A Sky on Fire

Project Destiny by French writer Sophie Hieu is a hybrid memoir of hope, healing, and empowerment in the hands of nature.

At 30, most people are expected to have everything figured out: a job, an apartment, and a relationship. Yet for Sophie, something is missing: happiness, or even, destiny. With her ancestors wiped out by the Cambodian genocide, Hieu is haunted by the past. And she is determined to find her own answers. Trading her city life for a call of the wild, Sophie sets on an unexpected journey in the outdoors. But the more she ventures, the more challenges she faces.

The memoir was featured at the ICI Vietnam Festival in Paris. Though written in English, Project Destiny received a warm welcome from the French audience.

Below is an excerpt from Project Destiny.

~

The name meant in Sami “the lake of plenty.” With a thousand inhabitants, it had a thousand lakes. And the waters were abundant. They made the town swell. Not with fish as it used to be, but with cars. For in winter, the lakes froze. The cold blew on the landscape, turning the lakes into highways. And tires screeched and motors roared, as car testers came worldwide to test the latest prototypes and innovations. And the town tripled its volume. But deep in the bones, the town was empty.

The true North was a land of nothing. Of nothing to do. Nowhere to go. And no one to meet.  For people were too few and distances were too long. The weather was too harsh. Under a spell, the North bled internally as people either died or fled. The shoal of fish kept heading south. And going North, hence, was swimming against the stream.

I never checked the map.

I just focused on people.

And that’s how they picked me. Against the stream. The North men.

***

“Is it your first winter here?” they asked.

The words faded as steam vanished in the air. The North men spared their breath and saved their words. Unless for something important.

I nodded optimistically.

“Well…”

They tilted their head, before looking at me seriously.

“If you make it here, you will make it anywhere.”

It was a small town. A desert. Where the sand is white, and the sky is black. Where mountains stand and rivers cry. Because the sun never rises. And the night always sets.

It became a refrain. For the North men all said the same thing. They played the same note.  At first, I thought they were talking about the weather. It was common knowledge that the North was dark. And my lids, burdened by fatigue, slowly flapped until they closed. Like velvet curtains brushing the floor, I surrendered to eternal winter. Where blind men see with their eyes. And wise men look with their hearts.

Because eyes only see the obvious.

In the obvious, I was a fool.

***

“How can someone with such a training from Paris end up here?” they wondered. “The refugees,” I simply said.

They were my reason. In the daytime, I worked with them at the carpentry. We fixed benches, tables, and barbecues. In the evenings, I helped minors finish their homework. But it was never enough for me. Born an Asian, always an Asian. I had been raised with the idea that independence was work and money. And here I was, dedicated to a good cause, but without money. I was breaking my ethics. And losing my identity. I could not stop working. And I hated having no income. So, in addition to my voluntary work, I applied for two extra jobs. And got both.

In Paris, I had one job. In Lapland, I had four jobs. I juggled with them.

From 7 to 11 am, I catered breakfast at the family hotel nearby until lunch. From 12 to 4 pm, I would be of service at the carpentry.

From 6 to 9 pm, I would help the refugee boys.

On weekends, I would take shifts at the disco from 10 to 3 am.

I worked more than 70 hours a week. To earn less than a quarter of my pay. The year off was never a year off. I had never worked so much in my life.

***

“I don’t know how you can do this!” she exclaimed, positively impressed.

I smiled and grabbed the empty beer bottles. At midnight at the disco, the music was beating in my ears. All I saw were drunk people dirtying the place at incredible speed. Sonja was the manager of the hotel. Basically, she was one of my (numerous) bosses. And she hired me so to cater breakfast. The hotel mostly populated by car testers, having a slight feminine presence made the clients smile. This I realized as I stalked their plates and patiently waited for them to leave.

“You work so much! You are so strong! It is crazy how you manage all that! I would never!”  she kept on enthusiastically.

It’s easy.

Just work.

Don’t think.

Don’t look at yourself.

Work is the most legitimate and common excuse not to think or not to fix problems. It is an illusionary ship that keeps the worker afloat, while it is still drifting from the land. Until it sinks.  For work keeps you busy. It gives you money. But It cannot make you happy. She thought she was complimenting me. But she only reminded me of how hard I worked. For nothing. Nothing but the wind.

***

The months passed. In three months, three deaths. According to the locals, it was the “season”.  Leaves detached from the trees. Flakes fell from the sky. And frost kissed the grass. They all aimed for the ground. Winter lulled men to endless sleep. As those next to us by evening would not make it by morning. While the living knelt, arms free, crying for the departed. And fearing for their own turn. And as they lit candles for memories, I stared at the windows. The night was set.

***

I was a loner. I became lonely.

I had offers to hang out. I had people to visit. The Europeans to ski with. The refugee boys to support. The Thai women to eat with. But all the time, I politely deferred.

I just stayed on my own.

Maybe because it was the North. Maybe because it was the land of the original people. But here, something was different. For the gold of Lapland was silence. A pure silence. Where time stopped and nothing moved. Until silence, to the attentive ears, made a sound. And everything became alive. The leaves whistled as the trees stretched to the clouds. The wind smooth-talked the breeze, sketching scales of a silver fish on the lakes. Sometimes, the ice broke, and a voice echoed from the depths. Under thick skin, something lived. I was surrounded.

***

At minus 20, I put a pair of joggings without extra layers. I run. I run around the lakes.  Without stop. Without looking back. I just eat the miles. I don’t feel the cold. For I can’t stop. I can’t stop the pain. I can’t slow the rage. So, I keep running. I run to breathe. Vapor whirls. A cage swells. The bars contract. But they never break. The cold sows sharp daggers on the fields.  A veil lifts with misty powder. Always forth, endlessly down. It traps the trees and ties the reeds.  Senses acute, the wolf sleeps. Under a blanket of white fur, there is no room for darkness. And snow is cotton on a wound.

***

“You keep working because you don’t know what else to do.”

Laurent was a mountaineering guide. With a bear appearance and a ferocious jaw, he earned a reputation in town for being annoyingly brilliant and brutally honest. Laurent was a genius, not because he believed so, but because he was recognized so. A sharp mind with a foul mouth, I never refused to hike with him as it ended in philosophical debates. Besides, as a real French, he cared and retailed me with homemade jams, pastries, and cheese every week.

“Four jobs. And then what? Is it what you call a year off?” he snarled.

Only smoke was not coming out from his nostrils, but I could feel it.

“You work because you are a working machine. That’s what your parents did. And that’s what they passed on to you. But that’s not what you are supposed to do. You are supposed to do what you want.”

The more I worked, the more they asked me to work. For most of the people bailed. But not me.

“Call me when you stop.”

Laurent was right.

I had never been interested in drinking. I did not care about drugs. And I did not enjoy parties either.

But I was clearly an addict. I was addicted to work. I lived by duty. And I did what was expected of me.

An Asian worker. Someone who shuts up and works. Until exhaustion. Until death. I was unable to do what I wanted to do. And very far from being who I wanted to be. I had to stop.

So, for the first time in my life, I said no to work. And I called.

***

I cut the sound,
I sever the ties,
I drop the shield.
To walk in the dark,

I have no maps nor compass,
I don’t know where I am going,
I have no clue where I am heading,

But I keep walking,

Because that’s what warriors do.

That’s what my ancestors did.
They took steps before me.
They walked the path ahead of me.

To show me,
The way,
They walked the night.
They kept the light,

Even when they were shot,
Even when they were hungry,
Even when they were dying.

For I am them,
And they are me.

I am,
The war they fought,
The defeat they faced,
The blow they suffered.

I carry,
The rage they gave,
Their hope for peace,
The breath they passed.

In the fields of mines among trees,

Where humans bloom as flowers,
Parents become soldiers,
And children are war casualties,

Who sleep on the ground,
Or rise in the air,
To burst as shrapnel,

Blind bullets in the sky,
Who fire without eyes.

And here they stand,

Everywhere with me,
Nowhere without me,
Always within me,

As they tell me,
Keep walking.

They have not died in vain,
And I will not live in pain.

So, I take,
The steps they took before me,

And I walk,
The path they walked ahead for me,

The way of the survivors,

To finish their work.

I come closer,

Look closer,
And touch my own,

A shattered glass.
A reflection.
Of broken pieces of metal.

Darkness is a mirror,
It demanded no sacrifice,

Only an offering,
Acceptance.
For peace.

***