I ran down the steps near the edge of the strip and I stood on the bottom rail of the barricade reaching into the stands for my family’s hands. Everyone was smiling ear to ear, with my mom crying tears of happiness and my nephew trying to squeeze his narrow limbs through the bars to reach me.
“Ibtihaj, you can do this,” Faizah said, practically screaming down to me, projecting her voice so her words would reach me over all of the stadium noise. “You can really do this!”
I squeezed her hand and tried to convey in that moment how much I loved her and appreciated her. I knew that if it weren’t for Faizah working with me, supporting me, and keeping me sane in the midst of all the craziness, I wouldn’t be in Rio. This win was just as much Faizah’s as it was mine. I felt so emotional at that moment, I could feel myself start to cry. I owed everything to my family and their undying support for me. My parents had worked so hard to support my fencing career since I was twelve years old, and my siblings never complained about all of the time, resources, and attention my fencing had required of the family. With each of them in my corner, I actually felt like anything was possible, even bringing home a medal from the Olympic Games.
“Are you ready for your next bout?” Qareeb asked me. “I want to see you tear the next girl apart just like you did this one. You were amazing out there.”
Before I could respond to my brother, we were interrupted by a volunteer who insisted I had to leave the fencing floor. As I walked back to the warm-up hall, there was a throng of reporters who were clamoring to get a comment from me following my first win. I think I counted ten microphones. I knew this wouldn’t be a one-minute exchange, as every reporter would want a quote for their outlet. One minute would turn into thirty or forty-five minutes, and I just didn’t have the time. At the Olympics, there wasn’t a lot of time between bouts, and I needed every single minute to prepare for my next match. I gave my parents a quick wave and then turned to the pack of reporters and said, “Sorry, I have to go prepare for my next match.” And then I ran off to strategize.
For my next match, I was fencing a woman from France named Cécilia Berder. The last few times Cécilia and I had fenced, I had won, but she was very good. She was the best saber fencer in France at the time and ranked ninth in the world, right behind me. She was a real fighter, but on paper I was better. I didn’t go out on the strip overconfident, because I knew Cécilia would be a tough opponent and I had just proved in my last bout that the underdog can win. Akhi reminded me to fence smart and stay strong. I promised him I would, and I stepped out on the strip, game face on, ready for battle. I tried to calm my mind and shut out the sounds of the cheering fans. Right before the bout started I recited a quick prayer. I remembered the look of pride and hope on Faizah’s face, and her words ran through my mind. “You can really do this, Ibtihaj.” Yes, I could.
“USA! USA!” The fans were cheering, but I had to tune out all of the background noise and focus on my opponent. I came out on fire and jumped to a 6–2 lead. I could taste victory, but Cécilia rallied hard. She scored a few points, then we were tied, and then we traded turns taking the lead. But I was having trouble focusing. I got distracted by the noise of the crowd as I felt their desire for me to win.
The next point would be mine. When I heard the signal to fence, I exploded out of the box and landed a point on Cécilia right away. She barely had time to parry I came at her so fast. The match stopped, but the referee didn’t call a point for me. I knew I had landed that touch, and I asked the ref to look at the touch again on his screen, but he still refused to give me the point. I couldn’t believe it. I threw my mask to the ground in anger. “What?!” I cried. I knew it was bad form to argue with the ref’s call, but I also knew I had scored that point. Instead of agreeing with me, the ref gave me a yellow card, warning me for false-starting. I was so mad, but I had to try to get myself back under control, to refocus and get back into the match. I put my mask back on and tried to use my anger to push harder. Cécilia and I traded points back and forth, but I couldn’t seem to get my groove back. When the score was 12–14 in Cécilia’s favor, I knew I didn’t have any room for error. I was ready, by whatever means necessary, but after I fell short in my attack, Cécilia took over the attack, patiently staging her moment as she moved down the strip. We neared the end of my side of the strip. My foot slipped, and I ended in an awkward split with one foot out of bounds, losing the point. Cécilia won the match, 15–12.
It was over. I lost. My individual competition was finished.
I could feel the tears begin to well while I was still on the floor. I was absolutely devastated. I was mad at myself. I felt like I had let everyone down. I kept thinking I shouldn’t have lost. How did I lose? I felt an overwhelming sense of shame as I peeled myself off the ground, shook hands with Cécilia, and walked off the strip. It seemed like only moments ago I was savoring the idea of a possible Olympic medal, and now my eyes were filled with the tears of failure. I dodged the reporters shouting questions and found a place with Faizah to lick my wounds. I needed to process my loss before I could answer any questions. I sobbed for more than thirty minutes. No matter how much you tell yourself you’re just happy to make the team, losing is incredibly painful. Especially losing to someone you know you’re capable of beating. I kept replaying each point in my mind and thinking what actions I could have done differently that might have changed the outcome of the match. I could barely look Faizah in the eye; I felt I had let her down more than anyone. I wanted to win so badly for her, for my parents, and for all of the people who had been following my fencing career and found hope in my success. Just thinking about all of the people who were cheering for me and praying for a win made me cry even harder. I felt this was their loss now, too, and I hadn’t been able to spare them that.
Thankfully, my family members joined us and came to offer words of encouragement and support. “You did a great job.” “You never gave up.” “We’re proud of you.” My mom reminded me that just competing in the Olympics was a win for me and for all of the people who looked up to me. I was an example for them—they could compete on the international stage, too. And even though I hadn’t finished as well as I had hoped, I was one of the best female saber fencers in the world, and I should be proud of that. (For the record, I ended up finishing in twelfth place.)
Abu was the last person to speak. “Ibtihaj, it’s okay. You win some. You lose some,” he said, wiping my tears. “You gave it everything you had today. I’m so proud of you.”
“But I lost my second match,” I whispered.
“Ibtihaj, I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you do, especially out there today. In my eyes, you won that gold medal today.”
“Thanks, Abu,” I said, warming at my father’s words. I knew my father wasn’t the type to just say things to make me feel better. He was being sincere, and it meant everything to me.
Abu continued. “This has been the experience of a lifetime getting to see you compete in the Olympics. I couldn’t be prouder, and you should be proud of yourself.”
I took all of my family’s words to heart, as I tried to cast out any negative voices still lingering in my brain. All told, it took me about an hour to compose myself. I knew the press was waiting for a statement from me, and I didn’t want to come out tearstained and sniffling. I tried to get in touch with my rational self. I knew that while I could have done better, I had absolutely done my best. I searched inside my soul and knew I had no regrets. Losing on the world stage stings, but I knew in time the pain would fade and I was going to be okay. My family had reminded me that my attendance at the games went beyond winning or losing, and I would do well to remember that.
When I went out to meet the press, I tried to present a picture of resolve and acceptance. I knew what I needed to say because it was what I had been saying since I’d been given this unique platform. As I stood in front of the sea of cameras and microphones, I heard the same question repeated.
“How do you feel about losin
g to Cécilia Berder?”
I pulled in a deep breath and responded. “Cécilia is a great competitor and she bested me today. Win or lose, competing here today was bigger than any of my own personal ambitions.”
The next question came as soon as I finished my last words.
“How do you feel as a Muslim woman competing in these Olympics, considering what’s going on in your country?”
This was a critical moment for me. I knew how I responded to this question would get a ton of coverage. My answer was succinct. “I think that anyone who has paid attention to the news would know the importance of having a Muslim woman on Team USA, at this moment in time,” I said. “In light of all the political fuss that’s going on, I think my presence on the team challenges those misconceptions that people have about who a Muslim woman is and can be.”
As I knew they would, the questions continued for close to an hour. I tried my best to represent my country and my family with honor and dignity.
As it turned out, no one from the United States women’s saber team did well in the individual competition. Dagmara lost her first match, and Mariel lost in the second round just as I had. So the three of us were motivated to reclaim our glory during the team competition five days later. As a team, we were underdogs. Though we had medaled in the World Championships for the last five years, taking home the gold in 2014, we hadn’t been able to secure even one medal at any of the World Cups this season. As a team, we’d been riddled with injuries and struggled to find our rhythm. We weren’t going in overconfident. Personally, I wanted to win more than I had ever wanted anything before. The sting from my loss to Cécilia had transformed into a burning desire for revenge. To prove to myself—more than anything—that I could do better.
AUGUST 13
August thirteenth finally arrived after four days of grueling practices with Ed. Now that I knew exactly what to expect at an Olympic competition, I felt more confident than I had before my individual matches. Also, it was easier knowing that I had my team to support me on the strip. Mentally, knowing I didn’t want to let down my teammates and that no matter what happened they’d have my back eased my stress level. There’s something about team competition that brings out one’s competitive spirit—especially when you are fighting for your country. It was a relief knowing that everyone could put their personal feelings that had defined our squad for the last several years aside for this one day. We’d done it successfully in the past at big events, and I just prayed we could do it again at the Olympics.
In the team competition, all three members of our team would fence against the three members of the opposing team. The first bout is to five points, the next bout to ten points, and so on. The first team to reach forty-five total points wins. Mariel, Dagmara, and I would be on the strip, with Monica waiting in the wings should we need a sub.
Our first match was against Poland. Not a bad draw for our first match, but I knew Poland would fight to the very end. We almost let an eleven-point lead slide through our fingers, but in a valiant last-minute effort, Mariel pulled us back for the win. In the semifinal round, we faced the formidable Russian team. I knew they would be our toughest opponents of the day, not only because they were strong opponents but because the referees seemed to love them. We hung in there most of the match, but had acquired a large deficit going into the seventh bout. I was up against Ekaterina Dyachenko, and I was on fire. I outscored her by a score of 13–4, giving us a narrow one-point lead. The score was 35–34 with Team USA ahead. But unfortunately, we couldn’t hold on to the lead, with Dagmara failing to score any points in the eighth match, leaving the margin too large for Mariel to even the score and pull ahead. The Russians beat us.
We’d been in this position many times. Four times, to be exact. At World Championships, losing in the semifinals to either Ukraine or Russia, left to fence off for bronze. We walked into the call room, to have our equipment checked prior to the start of the bronze medal match. I could tell something was off about the Italian team. They looked defeated. It was clear that both of our teams had lost in the semifinals and now would fence off for bronze, but they looked as if they struggled to move past their loss. One of the things about losing in the semifinals was that you had to be ready to fence off for bronze. There was no time to sulk and ponder your previous loss. It was a position our team was far too familiar with, so we were ready. Dagmara nudged my leg, motioning me to look at the Italian team. She saw the same thing I did, a defeated Italian team we had to take advantage of.
Dagmara was the first one on the strip and Mariel, Monica, and I stood on the sidelines and cheered her on. The match started out well. Dagmara looked strong and decisive. She ended up winning that first bout 5–2. From then on, we took turns defending and maintaining our lead. After my second match, Mariel was up next. As I left the strip, prepared to give the ritual high-fives to rest of the team, I noticed Dagmara was hysterically crying. She and her personal coach, Yury Gelman, were having some sort of animated discussion, and she seemed really upset. As she walked away from her coach, I asked her what was wrong; all she could do was shake her head. I was really confused. We were winning. Why was she so upset, and would she be able to shake off whatever was bothering her so we could focus on the task at hand?
Just then, Ed walked over to me and said, “Good job. Monica will sub in for you.”
I was shocked. I didn’t need a sub.
Every team has a reserve fencer who normally was there to be substituted into a match in case of injury of one of the main three fencers or for strategic reasons. So why was I being taken out of the match? I was fencing well, and we had the lead. That’s when the lightbulb hit. Now I understood Dagmara’s uncontrollable tears. She was seething at the injustice of the act and maybe she was a little bit jealous, as she had been in the same position as Monica back at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing. Dagmara had qualified to be the team alternate in 2008, which meant she was ranked number four in the country, but she was never subbed in during any of the matches in the team event and didn’t compete in any individual events. That meant Dagmara left those games with no Olympic merit to her name. In order to be named an Olympian you had to compete, and she never got that chance.
Monica was now going to get the chance Dagmara never had, and apparently that was a bitter pill for Dagmara to swallow, particularly because Monica hadn’t impressed any of us with her work ethic or skills. But we all watched as her personal coach, Yury, insisted she be given a chance to fence in this, our final match. And despite the fact that I had been on fire on the strip, I was the one pulled. It was a bitter pill for me to swallow, too. But I accepted our coach’s decision and focused on the win for our team.
When it was Monica’s turn to fence against Rosella Gregorio from Italy, it was a nail biter. We needed Monica to hold on to the lead, but we knew it would be hard for her against Gregorio, who was a strong contender. Luckily for us, we had a sizable lead and she was able to win her match.
When Mariel scored the final winning touch, securing our forty-fifth point, we knew we’d done it. The three of us ran onto the raised strip and wrapped Mariel in grateful hugs. So much emotion was released. The final score was 45–30. I was so happy. We had triumphed as a team. Everyone had done what they had to do, and we had prevailed. I have never felt so proud. There on the strip, we hugged and high-fived and basked in our glory. For a moment I forgot about everything except the win. Every single sacrifice felt worth it in that beautiful moment. Every injury, every tear, every missed birthday, wedding—it all washed away as we stood there and reveled in the sound of the crowds cheering us on. I knew my family was among the roaring fans, and I hoped they could tell I was smiling at them, sending them my thanks for lifting me up.
Later that day during the medal ceremony, every single one of those feelings of gratitude and awe was magnified. I was so proud to stand under the stars and stripes in that arena. And even though I’d watched countless Olympic Games on television and sometimes even teare
d up during a particularly emotional medal ceremony, there was nothing that could have prepared me for the feelings that engulfed me when they announced the United States as the bronze medalists, first in Portuguese and then in English. At the sound of our country’s name, my teammates and I clasped hands and held them high in triumph as we stepped up onto the podium together. Then one by one our names were announced and our medals were carefully placed over our heads. I felt a burst of pure unadulterated joy, pride, and awe. As an athlete, I had the ultimate prize hanging around my neck, an Olympic medal. Despite the obstacles and unbelievable odds, I had accomplished what I set out to do with my saber, and it was the sweetest feeling of satisfaction I’d ever had.
Proud Page 25