CHAU FAMILY JOURNEY FROM VIETNAM TO USA

 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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