From Traditional Fields to Global Arenas—Meet the Trailblazers Turning Indigenous Games into International Phenomena
In today’s world of sport—dominated by football’s billion-dollar leagues, cricket’s celebrity frenzy, and basketball’s global reach—it’s easy to assume that only a handful of games matter. But under that glare, some sports survive quietly, almost stubbornly, refusing to be erased. Two of them—Kho-Kho from India and Sepak Takraw from Southeast Asia—are trying to do more than just survive. They are pushing back, asking for their place at the global table. Their fight is not just athletic; it is cultural, emotional, and in many ways political.
Kho-Kho: A Game from the Soil
Kho-Kho looks simple at first glance. Children chase and dodge, sliding and twisting on dusty fields. Yet once you step closer, you see the strategy: the rhythm of running and passing, the calculated feints, the split-second changes in direction. It is not chaos—it is choreography.
For centuries, it has been played in villages and schoolyards, usually without much fanfare. In India, older generations often recall playing it under trees or on open grounds, barefoot, with the whole community watching. It was never designed for stadiums, but that is where it is heading now.
The Kho-Kho Federation of India has tried to pull it into modern times. The Ultimate Kho-Kho League (UKK), with colored jerseys, commentary, and prime-time television slots, was a turning point. For the first time, audiences saw that a chase game could be packaged like cricket or kabaddi. Purists grumble about the gloss, but one thing is clear: Kho-Kho has entered the mainstream conversation in India. The real test, though, is whether anyone outside South Asia will care.
Heroes of Kho-Kho
This renaissance is not abstract; it is embodied in players whose names are now synonymous with excellence.
Sarika Kale, the captain from Maharashtra, not only led India to gold at the 2016 South Asian Games but also lifted the Third Asian Kho-Kho Championship trophy. Her Arjuna Award in 2020 gave the sport one of its rare moments of national spotlight.
Nasreen Shaikh, hailing from Delhi, guided India to victory in the inaugural Kho-Kho World Cup (2025). Her leadership earned her the BBC Sportswoman of the Year accolade.
On the men’s side, Pratik Kiran Waikar steered India’s team to the same World Cup triumph. Known for his tactical brilliance as a wazir, he has already been honoured with the Ekalavya Award.
Younger stars like Ramji Kashyap, back-to-back “Player of the Tournament” in the UKK, and Sachin Bhargo, recipient of Madhya Pradesh’s Vikram Award, prove that Kho-Kho is producing household names in India.
These figures show that the sport has heroes of flesh and blood—not just traditions to boast about.
Sepak Takraw: Ballet in Mid-Air
If Kho-Kho belongs to the ground, Sepak Takraw belongs to the air. Imagine a ball made of rattan flying across a net. Now imagine players leaping, twisting upside down, and smashing it back with their feet or heads. The rules forbid hands. The result is a mix of martial arts and volleyball, with the grace of a circus performance but the competitiveness of any top sport.
In Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia, Sepak Takraw is already revered. The Asian Games showcase it, and local heroes are celebrated for their acrobatic brilliance. A single kick, known as the “spike-kick,” can turn matches into highlight reels that travel across TikTok and YouTube. To outsiders, it looks impossible; to players, it is muscle memory honed over years.
Yet outside Asia, Sepak Takraw hasn’t broken through. Western audiences often watch it with amazement but don’t stick around long enough to understand its depth. It remains more of an “exotic clip” than a sport people follow.
Icons of Sepak Takraw
Still, Sepak Takraw has its champions who embody both artistry and grit.
Suebsak Phunsueb of Thailand, often called a legend of the game, even took the honour of reading the Athletes’ Oath at the 2007 SEA Games.
Anuwat Chaichana, another Thai icon, is revered as one of the deadliest strikers ever, with a cabinet full of Asian Games gold medals.
Malaysia counters with names like Mohamad Norhaffizi Abdul Razak, celebrated for his defensive brilliance, and Azlan Alias, a gold medallist at the 2018 Asian Games.
Younger stars such as Syahir Rosdi, whose serves clock between 43–50 mph, and Siriwat Sakha, a towering figure with multiple Asian and SEA Games medals, are proof that Sepak Takraw’s skillset is evolving for modern competition.
These players give faces to the acrobatics. They are not just athletes but ambassadors of a tradition that refuses to remain confined to temple courtyards and regional tournaments.
Shared Struggles
The obstacles faced by Kho-Kho and Sepak Takraw are strikingly similar.
Colonial Sports Legacy: Football, cricket, rugby, and tennis spread worldwide through colonial systems, with established federations and money behind them. Indigenous sports never had that luxury. They remained local, while global attention flowed elsewhere.
Commercial Gaps: Sponsors want numbers. Millions of viewers, packed stadiums, guaranteed revenues. A sport still finding its audience struggles to convince investors, no matter how thrilling the game.
Translation Issues: A goal in football or a six in cricket is instantly understood, even by casual viewers. The subtleties of a Kho-Kho chase or the artistry of a Sepak Takraw block take more explaining. For an impatient global audience, that can be a barrier.
Why They’re Still Fighting
And yet, both sports are not standing still. Far from it.
Federation Push: Kho-Kho is appearing in regional tournaments like the South Asian Games, while Sepak Takraw is holding tight to its place in the Asian Games. Dreaming of the Olympics may sound far-fetched, but federations are lobbying quietly.
Social Media Spark: A decade ago, these games were confined to local grounds. Today, one viral video of a Sepak Takraw spike can rack up millions of views. Kho-Kho’s frantic pace, once dismissed as “too local,” is suddenly thrilling to a digital generation.
Diaspora Efforts: Migrant communities are doing their part. Indian groups in the UK or the Middle East regularly host Kho-Kho tournaments. Southeast Asians in Australia and the US keep Sepak Takraw alive through exhibitions. These small circuits create ripples that slowly spread awareness.
Leagues and Academies: The UKK in India, training academies in Thailand, and structured youth competitions all point toward professionalisation. Once children can dream of careers in these sports, the narrative shifts.
Why Recognition Matters
Some might ask: Does it matter if these games remain niche? The answer is yes. Recognition is about more than fame; it is about cultural justice. For too long, the global sports stage has been framed through a Western lens. Indigenous games surviving, growing, and finding fans is a form of reclaiming space.
It also adds richness. The sporting world becomes more colourful when children in Europe or South America see options beyond football and basketball. Imagine a Berlin teenager picking up Sepak Takraw, or a São Paulo school introducing Kho-Kho alongside futsal. That kind of diversity deepens what sport means to humanity.
Looking Forward
The road ahead is tricky but not impossible. Olympic Demonstrations: Even a demonstration event could ignite recognition. Corporate Tie-Ups: A single sponsorship from a global brand can flip perceptions overnight.
Hybrid Events: Exhibition matches tied to big occasions—like a Sepak Takraw show during a football World Cup—could capture attention. Academic Anchors: Universities adopting these sports, offering scholarships, and encouraging research will cement them beyond folklore.
Kho-Kho and Sepak Takraw are not just games. They are living archives of cultural imagination. Their survival and growth prove that the world of sport is bigger than what television contracts dictate. They may or may not become Olympic regulars, but their persistence ensures something more important: diversity.
In the end, global sport should not be a monoculture of a few powerful games. It should be a mosaic—where children can run, leap, chase, or spin in ways their ancestors once did, and still feel they belong to the future.