Mixed martial arts transforms bullied kids into warriors

From Bullying to Self-Defense

Muzamil opens the episode by asking Uloomi about a viral 56-second fight that sparked questions about why people would voluntarily engage in such intense combat. Uloomi recalls a childhood shaped by pacifism. “I did get bullied a lot,” he says. He had a specific memory: getting hit by cricket pads at religious education class by friends who held leadership positions. Yet even after these incidents, “I was the least violent guy.”

His turning point came in school when an Afghan classmate kicked at him after Uloomi used the word “Chinki” to defend someone being teased. Uloomi’s brother saw this and told him it was time to start martial arts seriously. “I was the guy who did not know how to fight,” Uloomi admits. But when he went home and told his mother about being kicked, her response changed everything. She said simply: “If someone raises their hand on you, you do not hold back.” That moment shifted his understanding of defense from passive acceptance to active resistance.

The Evolution of Martial Arts Training

Uloomi’s journey spans multiple disciplines. He started with Wushu, a Chinese kickboxing art, around 1996 or 1997. When his family moved to Islamabad, he trained in Taekwondo but found its rules restrictive. Kicks to the face were forbidden, punches only to certain areas. This frustrated him. He asked his coaches why the strong shin bone couldn’t kick a face when four knuckles could punch it. Their answer: “You leave the thinking part to us. Let us do whatever, you know, the thinking part is. And you just train.”

His brothers explored Kyokushin, wrestling, and boxing. They traveled across Pakistan seeking knowledge, skipping university classes to learn. A friend gave them a DVD about the Ultimate Fighting Championship, showing Brazilians dominating all other martial artists through Jiu-Jitsu techniques. “That’s exactly what I want to do,” his brother decided. UFC-style fights became their goal.

Mixed Martial Arts as Complete System

Muzamil asks what distinguishes MMA from other combat sports. Uloomi explains the core difference: most combat sports reward the fighter who gets knocked down with a count, stopping the action. “But in mixed martial arts, you fall down, they’re going to jump on top of you, they can put you in a submission hold, it could be any sort of joint lock or it could be a choke.” The fight continues until the referee stops it or someone taps out.

Thai boxing adds kicks and elbows to punches and knees. But MMA adds the ground game. When you’re down, your fight isn’t over. You can escape, reverse position, or submit your opponent. Uloomi calls Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu “human chess” because you’re setting traps, orchestrating position changes, and waiting for the moment to control someone’s neck or arm. The sport’s origins trace to the 1991 UFC tournament, where fighters from every background competed and the Gracie family’s Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu proved dominant despite being the smallest competitor.

Building Pakistan’s First Professional League

Muzamil starts training as a professional when Bashir Ahmed, a key figure in Pakistani MMA, helped launch Pac-Fight Club in 2012. Unlike international leagues, this one paid nothing initially. Uloomi was studying computer science at Bahria University when he joined the first event. Even in 2014, as the highest-paid fighter in Pakistan, “I was paid 7500 rupees” per fight. Yet he didn’t give up. “We did not listen to anyone. Our parents said, let’s leave. Where are you going? What job did you do? But we kept going.”

His family had no tradition of fighting. His father was the first educated person in Shemshal village, becoming a commission officer in the air force. When Uloomi won an international fight in 2016, the entire village gathered to receive him. His parents stood before everyone and declared this a turning point: their family had moved from education into professional fighting.

Martial Arts as Life Philosophy

“Being a fighter doesn’t mean I go in there and fight with someone,” Uloomi tells Muzamil. “It means I fight every single adversity that comes in front of me.” He quotes Muhammad Ali: “A banker accounts the money, he goes to the bank, that’s his job. My job is to punch people in the face and get punched in the face.” But the physical fight is only ten percent of the sport. “The real deal is that when you work out, when you are training for something, it means you’re working hard and that is what teaches you.”

This translates everywhere. In business, negotiation, problem-solving. You learn to stay calm when someone punches you verbally or strategically. You learn to telegraph what others will do and see the openings they don’t.

Troubled Youth and the Pressure Cooker

Muzamil asks whether martial arts can help troubled children. Uloomi’s answer is direct: “Yes. All the good athletes that become in the world, they come from troubled places.” He lists names: fighters from Uzbekistan, Russia, Chechnya, Kazakhstan. Boxers from Cuba and Mexico. Brazilians. These are developing nations where pressure is relentless. “In our life, we say that it’s a pressure cooker. They get so packed in that pressure cooker that there is no way out. Either they become drug dealers or something, mafia, drugs, etc. Or they become athletes, and when they become athletes, they become world-class athletes.”

Three girls came to Team Fight Fortress to train. Two couldn’t handle the rigor. But Anita, his sister, stayed. After one month she said she didn’t want to study anymore. She wanted to fight. She trained despite bruises and soreness, showed up every day, and in her first professional bout faced a kickboxing champion with no fighting experience. She lost but impressed her opponent so much that the champion said, “You fight like a warrior.”

Monetizing Without Government Support

Pakistan’s sports culture often looks to government for funding. But Uloomi points out that this doesn’t work. “We have to do it, and then when you sow a seed with it, then automatically the acknowledgement will come.” He argues that private sectors must learn to sell the sport itself. Cricket wasn’t always popular, but the 1992 World Cup changed everything.

One successful event was Sirai Fight Night in 2019, funded by Peshawar Zalmi owner Javid Afridi. Fighters were paid 45,000 to 50,000 rupees per fight. For many, this was life-changing. Some fighters work day jobs as waiters. Uloomi visited their homes and saw plastic on floors, bricks stacked as furniture. Professional paydays gave them dignity.

Hunza’s Future and Cultural Preservation

As someone from Hunza, Uloomi sees tourism threatening everything his ancestors built. When he visited in 2016 after winning an international belt, the region had changed dramatically. “There were a lot of Hunza people who won from India,” he says, meaning returned from India with wealth to invest. But development had become chaotic. Buildings multiplied everywhere. Green grass disappeared.

“I just want one thing from those people. Whenever I’ve traveled to Thailand, I’ve seen one thing: people there are tourism, but they have preserved their culture. Here we go after tourism and culture dies.” He argues for sustainable growth. Mushroom growth destroys what makes tourism attractive in the first place. Without the natural beauty and cultural authenticity, there’s no reason to visit.

Uloomi ends by teasing an upcoming fight coming after two and a half years away from competition. “Really stoked,” he says. “I am going to do anything it takes to take this fight and to win this fight.”