The Motherhouse Story Part1: How Bags Are Made in Bangladesh

You can't solve poverty without knowing the reality on the ground.

The story of Motherhouse began in the spring of Eriko Yamaguchi’s fourth year of university, when she was unexpectedly selected for an internship at an international organization — an opportunity she applied for without expecting much.

Eriko had long dreamed of working in international development. For her, Washington, D.C., was a place she had always admired. There, she saw highly skilled professionals from all over the world, fluently switching between multiple languages and working with confidence.

But once she started working, even though she thought, “Wow, this is amazing and impressive,” something didn’t sit right. She couldn’t shake a sense of discomfort.

That discomfort came from not being able to truly visualize the smiles of the people in developing countries who were supposed to be benefiting from this aid.

"You can't solve poverty without knowing the reality on the ground."

Upon returning to Japan from Washington, Eriko boarded a flight straight to Bangladesh — known at the time as one of the poorest countries in Asia.

First time in Bangladesh: Facing the reality of a developing country

As soon as she arrived at the airport, she was overwhelmed by an unfamiliar and pungent smell. Outside, she was surrounded by crowds of beggars. On the streets, she saw people without limbs and naked, crying babies.

“I had no idea such a world existed.”

Along with the shock, Eriko felt a powerful question rising within her:
“Even someone as small and powerless as me — is there something I can do?”

Determined to settle in a developing country and discover what she could do, she negotiated with a local graduate school during her short stay and was granted special permission to take the entrance exam.

Studying in a Bangladeshi Graduate School

Soon after graduating university, despite worrying her parents and friends deeply, Eriko moved to Bangladesh to pursue graduate studies.

She began by looking for an apartment on her own, dealing with monthly strikes, a bombing on her birthday, and a massive flood that affected 33 million people. There were many nights she couldn't sleep out of fear. She recalls hiding a can of pepper spray in her underwear when walking home from school because she was so scared.

Through these days, Eriko came to realize something:
Aid and donations often don’t reach the people who truly need them.

She began to wonder:
"What if there’s a healthier, more transparent, and sustainable way to support people?"

The Encounter with Jute — The Golden Fiber

One day in Dhaka, she stumbled upon a bag forgotten in the corner of a store.
It was tattered, but she was drawn to its unique texture. The tag read “Jute Bag.”
She knew jute was a kind of hemp, but not much beyond that.

After researching it, she discovered that jute was an incredibly eco-friendly material:
It absorbs five to six times more CO₂ than most plants during photosynthesis, emits no harmful gases when disposed of, and can even be ground up and used as fertilizer.

The Birth of Motherhouse

“This is it! I’ll make the best bags using jute and sell them in Japan.”

Instead of relying on goodwill or self-sacrificing aid, Eriko envisioned a sustainable form of collaboration rooted in a sound economic model.

Her answer was to create high-quality products using resources from developing countries — products that could be proudly sold in developed markets.

This way, the hard work of local people would be rewarded with fair profits through business, and customers in Japan would receive beautiful bags in return.

She made a firm resolution: Let’s send products to the world that we can be proud of.

The Journey to Find Jute Bag Producers

As someone with no experience in bag-making, Eriko visited dozens of factories with sketches in her notebook and all the money she had saved from part-time jobs.

People laughed at her: “What can a little girl like you do? Don’t make me laugh.”
Even when she passionately shared her dream, no one took her seriously.
And when someone finally agreed to make a sample, they disappeared after receiving the payment.

“Maybe this really is impossible. I have no experience, no money…”

Still, half-resigned but holding onto a sliver of hope, she kept searching — and just before returning to Japan, she met the perfect person.

The young factory manager looked her in the eyes and said:

“I’ll bet on your dream.”

The Challenges of Product Development: “Let’s make something truly good for Japan”

The joy of starting production quickly turned into despair and frustration.
Creating a product in Bangladesh that would meet Japanese standards was far more difficult than Eriko had imagined.

The designs focused on fine details that the factory workers had never handled before. The quality required was something they had never achieved.

“Let’s not make something people buy out of pity. Let’s make something Japanese customers genuinely want.”
Eriko began by working to change the mindset of the factory workers.

One of the hardest things was having to say “I’m sorry, we have to redo this” over and over again — to the workers who greeted her with warm smiles every day and did their best.

Every day brought five or six new problems. Many sleepless nights passed.
But eventually, they completed 160 bags.

As they packed them into cardboard boxes, the factory manager said:

“I think we gave it our very best.”

That one simple phrase, filled with emotion and hope, brought tears streaming down Eriko’s face.