When talking about knife training schools, people usually discuss technique—the most visible, “above-water” part of the iceberg. But in reality, something else is more important. Beneath the surface lies the psyche. It is the psyche that determines how a person experiences fear, what honor and status mean to them, whether they rush to strike or, on the contrary, stall for time, and whether they have an internal code of conduct or simply an animal instinct to “survive at any cost.”
And it is in these invisible things that schools differ much more sharply than in their stances.
Sicily: the psychology of quiet hatred
The Sicilian way of handling a knife stems from a basic emotion — cold, restrained resentment that has been building up for generations. A person has grown up in a world where power is almost always foreign, but a knife is familiar and understandable.
Sicilians dislike fuss and posturing. For them, a blow is the final point in a long internal story. They can remember an old grudge for years and choose the moment of reckoning a decade later, as if settling a long-delayed issue.
Their attitude to time is unique. Sicilians do not chase the moment — they live for long revenge, perceiving time as an ally. That is why, even in a confrontation, they do not rush forward with fervor. They know how to wait. They allow their opponent to enter the point where it is convenient to cut them.
Death is not a drama for them either. It is part of the order of things: “if it must be done, then it must be done.” Because of this, there is often no excessive cruelty in their actions. The goal is not to torment, but to restore the disturbed balance.
And, of course, there is a code for all this. It includes an unwritten rule not to touch “the wrong people”: women, children, people under the protection of their family or community. A knife is a tool that works within the system. It is not a chaotic challenge to the world, but a way to maintain internal order.
Andalusia (navaja): the psychology of theatrical honor
If the Sicilian style stems from restrained resentment, then the Andalusian style stems from vivid, flaring pride, wounded self-esteem, and an irritated ego. A Spaniard with a navaja rarely goes out just to “sort things out.” It is not only important for him to win — it is important for him to show who is the man here, to show it beautifully, effectively, so that the audience — real or imaginary — understands everything without words.
Form is no less important to him than content. How he stands, how he spreads his cloak, how he holds his sword, how he looks — these are all details that create the scene. Sometimes the reason for the confrontation is not an event, but a word spoken in the wrong tone.
As for timing, the Andalusian school loves pauses. The pause is part of the game. It is a distinctive feature of the Andalusian school — to hold the moment, to let the opponent see the steel, to feel the approaching danger, and still make a mistake.
Death here is also a scene. You can lose not only your life, but also your face. To die ugly, ridiculously — is almost more shameful than to die from a blow. Therefore, there is something of a dance in a fight with a Navajo: every detail must look dignified, even if the ending is bloody.
And, of course, there is a code behind this. It has a strong dueling component. Even in criminal showdowns, the image of an honest fight still remains in the mind. Hence the habit of warning: with a gesture, a pose, a word. This is not a spontaneous outburst of violence, but almost a challenge to a duel — only shorter, sharper, and much more dangerous.
Canaries: the psychology of the hunter-maneuverer
The Canarian way of wielding a knife is a special state of alertness mixed with a light, almost playful courage. Here you can feel the island character: the wind, the narrow streets, the habit of not fighting head-on, but of circumventing, outsmarting, and outplaying. A Canarian with a knife or razor does not use force. Psychologically, he is closer to a good street dancer than a duelist. He works with movement — as easily as a street dancer, for whom it is more important to deceive with a step than to strike directly.
Time in this school is subject to rhythm. A Canary is like a musician: if he throws off his opponent’s rhythm, he takes the initiative. Hence the constant micro-moves, false movements, jumping up and down, back and forth. Anything that breaks predictability and makes the opponent “float.”
Death is not a goal for him, but a side effect of a successful maneuver. He is not obsessed with killing. The knife is just part of the big game of survival that he has been accustomed to since childhood.
And the code here is completely different. There is no heavy ancestral sacralization, as in Sicily, nor theatrical “duelism,” as in Andalusia. Canarian ethics are simpler and more pragmatic: we don’t touch our own, and we look at strangers depending on the circumstances. Less symbolism, more calculation. Everything is fair and to the point.
Latin America (barrio): the psychology of demonstrative cruelty
The Latin American street style of knife use stems from a mixture of fear and aggression, from a reality where human life is truly cheap. This is not a philosophy or a pose — it is statistics, everyday experience. The fear that he constantly experiences is what he projects outward. The knife in his hand is always like a cry: “You should fear me.”
There is no time for long games here. In the barrio, time is always “now.” Today you’re alive, tomorrow you’re dead, and that breeds sharpness, impulsiveness, improvisation. Such a fighter acts the way he lives: quickly, sharply, without looking to the future. He doesn’t devise cunning schemes or wait for the right moment — he takes the moment that is there.
Death in this environment is not a tragedy or a ritual, but an everyday backdrop. It is not sacred, as in a Catholic picture on the wall. It just happens: people are shot on the corner, stabbed in the alley, and fighting over territory in the stairwell. This does not evoke romance or theatricality — only constant readiness.
There is also a code, but it is a street code, not a clan code. Its structure is simple: your own people, your neighborhood, your gang, respect. Everything else depends on the circumstances. The boundaries of what is permissible here are broader than in Sicily, but it is dangerous to break the internal rules: betrayal is punished quickly and severely.
Russia (St. Petersburg–Odessa–prison camp): the psychology of cold pragmatism
The Russian knife tradition—especially the one that developed at the intersection of St. Petersburg, Odessa, and prison culture—is steeped in cynicism and restrained, deeply hidden rage. Here, people understand one simple thing early on: the state is not a protector. It is just another player at the same table. This means that survival is a purely personal matter, an individual project for which you yourself are responsible.
Russian knife fighters do not like unnecessary words and emotions. They do not romanticize the knife or turn it into a symbol of honor or style. For them, a knife is a pure tool, a means of solving a specific problem. Minimum aesthetics, maximum practicality.
Time in this school is divided very strictly: before the strike and after the strike. All attention is focused on the moment of entry — the main thing is not to miss the point when action becomes inevitable. Then technique, honed to perfection, takes over. There is no pathos and no dance here — only functional, precise work.
Death is also perceived differently. It is a “move in the game.” In camp psychology, it is not the event itself that is important, but how the balance of power will change after it: who stands behind whom, who owes whom, who is now in power. In this world, death is not the end, but a change in the position of the pieces on the board.
And all this is held together by an internal code. It is strict but logical. Don’t snitch. Keep your word. Don’t stoop low. The knife comes out when the status code is violated, not just when a domestic conflict arises.
Comparison along key psychological axes
Attitude toward fear
When comparing different knife traditions, it quickly becomes clear that each of them processes fear in its own way. In Sicily, fear has long been transformed into cold determination, almost an instrument in itself. In Andalusia, it is masked by posture, a game of honor, and the ability to hold the stage so that no one understands that there is also anxiety inside. The Canarian manner generally breaks fear down into tactical elements, turning it into a set of movements and maneuvers. In Latin America, fear is expressed outwardly — loudly, sharply, in demonstrative aggression that both protects and frightens. The Russian tradition places fear under a layer of cynicism: “it’s too late to be afraid, you have to act,” so emotions fade into the background, leaving only action.
Attitude towards other people
The categories through which each person evaluates those around them also vary significantly. Sicilians think in terms of family and clan; they are embedded in a large family organism. Spaniards evaluate the world through the prism of personal honor and their own reputation, which they defend like a stage. Canarians live in small communities where specific situations are more important than grand principles. Latin Americans rely on their neighborhood and gang, on the street affiliation that determines who is one of them and who is a potential threat. Russians, on the other hand, react to the configuration of forces, to the internal “table of ranks” — who owes what to whom, who is in what position, what the situation is around them.
Internal self-image
Each school cultivates its own archetype of a fighter. Sicilians see themselves as quiet executors of someone else’s will, but not as victims — as people who do what they must. Spaniards see themselves as performers, men of words and style, for whom not only action but also form is important. Canarians perceive themselves as agile hunters, men of action who survive by maneuvering rather than by head-on attacks. Latinos build an image of dangerous, unpredictable people who are best not to mess with. Russians see themselves as pragmatists, ready to do what is necessary and then live with the consequences.
Practical conclusion for applied training
If we try to translate all this psychological analysis into a training methodology, it becomes clear that each school dictates its own requirements for what exactly needs to be developed in a person. The Sicilian model requires training in endurance, the ability to wait and remain emotionally cold, because there, the winner is the one who knows how to keep their distance — both external and internal.
The Spanish model, on the other hand, is built around image and stage presence. Here, it is important how a person stands, how they look, how they hold their body. It is necessary to work not only on technique, but also on being convincing — so that posture and gaze speak as loudly as the steel in the hand.
The Canarian school emphasizes rhythm and maneuvering. Training here involves working with movement, feints, and the sensation of multiple directions at once. You need to learn not just to strike, but to fight like a dance, where every break in rhythm can give you an advantage.
The Latin American style requires a different task—turning impulsiveness into a controlled explosion. This involves working on yourself so that your energy does not scatter chaotically, but is gathered at a single precise moment without losing control.
The Russian model leans toward pragmatism. It is about the ability to solve “dirty tasks” without unnecessary emotions, with cold calculation and understanding that further fate depends not only on the blow, but also on what will happen after.
So the psychology of schools is a real, practical guide that shapes a person and determines what exactly they should learn.