CHAU FAMILY JOURNEY FROM VIETNAM TO USA
Hiep Chau was born on July 10, 1945, the son of Châu Văn Mừng (1912) and
Trương Thị Keo (1914). Chung Chau was born on August 5, 1947, the daughter of
Cao Văn Bảy (1907) and Trần Thị Nhẫn (1921).
In 1968, while I (Hiep) was in my third year of medical school, my
friend Đỗ Văn Mẫn introduced me to his niece, Chung, who was studying at the
University of Science. We came to know and love one another over the next three
years. With our parents’ blessing, we became engaged in early 1971 and were
married on September 20, 1971.
Our son, Châu Minh Triết, was born on March 10, 1973. At that time, I
was interested in the Theosophical Society, which encouraged the search for
wisdom in all religions. I therefore named my first child Minh Triết, meaning
“wisdom.” My parents were overjoyed because he was their first grandson.
Our daughter, Châu Minh Ngọc, was born on April 20, 1974. Her name
combines her mother’s middle name, Minh, and my own middle name, Ngọc. Minh
Ngoc means “bright pearl.”
From the day we were married, our family lived with my parents at 183/6
Trần Trung Lập Street, District 6, Chợ Lớn.
In March 1972, I was drafted into the army and served as a medical
lieutenant with the 49th Regiment, 25th Division, stationed at Trảng Lớn, Tây
Ninh. During this time, Chung continued teaching at Đồng Tiến High School until
shortly before Minh Triet was born.
When Minh Triết was eight months old, Chung brought him to join me in Trảng
Lớn. Because of frequent shelling from Núi Bà Đen (Black Virgin Mountain), we
lived in a bunker for protection.
In 1974, I was transferred to Củ Chi, where I worked as a physician in
the infirmary of the 25th Division’s Military Medical Battalion. We were given
a small house there, and by then Minh Ngoc had just been born. Because my
parents wanted to help care for Minh Triet, he remained in Saigon with them.
Though our family had grown to four, our happiness grew even more. Since Củ Chi
was close to Saigon, I often brought Chung and baby Ngoc home on weekends to
visit both sets of grandparents. Both Ông Bà Nội and Ông Bà Ngoại dearly loved
Triet and Ngoc.
Later that year, I was promoted to Captain and assigned to the Thủ Đức
Training Center. By early April 1975, I was no longer with the 25th Division.
When I reported to my new assignment in mid-April, my superior simply told me
to go home and wait for further orders. Vietnam was already descending into
chaos.
On April 30, 1975, South Vietnam fell. The collapse of the Republic of
Vietnam brought upheaval and sorrow to countless families. Many people tried to
flee the country, but I did not. As the only son in my family, and as a doctor,
I believed that perhaps the new government would still need me.
That hope did not last long.
One night in June 1975, two soldiers came to our home and arrested both
me and my brother-in-law for “re-education.” At first I was sent to Suối Máu in
Biên Hòa. About a year later, I was transferred to Trảng Lớn, Tây Ninh, and
then to several other camps.
Life in the re-education camps was harsh beyond words. We endured
endless political indoctrination, hard labor, hunger, and uncertainty. Many men
became sick; some did not survive. The authorities repeatedly promised that if
we “studied well,” we would soon be released to our families, yet they rarely
kept their word.
During those dark years, the image of my wife and two young children
became my source of strength. I told myself again and again: I must survive. I
must live long enough to see my family again.
While I was imprisoned, Chung continued teaching at Phan Sào Nam High
School and carried the burden of raising our children alone.
In November 1977, I was finally released and returned to my family. By
that time, many doctors and other medical professionals had fled the country to
escape the communist regime. Faced with a severe shortage of physicians,
pharmacists, and nurses throughout Vietnam, the government began releasing
medical professionals from the re-education camps.
After returning home, I worked at District 6 Hospital, not far from our
house. Each morning I rode my bicycle to work and returned home in the evening.
Yet even as a doctor, life under the new regime was painful and humiliating.
I still remember examining a patient one day when someone interrupted
and shouted, “Doctor, come to the kitchen and collect your meat ration!” I did not
want to leave my patient for a few ounces of meat, so I often replied, “Please
give my portion to someone else this time.”
I was grateful simply to have work, because without it, we might have
been forced to move to a “new economic zone” in the countryside. Even then, I
knew that my children’s future would be limited. As the children of someone who
had served the former government, they would likely be denied the opportunity
to attend university.
In the evenings, after my hospital work, I quietly treated neighbors in
a small private clinic.
Then, in the spring of 1979, everything changed.
A Chinese patient told me that her family was preparing to leave Vietnam
by boat through a semi-official program. The government was encouraging ethnic
Chinese families to leave, taking their homes and possessions in the process.
She asked if we wanted to join them.
My mother believed that there was little future for us in Vietnam. She
urged us to seize this chance. After many conversations and much prayerful
thought, Chung and I decided that for the sake of our children, we had to
leave.
Our parents gave us gold to pay for the journey: eight taels for each
adult and one tael for each child. My mother traveled back and forth between
Saigon and Bạc Liêu to arrange everything because I was still working and could
not leave the city.
Near the end of June 1979, Chung and I, together with our two children
and my sister, traveled secretly to Hộ Phòng, Bạc Liêu. My mother and Má Hai
escorted us there. The day we left home, my father wept bitterly at the thought
of losing his two grandchildren.
The boat, MH 5410, was only nineteen meters long, yet more than 230
people crowded aboard. We were packed together like sardines. Soon we entered
rough seas. Huge waves and fierce winds battered the tiny boat. In the middle
of the vast ocean, we felt utterly helpless, entrusting our lives to God.
After three or four days, our food was gone and our drinking water
nearly exhausted. People became violently seasick. Everywhere there was
vomiting, hunger, fear, and despair.
Then we encountered a Thai fishing boat. At first they gave us porridge
and offered to tow us to land if we paid them in gold or American dollars.
Everyone contributed what little they had.
But they were not rescuers. They were pirates.
They boarded our boat and robbed us of everything. Jewelry was ripped
away. Hidden money was discovered and taken. Minh Ngoc still remembers losing
the little gold necklace she wore, with its tiny goldfish pendant. The money
sewn into Minh Triet’s shirt was stolen as well.
Afterward, the pirates towed us toward Malaysian waters, then cut the
rope and abandoned us. The Malaysian navy refused to let us land and instead
pushed our battered boat onward toward Indonesia.
Finally, after eight days at sea, Indonesia allowed MH 5410 to enter
Kuku Island. We stepped onto land exhausted, hungry, and traumatized—but alive.
Life on Kuku Island was extremely difficult. There was little food, poor
sanitation, swarms of flies and mosquitoes, and widespread sickness. Many
refugees died there.
Because I had served as an officer in the Republic of Vietnam, our
family was eventually accepted to immigrate to the United States under Category
3.
While on Kuku Island and later at Galang refugee camp, I volunteered as
a doctor, caring for fellow refugees while we waited for permission to leave.
In July 1980, after a brief stay in Singapore, we finally boarded a
plane to America and arrived in Falls Church, Virginia.
For the first month, we stayed with relatives. Later we moved into a
small housing-project townhouse on Monticello Drive (later, Linda Lane) in Falls Church, VA.
While I studied for the FLEX medical examination, Chung worked many
different jobs to support our family. We also received government assistance
for eighteen months. Our first car was a brown Ford Pinto, purchased brand new
for about four thousand dollars. Minh Triet and Minh Ngoc attended Graham
Elementary School near our housing-project townhouse.
In 1985, I passed my medical licensing exam and accepted a job in
Hollywood, Florida. Two years later, in 1987, we moved again—this time to
Jacksonville, where our family would eventually put down roots.
Over the years, we lived at several homes in Jacksonville, but each move
marked a new chapter of blessing and stability.
Minh Ngoc married Dien Hoang in 2000. Minh Triet married Quoc Huong in
2003. Ngoc and Dien have three sons; Triet and Huong have two. Though Chung
always hoped for at least one granddaughter, our five grandsons have become the
precious jewels of our family.
A New Beginning in Faith
In 1982, while waiting for the results of the FLEX examination, I was
looking for temporary work. One day, while driving past Fairfax Circle Baptist
Church in Virginia, I noticed a sign that read: “Vacation Bible School.”
I had read Buddhist writings and the I Ching, but I knew very little
about the Bible. Apart from a few verses I had encountered in books by Hoàng
Xuân Việt, I realized how ignorant I was of the Scriptures. Since so much of
Western literature and culture is shaped by the Bible, I felt that not knowing
it was a serious deficiency.
So I stopped the car and walked into the church office.
Pastor Jennings greeted me warmly. When I told him that I wanted to
attend Bible class, he laughed kindly and explained that Vacation Bible School
was normally for children. He said he had never before met an adult who wanted
to study the Bible in that way.
But seeing my interest, he promised to find someone who would teach me.
A few days later, he called back and told me that two members of the
church—Mr. Bill Pettus and Mrs. Lorraine Perry—had volunteered to teach me
every Sunday morning.
At first, Chung objected when I invited her to come with me. “Don’t you
have something better to do?” she asked.
I smiled and answered, “We are only going to study English—through the
Bible.”
That reasoning convinced her. So together we went, bringing Minh Triet,
who was nine, and Minh Ngoc, who was eight.
The children joined the children’s classes, while Chung and I studied
with our two kind teachers.
As we became part of Fairfax Circle Baptist Church, we saw something
beautiful. The Christians there loved one another like family. They cared for
each other. Their children were respectful and free from the destructive habits
we feared in America.
As immigrant parents, we worried that our children might be swept away
by the temptations of a new culture. Instead, we found in the church a place
where faith, good character, hard work, and love were nurtured together.
In 1983, Chung and I accepted Jesus Christ as our Savior and were
baptized. Minh Triet was baptized in 1985, and Minh Ngoc in 1986.
When we later moved to Florida, we attended South Florida Alliance
Church. After settling in Jacksonville, we helped organize a home Bible study
group that eventually became the Vietnamese Christian Church of Jacksonville.
For more than forty years, we have walked with the Lord. Through that
journey, God has corrected us, comforted us, and changed us.
I have become less impatient and more gentle; less judgmental and more
understanding; less quick-tempered and more at peace. I have learned not to
cling to temporary things, but to treasure what is eternal.
Over the years, I invested in many things. But leading my family to
Jesus Christ was, without question, the greatest investment of my life.
Nothing is better than living in love, faith, and hope.
Today, my wife, my children, and my grandchildren all walk with God. The
third generation—our “olive shoots”—is growing and flourishing in the house of
the Lord.
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