For months, I carried a single image in my mind: blue tarps stretched across mountain slopes in northern Vietnam, sheltering women who had become outcasts in their own villages. I had seen it in a New York Times article about young Hmong women trafficked into China for forced marriages and sexual exploitation. Some eventually returned home, only to be rejected by their families and communities. I could not let it go. Encouraged by my husband, Philip, our three children, and a quiet voice in my heart, I traveled to Vietnam in April 2012 to find them.

I had no plan and no map.

For three weeks, I traveled hundreds of kilometers by car, truck and bus, on the back of motorcycles and on bicycles. Winding roads through clearings and thickets led me to breathtaking views of the highlands, from Hanoi to the northernmost mountains of Vietnam and even across the border into China, as I asked questions and followed one lead after another. Eventually, a friend of a friend of a friend connected me to Mrs. Mai, a remarkable woman who trained local women to transform flax into handwoven linen and helped many rebuild their lives through meaningful work.

We met over tea at a juice bar across from Văn Miếu, the beautiful Temple of Literature in Hanoi. She was tickled to learn I had been looking for her since August 2011. “Like you, many people have been looking for me,” she said. “They came to my village and showed me the newspaper.”

We shared our stories. She told me how husbands would come to her factory and beat their wives, so she had to ask the authorities to send police to protect her women. But to save the husbands’ face, she invited them to come to the factory on paydays. As she handed them part of the money their wives had earned, they signed a paper agreeing to let the women come and work every day. A great lesson in grace!

Mrs. Mai, quite the storyteller, described her women, and they reminded me of the women I had met in the mountains: a roll of flax tied at the waist, fingers shredding the tough fibers into thread or weaving them into decorative strips while herding cows or carrying great bundles of firewood on their backs.

With so many tourists finding her through the Times article, Mrs. Mai’s two workshops had become very busy making souvenirs. But so many more women still needed help.

As we talked, she invited me to visit her village and meet some of the women I had been searching for.

“Come with me tonight,” Mrs. Mai said. “We will take the bus and be in Ha Giang tomorrow.”

That evening, I asked myself: What would I do if I met these women tomorrow? I would listen to their stories, take photographs and return home to tell others about them, I thought. Then came another question: How would that be different from all the other visitors who came simply to see them? Be patient. Why not come back with something tangible to help them and their families, and be there for them?

That question changed the course of far more than this journey. I realized I did not want to be a witness passing through. I wanted to return with something of value: to build relationships, create opportunities, and remain present long after the photographs were taken.

In November 2012, I returned to Vietnam with a plan and a map.

The plan was simple. Philip, already a patternmaking instructor at the Rhode Island School of Design, would teach patternmaking so the women could create garments in standard sizes, reaching broader markets while preserving their traditional techniques and artistry.

The map came from Philip’s earlier humanitarian work in Ha Giang, where he had delivered medical equipment and supplies to local clinics and knew the region well.

Mrs. Mai set up a long table in her courtyard so Philip could teach. When the rain came, we all moved inside her workroom among big rolls of fabric. Mothers cut, sewed and embroidered; some flattened the newly woven linen in the old way, while their children played nearby or watched us through the windows.

That journey became the beginning of Arts Bridge International. Philip and I founded it with a conviction that the arts can bridge communities, cultures and nations, and that beauty, dignity and opportunity belong together. What began with no plan and no map has grown into years of collaboration with artisans and artists across Southeast Asia and the United States.

The women I set out to find taught me something unexpected: beauty becomes deeper when it carries human connection. And some journeys reveal their purpose only when we are willing to walk them slowly.

— Anh Vu Sawyer