The evolving politics of the UFC
CW: Sexual and physical violence, racism.
Words by Will Irvine (he/him)
Cleveland, 2016. The arena is packed with roaring fans, sporting the merchandise of their favourite champions. Across the USA, millions are glued to their TVs. Despite the beer sloshing from their cups and the vomit stains on their crisp white shirts, they are not stupid. They know tonight is different. Something’s in the air. This is the place where legends come to win and heroes come to die, and tonight it’s their turn. Tonight it’s all going to change.
The 2016 Republican National Convention, with the rise of a vicious new kind of aggressive conservative, felt like a marked change from any election most US commentators had experienced before. Yet for one man who took the stage that evening, it felt just like home. UFC President Dana White had spent years building a rabid fanbase of disaffected men, usually white and working-class, who felt that society was restraining them at every corner. In doing so, he’d made some very powerful political connections. As he took the stage in Cleveland that night, it felt like everything was falling into place. “I know fighters”, he said, “Ladies and gentleman, Donald Trump is a fighter”.
The UFC’s endorsement of Trump in 2016 might have been uncommon for a sporting league, but the UFC has never been a normal sporting league. Founded in 1993, the Ultimate Fighting Championship built its reputation on a transgressive form of combat sport that satisfied the American, male, ego-driven thirst for blood. In doing so it drew together a wide range of athletes from different backgrounds, laying the stage for an unusually politically charged atmosphere.
The first UFC event predated the establishment of MMA as a major sport, and instead pitted various kinds of athletes against one another in order to determine an ultimate fighter. Boxers, kickboxers, WWE champions, and sumo wrestlers met in the ring; Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu’s prodigal son Royce Gracie was crowned winner. Whilst many fighters now train specifically for MMA, massive regional differences still prevail, which is part of what makes the sport so exciting. Brazilian fighters perform differently to Dagestanis, who, in leagues like the ONE Championship, have to match up against formidable Thai kickboxers.
This diverse roster of fighters often brings the UFC into close brushes with political controversy. Muslim fighter Khamzat Chimaev, after his victory at UFC 294 in October 2023, turned to the camera and directly addressed Ramzan Kadryov, the totalitarian Chechen despot who employs Chimaev as a personal trainer and member of his inner circle. “If Allah allows me to, wallahi I will go there as the first person. By Allah, give me a rifle and let me go to Palestine… I’m not as worried about dying as I am about my Muslim brothers”. The UFC’s English-language broadcast refused to translate this portion of the speech, and it was clipped out on later Youtube versions.
On the other side, many UFC fighters express close ties to the political far-right, both in the USA and Brazil. Rising star Sean Strickland posted a series of transphobic and often racist jibes after his unexpected seizure of the Middleweight championship against Nigerian-Kiwi Israel Adesanya. After beating Black Lives Matter advocate Tyron Woodley in 2020, amid the George Floyd protests, welterweight Colby Covington used his post-fight speech to criticise BLM and praise then-President Donald Trump. Trump reciprocated, and was present in Covington’s corner at his 2023 defeat to Leon Edwards.
But the UFC’s tense political atmosphere goes deeper than personal beef between fighters. Like most major combat sports, the UFC has rapidly grown close to the Saudi monarchy. By hosting fights in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia has expanded its strategy of “sportswashing”—covering up human rights abuses by developing a global sporting presence. Examples include the Saudi monarchy’s purchase of Newcastle United in 2021, and their gradual buyout of professional golf through the LIV Tour. Professional boxers now frequently express their gratitude to Saudi Crown Prince Mohammad Bin Salman in post-fight engagement speeches.
As UFC fighters quickly become the principal role models for young men across the globe, it’s worth considering what messages these athletes are sending to their fans. In Aotearoa, perhaps our most prominent athlete is former Middleweight Champion Israel Adesanya. Adesanya, a Nigerian immigrant raised in Rotorua, was the second-most Googled Kiwi of 2023, coming in above Sam Whitelock, Lydia Ko, and Rachin Ravindra. Adesanya is known for his controversial presence both inside and outside the ring—he is a self-described “weeb” who often enters with dramatic dance sequences; he has also faced controversy for his ties to China, and for allegedly fondling his dog.
At UFC 290 in 2023, Adesanya appeared in the ring sporting a “He is Not Your Bank” T-Shirt, seemingly mocking the Kiwi-run charity “She is Not Your Rehab”, which aims to educate men in order to prevent domestic abuse and violence. UFC fans were quick to praise the move as a snappy comeback at Adesanya’s ex-girlfriend, who he was embroiled in a lawsuit with at the time. But the shirt draws into question a pattern of sexist and violent remarks against women by Adesanya, whose rise to fame has given him an unprecedented platform.
In 2023, Adesanya appeared on the Honey Badger Hour podcast, where he praised sex trafficker and anti-feminist influencer Andrew Tate for “keeping men accountable”. Earlier, Adesanya drew condemnation from Deputy PM Grant Robertson when he slated opponent Kevin Holland with threats of sexual violence.
With this in mind, it’s worth asking whether Adesanya deserves the admiration he has garnered from MMA fans both in Aotearoa and abroad. We cannot allow ourselves to accept sporting role models that promote violent attitudes towards women—especially in a sport that already faces criticism for glorifying violence, and especially when the cultural divide between young men and young women grows increasingly large. With Israel Folau’s prominent homophobic tirades, and the increasing toxicity of the UFC, it’s easy to forget that sporting role models can be positive figures. But heroes are still there—you just need to look for them.