Phi Ta Khon (Ta Khon Ghost) is a Lao traditional festival held in the northern province of Xaiyaboury every year. It is a Lao tradition continuing for hundreds of years. People who will play Phi Ta Khon wear astounding masks made from unique traditional folk craft, and dressin colourful suits, then prepare to join the festive parade.
Origins of theTa Khon Ghosts:
There are two ways to explain the originsof “Phi Ta Khon”. First, according to the Phra Vedsandone stories (Prince Vessantara Buddhist Jataka stories), Phra Vedsandone and his wife Maddiwere sent away from their town to live in the forest for a long time.Eventually, his father invited them to return back to the town. While they were walking along the way, the forest ghosts and wild animals used magic to become fake people, then joined the parade of real people sending Phra Vedsandone and his family home.They were called Phi Tam Khon or “Ghosts following people”,which eventually changed to the current name “PhiTa Khon”or Ta Khon Ghost.
The other explanationrelates to the practices of praying for the spirits of ancestors who have passed away.People believe that ancestors who have passed away will become sacred objects and are able to inspire good luck or bad luck to people who are still alive. So people developed the Phi Ta Khon parade in several Lao festivals such as Phra Ved festival in March, Lao New Year in April or the Rocket Festival in May/ June every year to make their ghost ancestorssatisfied.
The three days of the Phi Ta Khon festival:
There are three days classified in the Phi Ta Khon festival. The first day iscalled VanhHom (Total Day). On this day people will build a HorOu Pa Khoud (Naga spirit hall), then they will invite the Naga spirit to enter thespirit hall on the second day.People believe that Naga spiritshave the power to protect people from bad luck and to give great things to people in the village. On the second day, as well as inviting the Naga spirit ceremony, they also have the Phi Ta Khon parade. It is ajoyful funny procession, with dancing and singing with traditional instruments. The procession will start from the cemetery and continue along the parade route until arrival at the temple. For the third day is the alms giving ceremony for dedicating merit to the ancestors who have passed. The ceremony completes the festival on the third day.
Phi Ta Khon not only in Laos:
The Phi Ta Khon traditional festival is not only held in Xaiyabroury, Lao PDR. It also takes place in parts of Thailand, especially in Dan Sai district ofLoei Province when 100 years ago, the people created Khan 5 (bowl with 5 pairs of flowers and 5 pairs of candles) and Khan 8 (bowl with 8 pairs of flowers and 8 pairs of candles) to make requests to the ancestor spirits especially PouYer (Grandfather Yer) and YarYer (Grandmother Yer) from LuangPrabang, Laos and invited them to come and stay at Dan Sai to protect and give good luck to the people.
100 years ago Father Sean Khuen travelled into the town from Lao side.Dan Sai holds their Phi Ta Khon festival in March or PhraVed festival, which have been traditions for more than 450 years.Sincethose ancient times, the people who will be Phi Ta Khon will wear a small mask.
The practice of offering a dowry has been a longstanding tradition in many Asian societies, including Laos, Thailand, India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, and certain regions of China. Although the customs and specific forms of dowry vary among cultures, its underlying significance remains deeply rooted in social, economic, and cultural values.
Cultural and Social Importance
Symbol of Respect and Commitment: In many Asian cultures, the dowry serves as a symbolic gesture representing the groom’s respect, sincerity, and readiness to assume the responsibilities of married life. It is often viewed as a tangible expression of his commitment to the bride and her family.
Representation of Family Honor and Social Harmony: Marriage is often regarded not merely as a union between two individuals but as the merging of two families. The dowry thus acts as an important medium through which mutual respect, honor, and social balance are established.
Financial Security for the Bride: In certain traditions, the dowry functions as a form of financial protection or inheritance for the bride. It ensures that she possesses resources or assets to secure her well-being in the new phase of her life.
Preservation of Cultural Heritage: Beyond material aspects, the dowry represents the continuation of ancestral customs. For many families, maintaining this practice is a way of preserving their cultural identity and honoring generations of tradition.
Considerations for European Men
For men from European or Western backgrounds, it is essential to recognize that the dowry is not merely a financial transaction, but a deeply symbolic cultural practice. The concept may encompass various forms, such as gold, property, land, or meaningful gifts, rather than monetary exchange alone.
Modern interpretations of dowry have evolved significantly. In many urban or progressive contexts, couples and families negotiate or modify the practice to align with contemporary values of equality and mutual respect. Understanding and approaching this tradition with cultural sensitivity, humility, and respect can greatly contribute to strengthening relationships and fostering mutual understanding between families.
The four of us—my parents, my younger sister, and I—journeyed to my mother’s childhood village, a quiet place cradled beside the Xedon River. Her mother’s house stood only twenty meters from the water’s edge, where the air was thick with the scent of earth and wildflowers. One golden afternoon, we decided to bathe in the river’s gentle current.
At first, I lingered on the bank, hesitant. The thought of leeches made me uneasy, so I stood at the edge, cautiously pouring handfuls of water over my skin. But as the cool, clear stream touched me, something within began to soften. The river’s touch was tender—refreshing, alive—as if nature itself had extended its arms and drawn me in.
I realized then that I had never truly known nature. The mountains, the forests, the quiet pulse of the river—each felt like a revelation. In that moment, I understood the still, enduring magic of rural life. I found myself comparing this tranquil world to the restless towns I knew. Here, nature was not a background; it breathed and shimmered with presence. It held beauty, yes—but also a deep, wordless comfort.
In my mother’s birthplace, I discovered more than scenery. I found warmth—in the water, in the soil, in the laughter that drifted through open windows. Somehow, that warmth began to settle inside me, like a seed taking root.
Silence came easily here. I let my thoughts dissolve into the shimmer of sunlight on water. The river enfolded me, cool and certain, and before I knew it, I was fully submerged, weightless beneath its flow. When I surfaced, I saw my sister and mother nearby, bathed in the same light, the same quiet joy. Laughter rippled through the air—soft, pure—from the little girl resting in my mother’s arms.
My sister, only two, giggled as she scooped up water and poured it over me with glee. Her joy was simple, radiant—like the river itself. Nearby, my father watched us with an easy smile, calm and unhurried, as though time had loosened its grip. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, holding its breath in peace.
After our bath, Mother guided us home, where she dusted our skin with fragrant powder, slipped us into clean clothes, and gently combed our hair until it gleamed. Only then did she lead us beyond the bedroom door—and I wasn’t ready for what awaited us there.
The living room brimmed with unfamiliar faces: elderly men with kind eyes, women whose smiles carried both strength and grace. Strangers, yet bound by blood. They had come simply because Mother was home, bringing her children. Kinship here required no invitation—only the quiet pull of belonging. They asked after our lives, our joys, our small struggles, eager to bridge the years that distance had stretched thin.
It was a world apart from the city’s anonymity, where people rarely asked and even more rarely listened. Here, every glance carried meaning, and every word was softened by care.
We had been staying at my grandmother’s house for three days when I grew close to Kinoy—my older cousin, though I called him “brother.” By blood, I was the elder, but age has a way of rewriting hierarchies. Kinoy was five years older than me, and that gap felt like a small river I could never quite cross. Mother told me to call him brother, and somehow, the word fit. It felt right—natural, as if he had always been there, quietly watching over me.
I followed him everywhere. We went fishing together, though “fishing” was mostly me watching him work with quiet precision. It wasn’t the catch that fascinated me but his calm—the way he moved with certainty when casting a net or mending a line. I liked running beside him, trying to match his pace, as if I could understand the rhythm of a world that came so easily to him.
But Kinoy was different, stern, reserved. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, and even then, his answers were brief, like pebbles skipping across still water. His silence sometimes left me hollow, though I could never resent him for it. Somehow, I sensed that his quiet was not distance but depth.
I still remember our first meeting. When we arrived at Grandma’s house, I hadn’t expected that a thin, quiet boy could wield such skill with a fishing net. He wasn’t in the river that day, only on the bank, but even from there, I could tell—he belonged to the water. His hands moved with practiced grace as he checked the net’s edges. When he lifted the oar, it was as though he’d done it a thousand times before. I couldn’t look away.
“Mom! I want to go fishing with Joy,” I’d shouted.
The room erupted in laughter.
“His name is Kinoy, not Joy,” Grandma chuckled, her eyes crinkling like folded silk. The deep lines in her face held the warmth of a lifetime. I, on the other hand, could feel my face flush hot as a chili, the laughter pressing in from all sides.
Mother refused at first, but I was stubborn, and eventually she gave in—with warnings.
“Kinoy! Don’t take your sister too far out on the river,” she said.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear. Then, with quiet determination, he snatched up his fishing net and darted off, leaving me to chase after him through the dusty path.
The bush opened before us in wild, uneven beauty—trees twisted into strange forms, their shadows playing tricks on the light. Scattered stones peeked through the undergrowth, as if whispering stories from an older time. The air smelled of damp bark and distance.
Every time something curious caught my eye, questions tumbled out of me.
“Kinoy, what’s that big curved tree with the buffalo resting beneath it?” “That’s a bitter Bael tree,” he answered. “Can we eat it?” “No,” he said, laughing softly—perhaps at my ignorance, or simply at my eagerness.
“What are you laughing at?” I snapped, half annoyed, half embarrassed.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he leapt into the river, leaving me alone on the boat as the ripples spread out like silver rings.
For a moment, I felt the sting of isolation. “This is humiliating,” I muttered inwardly, longing for the warmth of home. I imagined my parents’ voices mingling somewhere far away, and I wondered if they were thinking of me too.
Then, the water broke. Kinoy burst from the surface, triumphant, a gleaming white fish caught in his hand. I gasped—first in surprise, then in delight. We laughed and danced on the boat, the air alive with our joy, until the small craft rocked dangerously. Each time our eyes met, I looked away too quickly, not yet ready to understand the feeling that stirred within me. From that moment on, we were inseparable.
But time, that quiet thief, began to move again. The day of departure came too soon, and a dull ache began to bloom in my chest. I didn’t want to leave. Kinoy had become something rare—a brother, a friend, a mirror to a part of myself I hadn’t known existed. Yet my mother’s decision was firm.
Before we climbed into the local taxi, Grandma clutched my mother’s hands and whispered through trembling lips, “If things ever become difficult, bring your children home to me,” she said, voice thick with love. “We may not have much, but we have each other. That’s enough.”
Tears traced her wrinkled cheeks like falling rain.
Mother tried to smile, steadying her voice. “Just wait and see, Mom. We won’t know what’s possible until we try.”
Grandma nodded faintly, though her eyes glistened with the fear of goodbye. Then, in a flurry of motion, Mother and Father loaded their luggage into the waiting taxi. The engine sputtered to life, a harsh sound against the hush of the morning.
My heart beat faster. I scanned the road, hoping for one last glimpse of the boy who had come to mean so much. As the car began to move, despair tugged at me—until I saw him.
Far down the road, a small figure was running toward us, clutching a great white fish in his hand. I pressed my face to the window and waved. For a moment, he looked stricken. Then, slowly, his expression softened into a smile, and he lifted his hand in farewell.
The river would keep flowing, I knew—but a part of it, somehow, would always flow through me too.
For centuries, spirit worship and animist beliefs shaped the way of life for the Hmong, an ethnic group spread across Laos, Thailand, Vietnam, China, Myanmar, and neighboring countries. These traditions remain deeply rooted in their customs, particularly in how women are viewed after marriage.
In Hmong culture, when a daughter marries, a ceremony is held to cut her spiritual ties with her birth family. From that moment, she is believed to belong entirely to her husband’s family. Her loyalty, rituals, and spiritual protection must be devoted to her husband’s ancestral spirits, not those of her parents.
This practice—sometimes referred to as “ghost-cutting”—means daughters can no longer return to their original homes in times of hardship. A married woman cannot take part in her parents’ family rituals, nor can she fall ill or die in their household. In traditional belief, a daughter is like water poured from a bowl: once gone, it cannot be returned.
For many women, this cultural expectation has turned into a devastating cycle of silence and suffering. Widowed women, those abandoned by husbands, or victims of domestic violence, often find themselves cut off from their birth families with no support network to fall back on.
Over the past two decades, Hmong women have faced even greater challenges. Drug-related offenses have left many men imprisoned, while violence, economic struggles, and social breakdowns have increased widowhood and abandonment. Women caught in these crises often endure abuse, poverty, and marginalization—conditions that also deeply affect their children.
The consequences ripple through entire families. Parents are unable to welcome their daughters or grandchildren back home for fear of spiritual misfortune. Sons cannot provide refuge for their mothers if they are widowed or abused. Tradition dictates that reintegrating a “ghost-cut” woman would bring bad luck upon the entire household.
As a result, many Hmong women in crisis are forced into homelessness or precarious urban lives. With no social, cultural, or spiritual safety net, some are driven into dangerous forms of work, including sex work, just to survive.
The clash between enduring traditions and modern realities has left many Hmong women and their children in limbo—trapped by cultural expectations that sever ties with the very families who might otherwise provide them with protection and care.
The journey began along Route 13 South, winding from one quiet village to the next, then from towns into distant provinces. Yet through it all, I felt no pull toward the place of my birth.
Instead, I was thrilled—almost enchanted—by the faces of strangers who lived along the roadside. Their lives, their homes, their laughter were foreign to me, and that strangeness filled me with delight.
My mother and aunt never seemed to tire of talking. Their voices carried through the hot afternoons until their strength gave out. It took nearly three days before we reached Pakse. The road was broken and unrepaired, and our driver was forbidden to drive at night for fear of accidents.
By the time we arrived, I had learned a truth I had never wanted to face: Vientiane and Pakse were not close at all. The miles between them made it impossible to see the friends of my childhood again. The future, with all its unknowns, stretched too far ahead of me.
We entered Pakse at sunset. The fading light, as though ashamed of its own weakness, sank into the earth and was swallowed by the coming dark. Mountains and trees framed the town, its stillness broken only by the voices of cicadas. Pakse, I thought, was a shadow of Vientiane—a city shaped in the same likeness, but smaller, humbler, less adorned.
My mother and aunt led us to a long, narrow house inside the army barracks. It held twenty rooms, each one plain and orderly. Later, I would learn it was meant for unmarried soldiers, like my mother’s younger sister, who served as a military doctor.
That evening’s meal was a feast of Lao flavors: fish from the Mekong, tender strips of beef, dishes spiced with herbs I did not know, and plates of sweet desserts crowned with tropical fruit.
I ate in silence, letting the chatter of the grown-ups pass me by. My mind clung to the story my mother once told me, when I was a child, of an old woman—my grandmother—waiting in a distant village. Tomorrow, I knew, I would meet her.
That night, my sister and I went to bed early. Beyond our thin walls, the adults spoke in low voices. I listened, half-dreaming, until words rose clear enough to catch.
“What will you do next?” one voice asked. “Are you going to live here forever?”
My mother’s younger sister spoke first. Another answered:
“Let’s see if there’s space enough to build a farm.”
“I think it will be fine,” my aunt added gently. “Your husband is not well, and your children are still so young.”
My mother said nothing. Whether she was lost in thought or unwilling to reply, I could not tell. I drifted into sleep, and when I opened my eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the open doors, filling the room with gold.
Outside, I saw my mother, aunt, and uncle heaving our belongings onto a six-wheeled army truck. The second leg of our journey was about to begin.
I did not want to go. My body ached, and my spirit was weary. I longed to linger in Pakse, to play in the streets and taste its freedom, but no one asked what I wished for—and even if they had, I had no say.
After breakfast, the truck rumbled toward a destination I could not yet name. My mother’s face betrayed her joy: a smile curved her lips, though no words passed them, and her eyes shone with expectation.
At last, the truck slowed to a halt. Suddenly, a crowd surged forward, hands reaching to unload our things. Confused, I wondered why they did so without my mother’s word.
“Baby,” my aunt whispered in my ear, “we’ve arrived at your grandmother’s house.”
I turned to her in surprise. How could she read my thoughts? But I smiled at her all the same.
“Mum! Where is my grandmother?” I asked, pressing close to my mother. She bent her head toward me, and the faint perfume from her neck drifted into my senses.
“Can you guess, baby?” she murmured. “She is among them.”
I searched the crowd until my eyes fell on an elderly woman, her face more lined than the rest, her body trembling with anticipation. With sudden strength, she pushed through the throng, step by determined step, until she stood before us.
“Oh, my darling child! How beautiful you are!”
Her voice broke as she reached for me. Her hands, worn with age, rested on my shoulders, and she bent down until her face was level with mine. Then, at last, I was in her arms.
The world seemed to fall quiet. Leaves rustled faintly in the wind. My grandmother said nothing, but tears coursed down her cheeks. She pressed her face against me, her breath catching as though she had caught a cold. A cloth wiped across her skin, and her embrace grew only tighter.
My mother had left home at fourteen, to live as a nun and pursue her studies in town. Now, twenty years later, she had returned—no longer a daughter alone, but a mother, with a family of her own.
I could not know what she felt in that moment, but I saw it reflected in my grandmother’s eyes: joy, disbelief, and a long-buried sorrow rising to the surface.
“Mother! Why won’t you let anyone else hold your granddaughter?” someone teased. The crowd laughed, but my grandmother only clutched me more fiercely.
“Why did you wait so many years to bring my granddaughter to me?” she asked at last, half-accusing, half-pleading.
My mother said nothing. She smiled quietly, shifting the weight of my younger sister in her arms. Relatives rushed to help her, but my grandmother hushed their questions with a firm voice.
“Let’s go home first,” she said. “Rest, eat. You must be tired from the journey.”
“Kinoy!” she called suddenly. “Come quickly, help your uncle with the bags!”
A boy came running a few minutes later, perhaps my age or a little older. He bent to lift what he could, but others soon joined him, laughing, teasing, refusing to let him carry the load alone. My grandmother simply took my hand in hers and carried my little sister against her hip.
“Be careful, Grandma! Don’t let the girls fall down the stairs!” someone called out, and the laughter rang out again, louder than before.
MANILA, Philippines – A strong earthquake with a preliminary magnitude of 6.7 struck the central Philippines on Tuesday night, killing more than 30 people, damaging a historic stone church, and causing power outages in several areas.
The quake was centered about 17 kilometers (10 miles) northeast of Bogo City in Cebu Province, caused by movement along a local fault. The Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology warned of potential aftershocks and further damage.
Power went out in the Cebu Province town of Daanbantayan, where the stone church is located. The full extent of the damage to the church has not yet been assessed.
Authorities are currently searching for missing residents and providing assistance to those affected.
After class that evening, I walked home slowly, like a girl with nothing urgent to do. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks — unfamiliar voices echoed from the living room, speaking with a soft Southern Lao accent. I didn’t know what to expect, but my heart beat faster with curiosity as I ran inside.
As I rushed up the stairs, I saw a strange couple sitting on the floor. The woman looked older than my mother. Her hair was gray and neatly tied back in a black hairpin, shaped like a cauliflower bouquet. The man beside her was slim, with graying hair, but his eyes were bright and intelligent.
My mother sat quietly with them. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, and though her skin still looked nice, her face was drawn with tension.
“Look! Your naughty niece is here,” Mum said, looking up. The others turned their eyes toward me.
“Did you just get back from school, dear?” the woman asked, smiling. I felt relieved when I realized the couple were our relatives, who had traveled from Pakse to Vientiane to visit us.
I knelt on the floor and slowly moved forward to greet them.
“Pay homage to your aunt and uncle, dear. Be respectful — you’re a good student,” Mum said gently.
“Hello, Aunt and Uncle,” I said, bowing politely before going to my bedroom to change out of my school uniform.
“I think it would be better for you to settle down in your hometown, especially with your husband’s condition,” my aunt said just as I rejoined the adults.
“And how will I survive in Pakse?” my mother asked, sounding embarrassed.
“It’s enough to work in the fields,” Aunt replied. “You can grow vegetables or find food in nature. But in a big city like Vientiane, if you don’t earn money today, your children might go hungry tomorrow. You see for yourself — your husband can’t help you anymore.”
Her words stung, but they were true.
My father was no longer the man he used to be. He suffered from malaria.
It happened when my mother was nine months pregnant with my younger sister. The bad news came — my father had caught a severe case of malaria. Miraculously, he survived, but the disease left him mentally and physically disabled. Since then, the entire burden of supporting the family fell on my mother’s shoulders.
After giving birth to her second child, Mum quit her job at the government office and started selling vegetables at the Sikhai Market in Vientiane.
Every day, she left the house at four in the morning and didn’t return until around 8 p.m. During that time, Dad still helped — he looked after me and my sister, cooking and cleaning. But fate was not kind to us. His condition worsened. There was no sign of recovery.
When our relatives in Champasak Province heard the news, they couldn’t bear to see Mum struggle alone. Aunt Mi and Uncle Sang came to Vientiane right away. That was when I met them for the first time.
Two days later, our belongings were packed neatly into bags. Only the cabinets, beds, and heavy furniture remained. Everything else was loaded onto military trucks.
I didn’t know where they were taking our things, or how I would go to school if we moved. Questions filled my mind, but I was just a child. I couldn’t take care of myself — I had no choice but to follow my family wherever they went.
“I’m leaving today,” I said to my friends as they stared at the army truck. I was excited, even though I didn’t fully understand what was happening.
“Will you speak with a Pakse accent now, Noy?” Soukan asked, teasing me.
“Ahhh, that’s easy!” I smiled. “My parents speak with a Pakse accent already. They don’t even use the Vientiane accent anymore!”
“Okay… Don’t forget us,” she said, her voice soft with sadness. “Come back anytime when you miss us.”
At the time, I thought Pakse wasn’t very far. I believed we could walk to visit each other. So I didn’t feel too upset — I was sure I would see my friends again soon.
When I climbed into the truck, I saw a mess of suitcases and more than a dozen passengers — men, women, and elders — all heading to the same place. My mother, sister, and aunt sat in the front with the driver. Only my father and uncle rode in the back with the others.
The truck slowly pulled away from our home. I looked back — my house still stood in the same place. My friends waved goodbye, but the truck didn’t stop. It roared loudly as it drove through town and onto Road 13 South. It would take hours, maybe even days, to reach a place I had never known… and a future no one could predict.
Vientiane’s Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) project is now over 80 percent complete. Construction teams have been focusing on the final stage, which includes upgrading traffic systems, improving pedestrian sidewalks, and organizing roadside parking.
However, some residents have expressed concerns about the project. According to an anonymous resident of Vientiane Capital, the city’s main roads are narrow, and placing the BRT lanes in the center has worsened traffic congestion, especially during peak commuting hours. “I am worried that pedestrians crossing the road to reach the bus may lead to accidents,” he said.
The BRT is part of the larger Vientiane Urban Sustainable Transport Project, approved in 2016 with a total cost of US$99.7 million. According to the Vientiane Times, the project is financed by multiple sources, including the Asian Development Bank (ADB), European Investment Bank (EIB), OPEC Fund for International Development, European Union-Asia Investment Facility (EU-AIF), Global Environment Facility (GEF), High-Level Technology Fund, the Lao government, and contributions from the private sector.
Four contracts have been signed under the project:
A US$14.8 million contract financed by the EIB for the supply of 55 electric buses.
A US$456,000 contract financed by the GEF for 150 electric pedicabs.
A US$3.5 million contract financed by the ADB and GEF for the construction of pedestrian zones around BRT stations.
A US$5.5 million contract funded by the ADB for installing an intelligent transport system to manage bus traffic.
The project aims to improve public transportation, reduce traffic congestion, and promote sustainable mobility in Vientiane.
Recent Developments: On 26 September 2025, the Ministry of Public Works and Transport ordered urgent changes to the BRT project in response to public complaints. Two central stations will be demolished and rebuilt along the roadside, and bus lane dividers will be removed to ease traffic congestion and improve overall city transport. Authorities emphasized that these measures aim to address public concerns about traffic and pedestrian safety as the project nears completion.
Laos has announced bold plans to significantly boost its tourism sector, setting a target of attracting more than 43 million visitors between 2026 and 2030.
According to the Minister of Culture and Tourism Suansavanh Viyaket revealed that the goal includes 21 million domestic travelers and 22 million international arrivals, with the country aiming to generate an estimated USD 13 billion in tourism revenue during this period.
The government also intends to enhance facilities along important tourism corridors that connect different provinces and link Laos with its neighboring countries. Improved cross-border travel, combined with better roads, airports, and hospitality services, is expected to make Laos a more accessible and attractive destination for global travelers.
Minister Suansavanh emphasized that the strategy reflects the government’s commitment to transforming Laos into a competitive and sustainable tourism hub in Southeast Asia by 2030.
Phayboune Thanabouasy 