I was elbow deep in a four-tab Acid trip when the Molly kicked in. Like a lightning strike straight to the Amygdala, it jolted my brain into vibrant overdrive. What had initially been little more than some crunchy vibes and cool visuals all of a sudden transformed into one of the craziest trips of my entire life. A trip that I was no way ready for.
Now I am by no means a noob when it comes to hallucinogens. I have been tripping on anything and everything since I was in secondary school: mushrooms, Ketamine, DXM, DMT, LSD, PCP, THC, you name it. Hell, this wasn’t even my first time Candy Flipping. But it was the most Acid I had ever done in one sitting and some of the purest Molly I had ever seen so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started rolling face. But then again, it’s hard not to be when you are out in the middle of the desert raving with 11 of your closest friends.
Astral Projection had just finished up their first set when the most intense of the hallucinations began. I was aimlessly walking around the back of the campground, tripping absolute nuts, when I caught a glimpse of hundreds of shooting stars cresting the horizon. Flying low and fast, they dragged long flowing tails of red-hot flame behind them. Transfixed, I watched as they soared overhead, eventually touching down on the other side of the main stage and launching dozens of vibrant fireballs high into the sky.
I could feel my facial muscles beginning to quiver as I took in all the amazing sights around me. I don’t think I had ever smiled that hard in my entire life. The powerful effects of the drugs combined with the kick ass display of pyrotechnics were almost too much to handle. They were almost too overwhelming.
Within minutes this trip of a lifetime started going sideways. The sounds were just too loud, the lights were just too bright, and what had originally felt like a fun and lively crowd all of sudden felt chaotic and panicked. Maybe it was just the Acid talking, but something felt off. Something felt wrong.
It wasn’t until I made my way down to the main stage though that it hit me. No one was playing and no one had been playing for the last 20 minutes. Meaning that there shouldn’t have been any pyrotechnics of any kind. Yet explosions and fireballs continued to rock the festival grounds.
“Hashem help us!” A young hippy chick drenched in bright red paint screamed as she ran past.
I had experienced my fair share of bad trips over the years, but I knew this wasn’t that. Whatever this was, was too real. Whatever this was, was too intense. And then right as I was about to ask a passerby what was happening, I watched the same hippy chick from before get snatched up by a pair of masked men. Masked men that were wearing ballistic vests and carrying automatic rifles.
This was no hallucination. This was real. We were under attack.
Like most Israeli men, I did a mandatory 32 months in the army a few years back. Here I served as a military policeman and spent the majority of my time guarding border checkpoints in and along the West Bank. But even with my military background, I found myself paralyzed by fear. Frozen by the growing sounds of gunfire and rockets.
I knew my best bet was to hightail it back towards the rear exit, but I just couldn’t seem to get my legs to work. It’s like my brain was saying one thing, but my body was doing another. It was during this period of frozen inactivity though that I got to see some of the worst things I had ever seen. Gruesome things that no human should ever be subjected to. I watched a young teenager choke to death on his own blood. I witnessed a pretty blonde mom bleed out from her freshly severed legs. And I felt the heat of an unidentifiable figure burning alive. But this grizzly peepshow quickly came to an abrupt end when a nearby explosion blew me out of my paralyzed state.
I made it roughly 40 meters from the main stage when I spied a lone rifle lying in the sand. Sprawled out beside a dead police officer, the Tavor X95 was calling my name. Without even thinking I scooped it up and racked a round into place.
Back when I was stationed in the West Bank, we were constantly under the threat of suicide attack. Day in and day out it was drilled into our brains, “always suspect a bomber”. So much so, that when a young Palestinian man came walking up to our checkpoint one night, we instantly grew suspicious.
My partner was the first to notice.
“Somethings fishy,” he said as he flicked his rifle off safe.
I admittedly didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but followed suit nonetheless.
“Halt!” My partner yelled in Arabic.
I raised my rifle and set my sights in the middle of the guy’s chest.
“HALT!” My partner yelled again, this time in his best big boy voice.
But the guy kept coming.
“Fuckers got a bomb,” my partner cried.
I still didn’t see anything, but the mere panic in his voice was enough to send me into a tizzy.
“He does?” I asked.
But before I could even get the words out of my mouth, I heard a click. A dreaded click that every soldier knows all too well.
“Shoot him!” My partner yelled as he hurried to clear the jam.
I felt the cold touch of the trigger’s steel on my finger.
“FUCKING SHOOT HIM!”
I quickly scanned the approaching Palestinian one more time. I didn’t see any signs of a suicide vest or a concealed weapon, but pulled the trigger anyways. I don’t know if it was my own anxiety or my panicked partners, but I dumped an entire mag into the poor guy’s chest, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
We later came to find that this “suicide bomber” was nothing more than a mentally disabled 15-year-old kid. A mentally disabled 15-year-old kid who was simply enthralled by our cool gear and shiny weapons. Despite knowing this, I was hailed as a hero. But deep down I knew I was anything but.
With my rifle locked and loaded, I started scanning for targets. By this point the effects of the drugs had worn off and my training had kicked in. Dozens of armed insurgents stood before me. Some were shooting, others were throwing grenades, but all were dealing death in one way or another. So, steadying myself, I raised my rifle and took aim.
I set my sights on a young Arab man with long flowing hair and a green headband. He was wearing track pants, an armored vest, and a short barrel AK. I aimed center mass and flicked the selector switch to full auto. Rockets were raining down all around me, but all I could focus on was my target. All I could focus on was revenge.
I was just about to pull the trigger when all of a sudden, my target shifted. And when I say shifted, I don’t mean like to the left or to the right, but legitimately shape shifted. I know it sounds crazy, but what had just a been a 20 something year old Hamas fighter was now all of a sudden, a 15-year-old kid. The same 15-year-old kid I had shot and killed back in the West Bank.
I hesitated, pulling my finger off the trigger. Was I really seeing what I was seeing? Was I really about to shoot this kid again? Was this even real life?
“FUCKING SHOOT HIM!” Rang out in my head.
And just like that I was back in the West Bank, watching as dozens of 15-year-old kids came bounding towards me. Only this time I didn’t stop to assess. This time I didn’t stop to think. I just put my finger back on the trigger and pulled.
Three magazines later I finally came to, surrounded by a sea of dead. A sea of dead that I had cut down with my own two hands. Only it wasn’t dead mentally disabled 15-year-old Palestinian kids sprawled out around me. Nor was it even insurgents. But rather it was my friends. Ezra, Levi, Jacob, Ari, Yosef, Moshe, Yaakov, Shira, Daniel, Shlomo, and Yael all lay dead, sprawled out around me, bleeding out in the sand, riddled with my bullets.
It took a second to recognize the horrible mistake I had made. The horrible mistake I had no idea I was even capable of making. But once I did, I caught a glimpse of what I swore was the 15-year-old off in the distance. He was watching me, mocking me from afar as my life came crumbling down all around me. I didn’t know if he was a hallucination, a Shedim, a Dybbuk, or merely a figment of my imagination, but I realized that whatever he was, he was never going to leave me alone. He was never going to let me live in peace. So, picking up the rifle, I put my lips around its barrel, and joined my friends there in the sand.
“Good evening and if you are just now tuning in, we have some breaking news out of Israel. Hundreds are feared dead after thousands of rockets and armed militants poured over the Israeli border in a massive three-pronged attack. Over 21 different Israeli communities have been hit by a highly coordinated air, land, and sea assault, including the Supernova Sukkot music festival just outside of kibbutz Re’im.”