Shingles and Missiles

I am on bed rest and had to cancel my Yogi Maha Method book signing at shefayoga Venice that had been planned for months—I had an outbreak a few days ago. I went to see my oncologist and was diagnosed with shingles. “Shingles?” I said in shock. “How is that possible?” She said it comes from stress, especially since my immune system has been weakened by chemotherapy and radiation therapy. She asked me, “Have you been under stress lately?”

I remembered that I had moved twice in the last three months. I had just unpacked at the guest house my friend generously allowed me to stay in—her lovely home in Malibu. Just a few days later, the most devastating wildfire California had ever seen—the Palisades Fire—erupted, forcing evacuations and leaving much of The Palisades and parts of Malibu in ashes. Although I personally did not have to evacuate, we were left without power and hot water for weeks.

That lovely guest house was a temporary solution to help me save some money and slowly rebuild myself financially after a year-long cancer treatment that left me in physical, mental, emotional, and financial ruin. Picking up the pieces of my life over those last three months, while finishing my memoir Maha Unshackled, had been healing and cathartic. But had I been under stress?

I thought of the frantic apartment hunting as the three months were coming to an end—desperately searching for something affordable in one of the most expensive cities in the world, Los Angeles. Touring a garage room with no windows and no bathroom. Or a place that looked like a haunted house, where the doorbell was literally popped out and hanging by an electrical wire. Cobwebs draped every corner. The owner showed me around while her underwear and socks hung from a laundry line across the balcony.

Another place had five college kids living in it. Leftover food was still on the dining table from the day before—uncovered. The smell... oh, the smell. I remember running to the bathroom the second I returned to the guest house, throwing up, and shaking. Is this what it’s come down to?

I had a week to find a place. I’m in my 40s. My home has always been my sanctuary—a sacred space where I can clear my mind, set intentions, and create my life. I know myself well by now, and I wouldn’t be able to survive in those suffocating environments. It would crush my spirit.

Had I been under stress lately? How do I even begin to answer my doctor?

I was now in bed, FaceTiming with my sister in Yemen—something we do regularly since we both got diagnosed with breast cancer last year. My younger sisters gathered around her as I told them about the shingles.
“Ew!” my youngest sister said, and we all laughed like we usually do.

Then, all of a sudden, I saw their faces freeze, their eyes widen, and they all suddenly stood up.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
They laughed again and said, “Oh, it’s just missile strikes.”
“Missile strikes?” I asked, stunned. I had heard about this—many of my friends here in the U.S. ask if my family is okay because they’ve seen on the news that the U.S. is bombing Yemen. They casually brushed it off. “Yeah, we hear it every now and then. It’s far from us. We’re used to it. It’s okay.”

I understood the desensitization. They’ve lived with war their entire lives. Missiles and bombings to them are like earthquakes to us in Los Angeles. Just the day before, while my doctor was examining me for shingles, the ground began to shake and the medical equipment rattled—yet neither of us flinched or even acknowledged it.

I never watch the news or follow what’s happening politically in Yemen—it’s too overwhelming and it triggers my PTSD. I still remember as a kid one night lying in bed when a white light filled my bedroom room, so bright I couldn’t even see my hand in front of me. A second later, the loudest explosion shook the walls and shattered the window glass. That’s when I remembered what we learned in science class—that light travels faster than sound.

So when people here in the U.S. ask, “How is your family surviving?” I struggle to explain.

Poverty and lack of education in Yemen have created a cycle that’s hard to break—but despite it all, it’s a place where people are incredibly kind to one another. Neighbors feel like family, and even those who are starving won’t hesitate to offer you the food on their plate. The generosity runs deep, even in the face of hardship.

After I ended my FaceTime with my sisters, I looked up what was happening there. What I learned was that Yemen has pretty much become a proxy war zone where more powerful countries fight their wars—without bringing the chaos into their own backyard.

Instead of fighting each other directly, powerful countries use Yemen as the battlefield to push their own agendas. Iran backs one side, the Houthis; Saudi Arabia backs another; and the U.S. and U.K. have their hands in it too—selling weapons, providing intel, or supporting alliances.
The U.S. is currently bombing targets in Yemen belonging to the Houthis, in response to attacks on ships in the Red Sea. The Houthis are a political movement in Yemen supported by Iran—financially, politically, and militarily. So when the U.S. strikes them, it’s essentially challenging Iran’s influence in the region. This makes it a proxy war: the U.S. and Iran aren’t fighting each other directly—they’re using Yemen as the battlefield.

When a nation like Yemen is stripped of education, crushed by poverty, and steeped in extreme ideology, it becomes a breeding ground for manipulation by powerful nations pulling strings from afar. None of these nations want war on their own soil, so they turn Yemen into the war zone. Meanwhile, it’s the Yemeni people—already suffering from poverty, lack of healthcare, and hunger—who pay the price.

Yemen is one of the poorest countries in the world, according to UNICEF. Most people there don’t have clean water, enough food, or access to basic healthcare. And yet, the human spirit in Yemen is something truly powerful.
Even with all the pain and hardship—bombs, hunger, sickness—the people keep going. They help each other. They share what little they have. They laugh together. They pray. They survive.

All my younger sister wants to talk about is marriage and potential suitors.
“I don’t like the Houthis,” she says. “They’re too extreme. They come to the university where I teach and force their religious curriculum on us teachers. I’m so exhausted. I don’t even care who wins this war. I just want the bombing to stop so I can sleep at night.” She giggles as she says it, but then adds more seriously, “To be honest, I just want to get married.”

There are no headlines that stay long, no viral hashtags, no big fundraisers. It's one of those forgotten places in the world. It’s not trendy, it’s not sexy, and it’s definitely not popular on the global stage. But the people there are living through some of the hardest conditions on earth, yet they still love and care for each other.

I used to wonder where my strength came from. Why I could still smile through chemo. Still teach yoga with surgical stitches under my skin. Why I could lose my hair, lose my vitality, and still find beauty in my reflection.

People told me I was inspiring. That I made pain look beautiful. But I never really understood it—until I looked back.
Back to my ancestors.
To the land I come from.
To my sisters.
To the barefoot warriors who keep going through poverty, hunger, and war against the most powerful forces in the world—who still laugh, still dream, still love.