23

“Quit smiling so much,” Heidi suggested. “It draws attention.”

We were in the Beijing airport, even though we’d risked our lives to escape that city. I put on my most casual expression as I carried a small suitcase past security cameras, police officers, and customs agents. We found our travel group gathered around a grinning guide holding a Chinese flag, chatting excitedly about their vacation. I didn’t engage in any real conversation, so if the police later had to question them about us we wouldn’t have made an impression. My main goal was to blend into the group, make it through customs without arrest, and get safely in the air.

“Welcome, everyone,” the guide said. “I hope everyone is excited about your trip, which will begin in exotic Bangkok.”

He collected everyone’s customs declarations and passports as everyone got to know each other. Our group consisted of about eighteen people, and included a doctor, a lawyer, some retired educators, and some engineers. Cameras hung from every neck.

“Xiqiu Fu,” the man from the tour group said while clumsily handing me an armload of materials. “I’d like to appoint you the head of our group. Here’s your flag, your itinerary, and everyone’s custom clearance information,” he said.

“I’ve never even flown before!” I figured he wasn’t accompanying us simply to save money.

“I can tell you’re a natural-born leader.” He smiled, before adding, “Plus, you can speak English.” After thanking everyone for using their tour group, he left me standing there among the group of tourists, holding a red Chinese flag above my head. Heidi stood off to the side and gave me an exasperated look. In one glance, I knew what she was thinking. And we’re trying not to draw attention to ourselves?

I grabbed her hand once we got into the airplane for the domestic leg of the trip. “Are you afraid of flying?”

“I’m afraid of staying,” she said as she gazed out the window and watched as Beijing shrank from view.

We touched down at Shenzhen airport, and I had to assist our entire group through customs. Of all people, he selected the one who might actually be arrested to be their tour guide? I wasn’t sure how sophisticated the national customs and border control computer systems were, so I just said a prayer and willed myself to approach the counter. Our passports were wildly inaccurate, but our names were real. If I didn’t make it through, Heidi was supposed to make a run for it.

“Passport?” the lady at the counter asked, taking it from my hand. She looked at my passport, then back up at me. Even though the photos certainly matched, I found I was unable to breathe. Thankfully, a couple traveling with an unruly small child was at the counter to my left, which provided a nice distraction. The baby repeatedly threw her pacifier on the floor and wailed. I pasted a look of impatience on my face and looked annoyed at how long the process was taking. The airport official flipped through my passport as if she was trying to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit. Was this taking longer than normal? I wiped the beads of perspiration from my upper lip as I bent over to pick up the pacifier the baby had mercifully flung at my feet.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, handing me my customs form, my passport, my visa, and my boarding pass. “Now the others?” I handed her the forms, which she glanced through. When she handed me back all of the passports, I forced myself not to run away from the counter, casually strolling with my group to the security line. I was so nervous that I almost forgot how to walk normally. Miraculously, we managed to get through security without any problems. When the door shut and the plane lifted off the ground, I looked at my wife and smiled.

Suddenly, we were tourists. As far as anyone knew, Heidi wasn’t pregnant, we’d never been in jail, and we were not Christians on the run. In fact, I was a tour director who took my job seriously. I made sure everyone safely made it onto the bus in Bangkok and wore a pink floral lei to start the vacation right. I helped check our group into the hotel, informed everyone of our dining options, and passed out itineraries packed with tours of Buddhist temples, shopping, and elephant shows. Much to my dismay, I noticed one of our stops was to Bangkok’s cabaret shows featuring transvestites and transgendered performers. We’d heard that the shows exploit their performers, who were frequently treated as sexual slaves.

“Should we go?” I asked Heidi.

“What choice do we have?” she replied. “We’re supposed to be normal tourists, not Christians on the run. After all, you’re the tour guide.”

We sat in the audience watching the performers, some of whom were merely young girls, sing, dance, don sequined costumes, and sport gravity-defying hair. Is this what religious dissidents should be watching? Afterward, we overheard a member of our tour group trying to “rent” one of the young girls for the night. Both Heidi and I felt sick to our stomachs.

Bangkok was a city that specialized in sensory overload, which made it difficult for Heidi to secretly fight the symptoms of pregnancy. In spite of her extreme exhaustion, she joined in all of the group’s activities. After one of our long days, we got on the elevator with our group and so many shopping bags I doubted the doors would shut.

“Did everyone have a great time today?” I asked. Though I had so many other issues on my mind, I felt it was necessary to keep up the ruse. I pushed the button for the fourteenth floor and took a deep breath. The air was hot and thick with humidity, and our clothes hung on us heavily.

“We got good deals on crystal elephants,” a man celebrating his wedding anniversary responded. Just then, as we reached the eleventh floor, I felt Heidi slump against my shoulder. I turned to her, thinking she was resting her head, but I soon discovered she’d passed out.

“Help!” I said, causing all of my fellow tourists to drop their bags and try to lower Heidi gently on the floor when the elevator stopped. She’d bitten her tongue and blood was trickling out of her mouth.

“Lord, help her!” I yelled out in spite of myself. So much for trying to keep our faith under wraps. A Thai medical practitioner from the hotel passed some strong smelling substance under her nose, and she woke up with a start.

“You scared me!” I said later, when she was safely in our room. I dabbed her forehead with a wet cloth.

“I think I’m just exhausted,” she said. “Plus, God might be punishing us for sitting through that show last night.”

By the time we finally left Bangkok, we’d sampled Thai food, seen elephants do tricks, and had come to believe “forced tourist shopping” should be prohibited by the Geneva Convention. Hong Kong was our next destination.

“After you check into your hotel rooms we’ll meet downstairs for dinner in two hours,” I said to my group in my last instruction as their tour guide. I’d actually grown quite fond of some of them.

We had no intention of going to dinner. After we made a show of going to our room, we slipped out a back door and met Dragonfly, my co-worker who ran the university student ministry in Beijing and who had been on the run since our arrest.

“I wish I could see the faces of our tour group when they realize we totally disappeared!” I laughed.

Dragonfly took us to the apartment of Jonathan Chao, whose wife was mercifully letting us stay at their apartment even though Jonathan was out of town. Their generosity was a confirmation that they didn’t begrudge my forced confessions against them when I was in prison. Because we had no money, the free apartment was an amazing sign of God’s provision. Also, we met a missionary named Tim who had graduated from Westminster and was sent by CMI to work with Jonathan Chao’s organization. Tim was moved by our story and helped spread awareness of our situation. One Christian businessman from Philadelphia, named Charlie, vowed to send our family $100 per month for each family member. Not only did we not have to worry about lodging, we no longer had to worry about food! This was important to Heidi, of course, who needed sustenance for the baby. Every day, I bought fresh fish or chicken at the same market, watching my back as I went. Even though we’d never met the man from Philadelphia, the money arrived every month. It was a sign of God’s merciful provision.

And speaking of provision, the lady who’d left the three-thousand-dollar deposit for a large printing job was from Hong Kong, so we tried to find her while we were there. Sadly, we never could track her down.

“Let’s just ask Craig when we see him,” Heidi offered, referring to our Australian missionary friend. When she’d hired us to print the booklets, she had told us Craig had referred her to us for the job.

When we reached Hong Kong it was October 1996, and Hong Kong was nearing “the handover,” when the British would hand back the nation to become a Special Administrative Region of China. Many feared how the modern city of six million with its free economy and press would fare under the heavy hand of the Chinese government. If we were there on “handover day,” we’d be right back where we started. Thankfully, the Hong Kong government created a special team to handle the cases of political dissidents. They warned us to stay indoors to avoid kidnapping.

Jonathan introduced us to a Christian reporter named Ron, who reported about Chinese house churches. Since he was familiar with our story and with the US Consulate, he was nice enough to write our story and submit an official request for refugee status. Though we thought we’d be accepted quickly for protection from the Chinese takeover, the United States gave precedence to political dissidents over religious dissidents.

“We need to get out of here or we’ll be thrown into prison,” I told the reporter.

“Sorry,” he said to me. “They don’t even understand what an underground house church is!”

I was astonished that the American government was unaware of the ever-growing underground church movement in China. Using Jonathan’s research, we tried to educate them about the movement, but they were not interested. It was as if they considered political refugees as courageous and religious refugees as zealots. From that moment on, our case was caught in a bureaucracy morass. Repeatedly, our case was tossed out: the US Consulate didn’t recognize religious refugees, didn’t understand house churches, and only accepted famous political refugees. As we filed and re-filed our case, and time passed, Heidi grew more impatient and frustrated.

“Look at it this way,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “We’re pioneers! We have the honor of being the first Chinese house church refugees.”

“But where will our baby be born?”

It was a question I’d never researched, since I assumed our child would be born in the land of freedom—America! After I checked into hospitals in Hong Kong, I discovered that public hospitals offered labor and delivery for free if one of the parents was a resident. If not, they charged the equivalent of $20,000. Suddenly, we had another reason to get out of Hong Kong, and fast! We spread the word amongst our friends—some who were in America, some in China, some in the countryside churches—and asked for prayer.

As word of our situation spread, people showed great concern and tried to find ways to expedite our case with the United States. In fact, we got the attention of Dr. Carol Hamrin, a senior career China analyst with the US State Department who was also a Christian. Thankfully, she had heard of our plight from some Christian friends in Beijing and worked tirelessly on our behalf. Also, an American legislative assistant working for the Chairman of the House Government Oversight Committee and a member of the State Department flew to Hong Kong to put pressure on them to process our case.

We were blessed to receive all of this attention. However, it didn’t seem to be helping.

“Bad news,” the legislative assistant said after she walked out of the US Consulate in Hong Kong. I had been waiting for her outside the compound, because I was not allowed to go in. “The United States will not take the Fu family, period. Apparently, they’re very concerned about offending China during this transition.”

Sweden and Switzerland, I soon learned, felt the same way.

“Sorry, we can’t help you,” representatives of both countries responded.

Our tenuous circumstances made it quite difficult for Heidi, whose belly was growing larger every week. Weeks passed, then months, and our case was not one inch closer to resolution.

“What will happen if I go into labor?” she asked.

“I have to believe God hasn’t taken us this far only to abandon us here.”

The ring of the phone interrupted our conversation. “This is the Hong Kong immigration office,” a man said. “We need to see you and your wife in our office tomorrow morning.”

Because we’d stayed in Hong Kong longer than expected, we had to get a temporary permit to live there. Every three months, we trudged to that office, filled out a form, and came home. “Will you tell me what this is about?” I asked. As far as I knew, we were current on our paperwork, so I hated to drag Heidi through the streets of Hong Kong as close as she was to delivering the baby.

“You must come in.”

Reluctantly, we went to the office, once again, watching our backs the whole way. When we got there, the clerk at the immigration office said, “The Hong Kong government has agreed to give you a temporary residence card.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“This will entitle you to the benefits of a Hong Kong resident until you are able to leave.” He said it very matter-of-factly, but I wanted to reach over and hug him. “Please stand here to be photographed for your identification.”

As we left the office, Heidi and I were practically skipping. “Did we apply to be Hong Kong residents?”

“I didn’t!” I said. “It’s not possible.”

Though Moses parting the Red Sea was probably a more dramatic miracle, Heidi and I must’ve praised God just as earnestly as the children of Israel. Only recently did I discover that a Hong Kong pastor who had helped a few hundred Chinese students escape after the Tiananmen Square massacre had arranged this for us. To this day, I’ve never met with him or been able to properly thank him.

Now, as Hong Kong residents, we could deliver the baby for free. Which is exactly what happened one week later, on April 4, 1997. Heidi went into labor and was admitted to Prince of Wales public hospital at absolutely no charge.

I was told I couldn’t stay with Heidi during her labor, and we soon found out why. Heidi was in a room of thirty other laboring women. Every few minutes, a baby arrived and the nurses would move on to the next screaming woman. Though it was customary for men to wait at home, I waited in an area outside the elevator, one floor down from the labor and delivery floor. Nurses constantly rolled babies by me on their way to checkups, and I’d look at every one. I wonder if that one’s mine, I’d think, peering into the mobile bassinettes to determine if any resembled Heidi or me. The next day, I wandered over to a room where babies were lined up like Chinese dumplings, peered through the glass, and saw Heidi’s name next to a tiny, beautiful baby wrapped tightly in a mobile cart.

“He arrived last night,” a nurse said.

He.

His Chinese name would be Boen, which means “abundant grace.” But in English, he would be called Daniel, because he was born while we were still in the lion’s den.

“I like that,” said Heidi, who was recovering from her delivery in a room of fifty women. “He was born as an exile. He has no motherland. No country will recognize him.”

“Yes,” I said, tracing my finger through his wispy hair. “But his citizenship is in heaven.”

Day by day, every television channel, radio station, and newspaper had a countdown of the days remaining until the handover. On June 4, Prince Charles and Hong Kong Governor Christopher Patten held a joint commemoration of the historic occasion. I attended a large gathering of over a hundred thousand people at Victoria’s Park, because it was the anniversary of the 1989 massacre. In the crowd was a palpable fear that Hong Kong was about to be taken over by a nation capable of such violence against its own citizens. Looking out into the crowd, I was touched that people were intent on remembering what had happened in Tiananmen Square. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a light. A political dissident who’d been unable to attain refugee status had lit himself on fire. People began to scream as he sat there. A human torch. The Hong Kong police ran over and promptly put out the fire that was ravishing his body. However, his actions showed the desperation we dissidents felt.

As we fought off despair, many people advocated on our behalf. Danny Smith, founder of the Jubilee Campaign, heard about our case. The Jubilee Campaign is an organization committed to ending slavery, childhood prostitution, and other injustices, so he flew to Hong Kong to advocate for our freedom. He gave a personal letter from Lord David Alton, a British upper parliament member, to Governor Patten. However, the American consulate doubled down. “We can assure you that the US will not accept the Fu family,” they responded. “Find somewhere else.”

We were already exhausted from staying up all night with our new baby, who screamed unless he was in constant motion. This news was almost too much to take.

“If America will not accept you,” Danny said when he saw our crestfallen faces, “Great Britain will.”

“Oh, are we going to ride on the same plane as the prince?” I asked, but no one was in the mood to laugh.

We exhausted every avenue, even applying to a Baptist seminary in the hope that student visas could give us some time to figure out our immigration status. To my surprise, I received a terse response. “Unless you are members of a Baptist church, you cannot get into our school.” Though I had no idea what a “Baptist” believed, I looked in the phone book, found a Hong Kong Baptist seminary, got a copy of the Baptist confession, memorized it, and tried to look for a Baptist church to join. However, when we contacted the school with questions, they responded, “You won’t be considered a member unless you’ve been at that church for three years.”

In other words, we were a family without a home—spiritually or nationally.

One day, I went to a McDonald’s in Hong Kong, where I was eating and reading a newspaper with a headline that screamed, “Seventeen Days Until the Handover.” Though I sometimes wanted to forget my plight, I couldn’t look anywhere without a reminder that the handover—and my family’s certain demise—was 17 . . . 16 . . . 15 . . . days away. Time is running out, I thought, as I took a bite of my hamburger. Just then, I noticed a little excitement as a film crew came through the doors of the restaurant. One guy had a camera on his shoulder, and another was holding a microphone labeled “ABC.”

“Hello, I’m doing a segment about the handover for ABC News with Peter Jennings,” the man said to me at my little table. “Would you like to tell us your views on it?”

I looked around at the other people in the restaurant. I was supposed to be keeping a low profile, as the Chinese police were apparently trying to kidnap dissidents seeking asylum. However, I couldn’t turn down this opportunity to plead my case on national television in America. Reluctantly, I agreed.

“We’re speaking to Bob Fu here in a McDonald’s in Hong Kong,” the reporter said, sticking the microphone in my face. “Bob, are you apprehensive about the handover?”

“Actually, I’m a religious dissident from China, and my family will certainly be arrested—again—for our Christian religious beliefs unless the United States government will act on our behalf,” I said. How’s that for keeping a low profile? “The countdown to the handover is a countdown to our imprisonment. Please, America, stand up for religious freedom.”

Everyone around me in the restaurant got silent as I pled my case to the American people. Though I feared for my immediate safety, it was my last chance. Diplomacy, after all, hadn’t worked.

“Reporting from Hong Kong,” the reporter said. “This is ABC.”

With this one small interview, awareness of our situation spread throughout the United States. Though we didn’t know it at the time, several prominent people worked on our behalf behind the scenes. The Voice of the Martyrs organization published a letter signed by dozens of US senators requesting the United States accept our family. Robert Schuller, of the famed Crystal Cathedral, wrote a letter to President Bill Clinton requesting he personally intervene on our behalf. Senator Jessie Helms, chairman of the powerful Senate Foreign Relations Committee, faxed a letter to the Hong Kong US Consulate asking that they speed up the process of our release.

And lastly, the president of the National Evangelical Association, Don Argue, phoned President Clinton. At the time, Don was a member of President Clinton’s Committee to Review Violations of International Religious Freedom and Persecution, so he reported on religious persecution around the world. When the president picked up the phone that afternoon, Don encouraged him to pay attention to my small family across the world. “I think you should intervene in this case,” he said. “Getting the Fu family out of China would give a great boost to your leadership in promoting international religious freedom.”

One week before Hong Kong was handed over to China, Danny got a phone call in the middle of the night from the US Consulate. It was the White House National Security Council with a strong and decisive message from the president: Let the Fu family go.

Bill Clinton saved us!

All refugees are required to have an official sponsor in America, and my church sponsor was King’s Park International Church, the home church of Pastor Ronny Lewis, and my government-appointed sponsor was World Relief. When the consulate discovered he’d been overruled, he suddenly sent word of a requirement that any refugee needed to have an American bank account with $10,000. This was the first time we’d ever heard of such an onerous requirement. How could a refugee set up an American account? How could they get such a large amount of money?

Desperately, we contacted Pastor Ronny and asked for a very big favor.

“Can you set up a bank account and give us $10,000?”

Ron had a decision to make; everyone else at the church had already gone home and the clock was ticking. Without even asking permission from King’s Park, he transferred the money into an account with my name on it. (He didn’t even know my Chinese name, so it was created for “Bob Fu.”) I was astonished at the trust he put in me, and that money was our last roadblock to overcome before heading to America.

On June 27, we were called by the United States with the official word of our travel—one hour before our flight was to take off. We were taken to the Hong Kong airport and used a special back entrance to board the plane so the Chinese PSB agents wouldn’t seize us. In God’s perfect timing, it was the last working day of the old Hong Kong government.

Finally, we were free.