ones that involve the hands; if you expand the category to cover grips that use the entire arm, you also get the tombstone grip, underarm (or pit) grip, sleeper grip, rear-naked grip and reverse lever grip. If you add leg grips to this list, it spans the figure-4 (or triangle) grip, scissors and so on. As you can see, to the submission wrestler, a grip is a weapon. In the remainder of this column, I’ll examine three of these weapons and explain how you can make your “handshake” a bit firmer by choosing the right one. Note: By “choosing the right one,” I’m referring to the importance of adhering to the principle of leverage. The greater the leverage you exert on your opponent, the greater the pain. With an eye on painful leverage, I offer an experiment that will transform you into the “Archimedes of hurt.” CHANCES ARE we’re all on the same page as to how the rear-naked grip is executed, but for the uninitiated, I offer the following: Place your right palm on your left biceps with the knife edge of your hand touching the crook of your left arm. Move your left hand toward your left shoulder as if you’re placing that hand behind an opponent’s head. Perform the flex a couple of times and pay attention to your right forearm. It’s the “barring” (attacking) portion of this grip. Mentally measure the travel of the forearm from pre-flex to the flex position. THE SLEEPER GRIP looks like the rear-naked grip with the following exception: When placing your right palm on your left upper arm, place it higher on the biceps, if not all the way up to the front deltoid. Once your right hand is in position, perform the flex test again and note the barring forearm’s travel. FOR THE REVERSE LEVER GRIP, place your right palm not on your left biceps but on your left forearm so your right thumb is in the crook of your left arm with your entire right palm surface squarely on your forearm. Now perform the flex test and note the travel of the barring forearm. DID YOU NOTICE ANYTHING? If you followed the hand placement that’s described in this experiment, you saw perhaps one inch of travel in the rear-naked grip, one inch to zero inches of travel in the sleeper grip, and three inches to four inches of travel in the reverse lever grip. That, my friends, is maximum leverage. In a game of inches, an additional two, three or four inches is manna. If you want to achieve maximum leverage in your game and not pay mere lip service to it, you should examine all your grips and select those with the best leverage and retention qualities, then apply them where they’ll do you the most good—i.e., hurting your fellow human being in the appropriate context. Caveat: As good as the reverse lever grip is, it has a limitation—specifically, the exposure of the “long tail,” which is your protruding left forearm. This tail makes the reverse lever grip vulnerable to being countered when it’s used in a back-riding position. (There is, however, a counter to this counter: Switch-gripping usually does the trick). Where the reverse lever grip does excel is in practically all other realms, particularly head-and-arm-included chokes (the shoulder choke/arm triangle and D’Arce class of attacks). The superior leverage provided by this subtle variation pays generous dividends with far less work, and doing more work with less effort is what leverage is all about.

I’ve written about travel and the martial arts several times over the years. Some of the essays were diaries of trips to Asia or stories about living life as a martial arts expatriate. Others were about the nature of travel itself and how it can inspire or disillusion a person. Recently, I reread those columns to prepare for this special issue on travel. In spite of being about very different things, they had one underlying theme: how unexpected travel can be. Sometimes the unexpected is simply the overwhelming newness of a place. No matter how much you learn about a country before you visit, directly experiencing it is a shock to the senses. For example, you can read about road congestion or the local cuisine in the Philippines, but being in the middle of a traffic jam in Cebu or eating food that is as sour as habaneros are hot is entirely different. Being surrounded by new languages is even more jarring. You can research the local language before going to the central Philippines. You’ll learn a little about the Spanish-influenced Cebuano dialect and the fact that many Filipinos can speak English well. But it won’t prepare you for the ease with which everyone switches back and forth between Cebuano and English, often many times within one conversation. Hearing the mixture is surreal—so much sounds familiar, but you can’t understand it. The practice of the martial arts in new places can be overwhelming, as well. Sticking with the example of the Philippines, actually crossing sticks with someone there can be more intense than you might think. You may practice stick fighting at home, maybe even the same style as your new Filipino training partner, but chances are he started pretty young and is now comfortable with a much higher level of speed and power. That means what should be a comfortable, familiar set of interlocking drills feels more like a struggle to survive. Sometimes the Unexpected Sometimes the unexpected moments are just the happy accidents of everyday life. For a couple of years, I lived in Finland, where winter lasts five months and the sun rises around 9 a.m. and sets around 3:30 p.m. every day. That’s a lot of night, and it can mess with your head. But it also means that if you walk out your door to do some daily chores, you might see the northern lights overhead, huge curtains of green and red light bending and curling in a clear Arctic sky. Speaking of Finland, it’s worth considering countries that are off the beaten path for your martial arts travels. Nations around the world have stories of combat and courage that don’t make it into the history books. The area in which I lived in Finland is called Pohjanmaa. In the 20th century, it was where the Finns stopped the advancing Russian army in World War II, something they devote as much time to documenting as we Americans do our wartime victories. But 200 years ago, Pohjanmaa was home to a breed of knife-fighting tough guys called häjyt. They were more like cowboys than samurai, though, and their knife skills never congealed into a martial art. But to this day, knives and häjyt are part of the region’s identity to the extent that making old-fashioned puukko knives with sheaths meant to be slung from the hip is still a thriving regional industry. Even in Places Even in places that are on the beaten path for martial artists, you can be surprised. Large distances and cultural differences ensure that we, as foreigners, don’t see Asian culture any more clearly than Asians see our culture. Before you visit a country like China, Korea or Japan, you see your own expectations reflected back at you in the media and in your martial arts practice. Once you make the pilgrimage to your art’s homeland, a lot will catch you off-guard. When I first came to Japan, I was surprised by two things: how little the average Japanese person knows (or cares) about the martial arts and how much he or she equates them with strength. Of course, everyone knows what karate, judo, kendo and kyudo are, but if you say you practice something like iaido or jodo, the first response will likely be, “What’s that?” If you practice something like judo or karate, people will usually reply with, “Oh, you must be very strong!” For those of you raised on the notion that the arts are mainly about technique, the attitude that karate and judo in Japan are sports for muscular tough guys is hard to wrap your head around. Probably the Best Thing About Martial Arts Travel Probably the best thing about the unexpectedness of travel is that it forces you to learn and understand more. You confront a new language, and you have to learn some to get by. You practice a martial art in the context of its culture, and things that were mysterious or strange in the art suddenly make sense. You learn a little about other people’s struggles against invaders and oppressors, and you conclude that what we regard as American courage is the same quality all people share when war forces them to show it. All it takes to get this and more is to make some plans and buy a plane ticket. Whatever surprises you run into, chances are you’ll be better for it.

So many legends and half-truths about the history of some martial arts get spread that sometimes it’s nearly impossible to sift through them. That’s particularly true of arts that have left behind few written documents, such as those of the Philippines. Practitioners just accept what their teachers tell them or go by rumors from those who seem knowledgeable. Few bother to do real research into the history of these styles. Those who do often find themselves pilloried as unbelievers. Case in point: Mark Wiley. Wiley spent a decade not just training in the Philippines but also interviewing anthropologists and museum curators there, sometimes traveling the length of the island chain to interview old masters in an effort to get to the truth about the history and nature of the Filipino arts. But his efforts have often met with scorn from the martial arts community, particularly in America. “When I first went to the Philippines, I was really looking to just confirm the legends and history I’d already heard,” Wiley said, “but what I found was the opposite of what I expected.” What Wiley found was that legends about blind warrior princesses and ancient mother styles for all Filipino arts were just that—legends. But the truths he uncovered were almost as fascinating. BASED IN PHILADELPHIA, Wiley, 42, began studying taekwondo as a child, eventually taking a part-time job at Asian World of Martial Arts, a popular supply store in the city. There, he came across a book Dan Inosanto had written about the Filipino fighting arts and was inspired to make the switch. Four-time Black Belt Hall of Fame inductee Dan Inosanto the cover of Black Belt's June 2009 issue. Initially training with noted arnis instructor Remy Presas, Wiley saved his money so he could fly to California to work with escrima master Angel Cabales. Together, they set out to write a series of books on Cabales serrada escrima. Unfortunately, Cabales died just before the first book was completed. Unable to sell the manuscript, Wiley ended up going to college, where he wrote his senior thesis on Filipino martial culture. Being a fan of the historical work of martial arts writers like Donn F. Draeger and Robert W. Smith, Wiley decided to turn his thesis into a book. By this time, his manuscript on Cabales serrada escrima had been purchased by Tuttle Publishing, which offered him an editorial job in Japan. From there, Wiley traveled to the Philippines several times, eventually marrying a Filipina and moving there to continue his training. He was soon introduced to the man who would become his most influential teacher, Antonio Ilustrisimo. “I had trained with a number of Filipino masters and thought I was hot stuff,” Wiley said. “But I sparred with grandmaster Ilustrisimo, who was in his late 70s, with padded sticks, and I couldn’t hit him very much. I did hit him a few times, but then I watched a videotape of the session and noticed that the whole time we were sparring, Ilustrisimo was watching a television playing in the next room. If Cabales and some of the other masters I met were like Jedi, then Ilustrisimo was like Yoda.” WILEY BEGAN RESEARCHING the history of the Filipino arts, meeting with numerous masters and talking to local scholars and historians. What he found was quite different from the impressions many Westerners have of the nation’s fighting systems. “I asked all these older masters about certain arts you hear about in the United States, like dumog (Filipino wrestling) and panantukan (Filipino boxing), and they had never heard of these things,” Wiley said. “The boxing they have in the Philippines is basically Western boxing. They do have some native wrestling styles, but they’re mostly confined to isolated local tribal groups.” Wiley said there’s also a difference between native Filipino battlefield arts, which had been practiced by tribal groups and are now all but extinct, and modern Filipino arts in the form of arnis and escrima. Arnis and escrima came into being when local Filipinos moved into the towns built by the Spanish, who occupied the islands for centuries. There, he said, they developed systems based on dueling or self-defense. WILEY RECORDED SOME OF HIS FINDINGS in Filipino Martial Culture, which was hailed by many as an outstanding piece of research. And although the book was rather tame, with Wiley passing on the oral histories presented by many masters without offering commentary on their veracity, it still made him enemies in the Filipino martial arts community. Oddly, the main cause of this hostility was the seemingly innocuous assertion that there’s no historical basis for the term “kali.” Although it’s a popular name used by many Filipino martial artists in America to refer to a mother style from which all Filipino weapon arts sprang, Wiley said there’s no evidence for it ever having been used before the 1950s. As for there being one parent art that’s the forerunner of all modern Filipino styles, Wiley said he broached the subject with many scholars in the Philippines, who pointed out the variety of languages and ethnic groups in the archipelago. “One of them told me they don’t even have one cooking style there,” he said. “How would they have one martial art that all the others came from?” Wiley said he has a lot more information that explodes cherished myths about the Filipino arts, but after being attacked online for so long, he’s leery about publishing it. His recent books have stayed away from such controversies. And that’s a pity. Sometimes what martial artists need the most is for someone to toss a hand grenade into their dojo bunkers and explode a few of the old myths.

In 1980, Dr. Alex Sternberg appeared on the cover of Black Belt—a fitting recognition for a martial artist whose extraordinary journey has spanned more than five decades. After emigrating from Hungary to the United States with his family in 1961, Sternberg began training at Brooklyn’s legendary Tong Dojo—a culturally diverse training ground that produced some of America’s greatest karate champions. He earned his black belt in 1968 and ultimately rose to the rank of 8th-degree master in Shotokan karate. As a competitor, Sensei Sternberg captured more than 75 regional, national and international medals, earning recognition as one of “America’s Top 10 Champions.” After retiring from competition, he coached the USA National Karate Team at major international events, including the World Championships. In 1982, Dr. Sternberg became an international referee certified by the World Karate Federation. He later served as Chief Referee of the United States and was honored by the WKF for 25 years of outstanding service. Beyond karate, Dr. Sternberg has built a remarkable career encompassing physiology, medicine, sports science, Holocaust research and Jewish history. From competitor to coach, referee, scholar and master, Alex Sternberg’s life represents the discipline, excellence and lifelong pursuit of knowledge at the heart of the martial arts. A champion in competition. A leader beyond it. A true Black Belt legend.

As a serious karateka, do you need to travel to Japan? Do you need to go to the homeland of budo to gain the perspective necessary to understand your art? No. Yes. Maybe. No, you don’t need to travel to Japan to train. Not in terms of technical training. The notion that you do is decades out of date. True, there was a time when the technical level of karate in Japan was much higher than in the United States. Those days are gone. American-born karate teachers have mastered the technical skills of their art and polished their teaching skills in an extraordinary way since I took up karate in the late 1960s. There are some remarkably good sensei here. That’s not to say they’re common, however. (In my opinion, nine out of 10 karate “teachers” are not really that and have no business trying to teach an art they don’t understand.) Great karate sensei are hard to find, but they are here, and you can learn the technical aspects of karate from them. So in that sense, no, you don’t need to go to Japan to polish your karate. You’ll notice that in the above paragraph, I used the word “technical” several times. If you want to learn karate’s physical technique, yes, you can be taught it here. If you want to learn the spiritual aspects of karate, I would say, with some reservations, maybe you can learn that here. Maybe. THERE ARE SENSEI in this country who have some grasp of the spiritual dimensions of karate and budo. Their numbers are few. If one in 10 karate teachers is really a teacher in a technical sense, then one in 1,000 has a real understanding of karate as a spiritual path. Few American sensei speak or read Japanese with any fluency. Few have any in-depth familiarity with Japanese spiritual and aesthetic concepts. While their mastery of technique is sometimes quite high, their understanding of budo’s spiritual dimensions is often poor. Or nonexistent. In many cases, it’s compromised by having read too many silly books about Zen or samurai philosophy and by superimposing their own ideas on top of that. It’s very important, while we’re in the realm of “maybe,” to note that a trip to Japan for karate training is not a guarantee you’ll be exposed to the spiritual realities of the art. There are plenty of Japanese sensei who are clueless about these. There are karate frauds and sadistic brutes in Japan. There are karate teachers there who indulge in all sorts of goofy, pseudo-Oriental philosophies that sound exotic and profound but that are mostly nonsense with no legitimate historical connection to karate or budo—just as there are in the States. Your chances of being correctly taught the spiritual dimensions of karate are better in Japan, true. But just like in America, if this is your goal, the answer to the question of whether you’ll get it in Japan is maybe. AS FOR THE “YES” ANSWER ... there are some facets of karate you can learn only in Japan. They’re not technical or necessarily spiritual; they’re cultural. Karate developed in Okinawa and evolved as a budo in mainland Japan. The cultures of those places played as much of a role in karate as, for example, Christianity has played in the art and culture of Western civilization. Japanese culture cannot be removed from karate, not if it’s to remain real karate. That’s not to say one must be Japanese to practice or understand it. However, one must have some understanding of and appreciation for Japanese culture to acquire a broad and mature understanding of karate as a complete art and way. If your goal in the dojo is to develop the physical aspects of karate, fine. Go to a nearby school and challenge yourself. But if you want to grasp karate as a do, as an all-encompassing way, sooner or later you must go to where it became that. THE LESSONS OF KARATE to be learned in Japan are not all or perhaps even mostly taught in the dojo there. They’re learned as you interact with a culture that’s markedly different from yours. It’s learning that form and formality are not dead, not merely rote behavior but a way of teaching a perception that leads to an entirely different way of dealing with the world than you may be used to. It’s being exposed to a culture in which what’s not said is often far more important than what is. It’s experiencing a culture in which much that you’ve taken for granted doesn’t apply, one in which you must be flexible and patient and calculating to survive. Westerners have had a long and often strange relationship with Japan. Our ideas about it have been influenced by romantic preconceptions, by popular novels and movies, and by our own imaginations. For a karateka going there for the first time, the experience can be humbling, disillusioning and frustrating. It also can be exciting, educational and meaningful. And you’ll be surprised at how often it can be all of the above. So do you need to go to Japan as part of your karate training? No. Yes. Maybe.