DISCOVERY OF SHAOLIN
- May 31
- 3 min read
The Wheel of Life
At the age of eleven, everything changed.
Up until that point, my fascination with Kung Fu had been fuelled by martial arts movies, comic books, cartoons, and the larger-than-life heroes who seemed capable of impossible feats. But it was in 1999, sitting inside London’s famous Dominion Theatre, that the dream transformed into something real.
The show was called The Wheel of Life, and from the moment we arrived, it felt different. The performance had completely sold out, with queues stretching around the block. Thousands of people waited patiently for a glimpse into a world that, for me, had previously only existed on a television screen.
When we finally entered the theatre, an unexpected sense of calm washed over the audience. Dominating the stage was a giant Buddha statue, accompanied by a large incense burner with smoke drifting gently into the air. The atmosphere felt sacred, mysterious, and unlike anything I had ever experienced before.
Our seats came equipped with the old one-pound binoculars, and I immediately bought a pair. I didn’t want to miss a single detail. This was the first time I would witness real Kung Fu performed live before my eyes—the very same kind of Kung Fu I had spent years watching in films and dreaming about learning.
Then the narration began.
To this day, I can still hear those words.
Narrated by John Hurt, the opening described a remote monastery in Henan Province, China, where for thousands of years a special group of Zen Buddhist monks rose each day to pray, meditate, and dedicate themselves to spiritual cultivation. The narration explained their belief that life moves in a continuous circle and that each soul returns again in another life.
As the words echoed through the theatre, something magical happened.
Shaolin monks began emerging from every corner of the auditorium, walking slowly toward the stage while chanting, “Namo Amituofo.” They moved with a quiet dignity that completely captivated me. For the first time, I wasn’t watching actors pretending to be monks. These were real Shaolin monks, embodying a tradition that stretched back centuries.
The story that followed told of the monks being called upon by an emperor to defend China. After helping secure victory in battle, the emperor demanded they remain as his personal guard. The monks refused, choosing instead to return to their spiritual lives at the monastery. Enraged by their refusal, the emperor ordered the slaughter of the Shaolin monks. Only five young monks survived, carrying forward the Shaolin legacy and continuing the eternal Wheel of Life.
It was during this performance that I first saw a young monk named Wong Danfei, known to audiences around the world as “Tiger Boy.” At the time, I had no idea that years later he would become one of my closest friends and training brothers. Yet something inside me knew that my life was somehow connected to the people on that stage.
Watching Tiger Boy and the other young monks perform felt like witnessing superheroes brought to life.
To an eleven-year-old boy, the bald-headed monks dressed in bright orange robes looked as if they had stepped straight out of Dragon Ball Z. They performed finger handstands, breathtaking acrobatics, impossible balances, and demonstrations of strength and control that seemed beyond human capability. They showcased animal styles such as tiger, snake, dragon, and mantis. They wielded traditional weapons with incredible precision and demonstrated astonishing feats of Qigong—breaking bricks on their heads, enduring impacts that appeared impossible, and displaying a level of focus and discipline I had never seen before.
But more than the physical skills, it was their presence that captured me.
There was an aura about them.
A calm confidence.
A sense of purpose.
They seemed to possess something far greater than athletic ability alone.
As I sat there staring through my binoculars, completely mesmerised, a dream was born.
I turned to my mom and told her, with absolute certainty, that I wanted to become a Shaolin warrior.
She smiled and replied, “Sure, sweetheart. Anything is possible.”
Neither of us could have known that this would become the defining dream of my life.
What began that night as the imagination of an eleven-year-old boy would become a lifelong mission. The monks on that stage were no longer characters from films or legends from distant lands. They were real. They existed. And from that moment forward, I knew that somehow, someday, I would find my way to the Shaolin Monastery in Henan Province and train alongside the very people who had inspired me.
The dream of becoming a Shaolin monk had begun.
Comments