What lessons would a nation’s leader choose to leave for future generations?

In Letters to My Grandchildren, President Thongloun Sisoulith opens a window into his life through a collection of heartfelt letters written during official journeys abroad between 2014 and 2019. More than a family memoir, the book recounts an extraordinary journey from a humble childhood in a remote village in Huaphan province to the highest office in the Lao PDR.
Through vivid recollections of hardship, perseverance, education, and public service, President Thongloun shares the experiences and values that shaped his character and leadership. Readers will encounter the story of a young boy who crossed rivers to attend school, overcame poverty and adversity, and remained steadfast in his pursuit of knowledge and service to the nation.
Rich with personal reflections and life lessons, Letters to My Grandchildren offers a rare and intimate portrait of the man behind the presidency while providing inspiration for young people, parents, and leaders alike. It is a story not only of one individual’s journey but also of resilience, dedication, and the enduring belief that determination can transform even the most modest beginnings into a life of remarkable achievement.
The book comprises 12 chapters, and the Vientiane Times will present each chapter in the newspaper.
Chapter 3 - The Path Toward Teacher-Training (Primary Level), First Intake of the Lao Patriotic Front
 After returning from the primary completion exam in Xamneua, when I reached Nachon village we had a cheerful family supper—father, mother, my sister “Ya Peet,” two older cousins joined us, along with relatives from nearby houses. Even the village headman dropped by to congratulate a Nachon villager for being the first to finish the full primary course and receive a certificate of merit. That evening’s meal was laap kai (minced chicken salad), stir-fried greens, bamboo-shoot soup, and other dishes I can’t quite remember. My father was so happy he brought out rice liquor to share with everyone. As we ate and chatted, around eight at night we suddenly heard gunfire from the far end of the fields; the shots kept cracking back and forth. Everyone in the house scrambled down under the raised floor and huddled wherever there was cover. The firing went on for about 20–30 minutes and then fell silent. Soon we heard cries for help. The villagers—my father, uncles, older cousins, and the village head man among them—ran toward the scene; I ran after them. Luckily there was moonlight, enough to see the way. When we arrived, we found militia men wounded in the legs and carried them back to the village for treatment. At daybreak we went to inspect the site and saw the blood trail of injured raiders who had fled up the mountain and over the ridge; our militia gave chase but found nothing.
Continued to the next issue

By Times Reporters
 (Latest Update July 13, 2026)