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august/september 2015yogajournal.com.auPHOTOS: (MAIN) MAOYUNPING/SHUTTERSTOCK.COM; (INSET) COURTESY OF BHAVA RAM1999. CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
My back is broken. Fifth vertebra
snapped when I fell off a ledge while
battening down windows during a
tropical storm. Failed surgery. Declared
permanently disabled. I can’t sit up to eat
a meal or walk without a cane, but it’s not
the pain that’s killing me. I have stage-
four throat cancer, likely from exposure to
depleted uranium while I reported from
the frontlines of the Gulf War for NBC
News. It feels as if someone has planted
IEDs—improvised explosive devices,
which pocked the roads in Iraq—into
the deepest recesses of my brain. They
detonate in my mind every time I stress
out: they burst when I scream at doctors
for not fi xing me; when I spit harsh words
toward friends if they offer comfort or if
I feel criticized. I approach panic when I
think about how I’ll be leaving my toddler
son, Morgan, without a father.
Morgan sits atop my body braced
to play while I lie fl at on my back every
day around the house. It was his secondbirthday a few days ago. My oncologists
have said that they don’t believe I’ll live to
see his third.
Morgan gazes deeply into my eyes. He
trembles, then whispers like he’s making
a wish he knows will never come true:
“Get up, Daddy.” The words crack
something open inside me.
I feel a rush through my veins. It’s
unlike the acidic adrenalin and edgy
cortisol that have been spinning me into
anger, fear, and depression. It’s a sweet
nectar. For a moment, everything feels
OK. In this instant, I consider that my love
for this small child, and his for me, is my
only chance for survival.- THE HIMALAYAS, AFGHANISTAN
My cameraman and I are in thick forest
and deep snow with mujahideen
freedom fi ghters, who are battling
the Soviets who have invaded their
homeland. I’ll air my reports on the
NBC television station in Boston ... if we
get out of here alive.
A Soviet MiG fighter jet screams
high overhead. We join the hundreds
of mujahideen scrambling for cover.
If we’re seen, the pilots will radio the
attack helicopters with the coordinates
of our position. I have no idea how these
warriors have managed to survive in this
brutal terrain. The snow is hip deep. The
slopes are nearly vertical. The freedom
fi ghters live on rancid goat grease and
naan as they stave off the Soviets.
It takes 12 days to capture this
segment of the story. After my
cameraman and I have the footage we
need, we sneak out of the mountains
on foot in the dead of night with our
interpreter. We reach our Jeep hidden
in the foothills, then slip through the
tribal territories between Afghanistan
and Pakistan. Here, too, capture by the
Soviets is synonymous with death. It’s
sunrise when our wobbly vehicle coughs
its way into Pakistan on a dust cloud
impersonating a road. Our interpreter is
at the wheel and suddenly slams on theREFLECTION
be well
Healing
from the
heart
A war correspondent reporting from
the frontlines of the world’s largest
refugee crisis uncovers the power of
yoga—and love. By Bhava RamIn Afghanistan in 1986
reporting for NBC