by alex seymour
As the intensity of the visions and feelings diminished, I remembered the DMT-related advice given by Terence McKenna, a wildly original thinker and author of many books about entheogens: “Pay attention!” and “Try not to give in to astonishment!” Laughably easier said than done. Even while undergoing it, I knew this was one of the peak experiences of my life, that I was yielding to a transformation, an awakening, believing for the first time that I was witnessing a genuine miracle. Now I understood wise men who had said, “Not only is the universe weirder than we suppose, it is weirder than we can suppose.”
I also knew that when it came to judging what is real, to a large extent I had been wrong for my entire life. Up until this point, a momentous breakthrough, I had known the world only through the lenses of rationality and science. But DMT revealed how intellectually stunted the position is that says if something can’t be measured, it doesn’t exist. Through DMT I saw how unquantifiable reality is. The keys to throw open the doors to the mind are all around us in the natural world, and we have only to want to insert the right key into the lock of the door of perception. I felt the world as sentient right down to its core. Over the years, growing up and embracing the material-realism of our culture, I had ceased to believe in any kind of God, having worshipped at the proverbial altar of rationality and empiricism. But now DMT had blown that certainty to smithereens and replaced it with a new kind of surety, a metaphysical and spiritual one. I had felt the presence of some sort of overmind, an undeniable kind of God consciousness.
All in just seven minutes.
It had felt like an hour, and the experience of coming back to our consensus reality was as pleasant as the rocketlike blastoff into hyperspace. I was called back to Earth by one of my friends clearing his throat. The sound broke the spell, and I suddenly realized I was back in my body and sharing 3-D space. But I wasn’t quite all the way back. I opened my eyes. Every object in the cabin was enveloped by gorgeous geometric colored patterns. As my “spirit” settled into my body, I felt relief. But more than that, I was filled with awe for the world and with love and compassion for everything in it. Initially, I didn’t want to speak. I couldn’t speak. I was emerging from an experience where my ego had been smashed, and paradoxically, it was a sweet liberation. Words could never convey the profundity of what I’d just felt and witnessed. The prospect of my life one day ending forever in the finality of death was now absurd. The way he was looking at me, I could tell that David already knew this and was waiting patiently for me to assimilate the insight. When I did speak, I had no real capacity to express what I meant. David had given this gift to me, and I was so overwhelmingly grateful that I was brought nearly to tears.
“Thank you so much. I am so, so grateful.”
That was it. Otherwise I was stunned into silence. I just kept shaking my head in absolute wonder—finally I understood what real astonishment was.
David smiled and accepted the compliment. He knew the experience was profound. This was not like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon and saying, “Wow, this is big.” This was way bigger than that. I felt as emotional as when my children were born. To be given these insights—that we are not alone in the universe, that there is life after death, that our consciousness does not reside isolated within our brains and skulls—was the grandest and most compelling epiphany. The experience left me ready to face the possibility of my own death during war. The sacred revelation of an afterlife once our meat jackets expire was a priceless asset in preparing for Afghanistan and, just as importantly, coping with it while I was there.
This first encounter with this “spirit molecule” was so profound that I had absolutely no compulsion to repeat it anytime soon. I needed time to integrate that first experience. Growing up, like millions of other people, I’d spent countless childhood hours singing hymns, learning about the spiritual teachings of the Bible, and occasionally attending church. Yet, all of this enforced religious activity had had zero effect on making me spiritual in any sense. All that time and effort spent by other people trying to teach me how to be a religious believer had been wasted. And now, incredibly, all it had taken to flip the switch to turn me from an agnostic to spiritually aware was three inhalations of an exotic compound in a log cabin. The perception of a higher intelligence, the presence, was real. It was inconceivable that my prosaic brain could manifest anything approaching this complex and stunning beauty. I wanted to just be with these insights, and so it would be many months before I felt ready for a second encounter.
The military policy about drug taking, particularly imbibing psychotropic substances, was basically that “hallucinations would not be tolerated under any circumstances.” If a member of the military was ever caught taking recreational drugs, especially those that induced hallucinations, the consequences were severe—imprisonment and dishonorable discharge. If such substances were caught even in the possession of a serving military person, then the likely penalty also was imprisonment. So, clearly, a serving member of the UK military was not to alter his or her consciousness using psychedelics—or presumably any other method—under any circumstances.
In the marines the only acceptable types of hallucinations were the ones experienced when the body and mind were reaching their absolute limits, pushed almost to breaking by training, or while under the duress of actual combat operations. I had once experienced mild hallucinations under such conditions, and other marines I knew had too. A twelve-hour mountain yomp at night—bearing a heavy load and enduring extreme exertion—could do it. We’d swap stories of livestock that wasn’t really there, nonexistent taxis on mountain sides—all kinds of ridiculous things that an exhausted mind can conjure up in the wilderness. It happened often enough that it was thought to be nothing out of the ordinary. As a marine, if you had a physical task to complete, you pushed yourself to a level of exertion that made you puke and, if required to get the job done, hallucinate. The corps expected this display of commitment and determination. They even encouraged it, because some day lives would depend on everyone contributing that kind of extreme effort. But as for the use of natural consciousness-altering hallucinogenic plants, they were considered no different from other illegal substances—lazily and ineptly categorized as just another kind of drug.
Controlling the use and access to any kind of mind-altering substance, from alcohol to hallucinogens, in a military environment while troops are on active duty makes perfect sense. No one wants to put lives at risk or compromise operational effectiveness. However, there may be a place for these substances therapeutically. In 2011 the Daily Telegraph reported a university study publicizing clinical evidence showing that some of these psychedelics diminish anxiety, help relieve post-traumatic stress disorder, and can reduce the fear of death. If any one class of people feels stress, anxiety, and fear, it is combat troops. But it was taking time for the law to catch up with the new data. I came to believe that these substances could have a useful place in the military if used in the proper set and setting, under controlled conditions. Now, more compassionately in the United States, they are starting to explore their use to treat PTSD in returning war combatants. But to my knowledge they have not explored using them beneficially to help their own troops self-actualize, to confront fear and death, before they engage in combat. There is no pre-war ritual for this, although I think there might be a place for it.
I was aware of the contradictions in my life and value system. I saw purpose in natural entheogens and their ability to open us to the exploration of transcendent realms, yet I also chose to undergo one of my culture’s life-defining tests—war. I am not so different from thousands of other men who seek out such tests. And there are others who yearn for it but never do it. The unfortunate reality is that in the twenty-first century, there are few opportunities for young men to undergo a real rite of passage into manhood. Women have childbirth, but there are no male equivalents. Speaking from experience, winning a rugby tournament, closing a big business deal, or delivering a public s
peech doesn’t come close to being such a rite. Most men my age grew up hearing all kinds of hair-raising stories from World War II of derring-do and self-sacrifice in the delivery of service to your country in the fight against tyranny and evil. That kind of patriotism had changed complexion with more recent wars, such as Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan, but combat experience in particular remained a central and singular rite of passage.
When I reenlisted I wanted to discuss the use of psychedelics with other members of the unit but was convinced they did not know about or had never had an experience of psychedelics, such as DMT and psilocybin. While I did not use consciousness-altering substances as a marine—I would have never put myself or others at risk by doing so—I could not even openly seek out these kinds of conversations, so I kept my opinions to myself. My two desires—serving during a war and exploring my consciousness with psychedelics—stood in stark opposition. The marines had a binary outlook on the matter since there were only two states of consciousness they valued—alert and asleep. The mantra “stay alert, stay alive” was never far from anyone’s mind while we were training for deployment to Ganners.
David had been appalled by my decision to go to Afghanistan—actually, he was utterly disgusted. He had spent three years trekking through nearly fifty countries in Asia, Africa, and South America. We each had traveled to over thirty countries and had a perspective wider than our own culture, and our conversation turned to the topic of whether malevolent forces are in control of Western democracies. For most of our lives, our country and others, particularly the United States, had instigated—or done little to avert—warfare. Now with the “war on terrorism” and the “war on drugs” (David called it the “war on consciousness”) stoking patriotic fervor to preserve our way of life and defend ourselves against zealots and madmen, it seemed unlikely that we would ever stop. David espoused the view that the military intervention in Afghanistan was part of an insidious wider strategy to maintain power and subvert developing nations to perpetuate the Western political status quo and further the aims of rapacious Western corporations. By serving in the military, I was participating in a dishonorable conflict, naïvely manipulated into doing the dirty work of the world’s baddest bad guys.
My rebuttal was that “evil prevails when good men do nothing.” We had invaded and toppled the Taliban, and so we had to take responsibility for what came next. What were we supposed to do now, leave this place alone like a festering sore? Everyone knew that two of the primary sources of motivation toward terrorism are poverty and ignorance. I was sure that one of the most effective ways Afghanistan could claw its way out of poverty was through universal education. Under the Taliban regime, girls were not allowed to go to school. In 2008 alone there were nearly three hundred Taliban attacks on schools, including bombings. Hundreds of children were being killed and maimed, when all they were doing was showing up at school. Imagine the uproar if even one school in our society was blown up by terrorists. This very thing was happening somewhere in Afghanistan just about every week, and most of these attacks went unreported. Any country that limits itself to educating only 50 percent of its population will, by comparison to other nations, always remain economically deprived. Since the Taliban regime was toppled in 2001, more than two million girls had been able to attend school, but there still was by no means equality in the genders when it came to education.
“Isn’t the education of two million girls and millions more in the future a decent cause?” I had argued. “Don’t girls have immeasurable value? Consider the contribution that two million additional educated minds can make to an impoverished society.”
My appeal to logic fell on deaf ears.
Were we being manipulated by forces of rapacious self-interest and evil? One of my best friends had just accused me of playing into the hands of the dark masters. I had listened and countered, but I couldn’t help harboring some doubt. I had thought more than once, When you’re on your way to war, you’d better be batting for the right team, right?
So, I had to go there and find out for myself. My direct experience would help me determine what was true. David’s friendship and my love affair with entheogens would be taking a backseat. I had other more pressing things to focus on as I prepared to join my unit. I was now one of them—a Taliban hunter on a mission.
4
RULE NUMBER 1
Don’t Shoot Your Mates
T he training momentum of 42 Commando accelerated. Regular intelligence briefings provided news about threats and the intensity of operations in the areas we would inherit from the Parachute Regiment. Our AOs (area of operations) had been assigned, and we were fed news of incidents occurring on a weekly basis in our assigned patches. The reports were not encouraging.
It was sobering to learn of the casualties. Our briefing room was covered in maps highlighting shootings and detonated IEDs. Every piece of available data was scrutinized. Violence was systemic. In the area to which we were about to be deployed, two soldiers had been killed by a single sniper bullet—a freak incident, or bad luck, rather than the application of a professional sniper’s skill. Nevertheless, that single bullet had passed through the head of one soldier, exited, and then passed through the neck of another soldier. Stay alert, stay alive.
We had been split into multiples, teams of sixteen to twenty-five close-combat marines. Each multiple was responsible for patrolling a few square kilometers of territory within the province, and ours had been assigned a district within Nad Ali South, near Lashkar Gah, the capital of Helmand Province. We would patrol in support of other teams that flanked our territory. The profile of that province did not instill confidence. The minister of education in Helmand was illiterate. So was the chief of police. A documentary TV series crew who had followed L Company’s exploits in Nad Ali had christened the area “the most dangerous square mile on Earth.”
Death began to haunt us like an unwelcome companion as we completed a ghoulish set of predeployment tasks. Each man was required to write both his own eulogy and a last letter that would be delivered to his family in the event of his death. DNA samples were taken so that we could be indentified if our corpses were unrecognizable. I tried to resist some of these requirements, but was “volun-told” to comply.
What no one ever tells you about the marines is that to get to Afghanistan you have got to fight just to get out there: complete nine months’ basic training, six months’ predeployment training, two weeks’ acclimatizing training—fail any of the weekly tests along the entire way and you will be binned, barred from playing with the big boys and toys in the desert. Our first stop en route was Camp Bastion, a vast military city built in the desert and home base to thousands of the British forces and the forces of several other ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) countries. It included an airport with runways long enough to accommodate any type of military aircraft and a leading-edge medical facility. Our company—M Company—was quartered in huge tents. They were cramped, dark, and dusty: temporary billets for eighty men, who would sleep in the rows of iron bunks. We had two weeks to acclimatize and train before deploying to our patrol bases and forts. There was no hope of escaping the heat. We arrived in April, and the temperature was already 115°F in the shade.
The Ministry of Defence now categorized our status as “in theater”—their dark euphemism for where drama happens. Our attitudes had changed as drastically as the landscape. Lightheartedness vanished. The civilizing influence of women had waned now that they had vanished from our lives. Outside the tent marines were peacocking, aggrandizing about fit models and fat chicks they had fucked—and how. The bravado spoke to the sweet times of the past to counterbalance the hardship ahead. Slowly the testosterone tap had turned from a drip, drip, drip—to a gush. From a perch on a top bunk, I peered through the gloom at dusk to survey the scene. Eighty men and their gear were crammed in the tent, after having spent another day on the hot firing ranges zeroing weapons. There was no personal space; every available inch was jamm
ed with tired, dirty bodies. Hundreds of weapons were laid out for cleaning: assault rifles, sniper rifles, Minimi light machine guns, 9-mm pistols, general-purpose machine guns (GPMGs), bayonets, commando daggers, Leatherman knives and tools, KA-BAR fighting knives. Body armor was stuffed full with grenades, magazines, and ammunition. Exotic thermal imaging and infrared telescopic sights lay around like grotesque exaggerations of conventional optics. Adding to the jumble of weaponry were medical kits, tourniquets, morphine syringes, radios, batteries, headphones, and microphones. Add to that rucksacks, patrol packs, and desert high-top combat boots. Everything was shrouded in gritty dust, including us. That did not obscure the evidence of readiness: everybody was honed to the peak of fitness, and the majority were festooned with tattoos in all kinds of designs and colors. We were trained and seasoned—and I pitied anyone with the balls to try to engage us. Motivation was high. Many of these men—some barely more than boys—had waited their entire lives for this mission. We had wrung every last shred of physical and mental effort from ourselves to get this far. These men were among the cream of Britain’s young men, and it was a privilege to witness the scene. Not many people get to see marines preparing for war, and I soaked it up. Many of the marines were on their third tour of duty yet still only in their twenties.