蝸牛そろそろ登れ富士の山

(Katatsumuri sorosoro nobore Fuji no yama)

O snail, slowly, slowly
climb
Mount Fuji

– Kobayashi Issa, circa 1820, Kashiwabara

In an era where the pace of life resembles an endless sprint through mediocre-quality multitasking, the word shokunin may sound like a whisper from another world. Yet it is precisely this whisper that may save us today. In Japanese, shokunin (職人) does not simply mean "craftsman." It consists of two characters: shoku 職 – "profession, role, function" – and nin 人 – "person." But this is not about a profession listed on a CV. In Japan, a shokunin is someone who perceives their craft as a spiritual path. Someone who does not seek merely the result in their work, but meaning – perfecting repetition, focus, humility towards material and time. Someone who can ask the wood how it wants to be shaped – and hear the answer. In Japanese, one might say "木を読む" (ki o yomu) – "to read the intentions of the wood." This is not a metaphor – it's a practice. Work as a relationship, not domination.

This article is not a story about a specific profession. It is an invitation to understand a certain attitude. Shokunin is not a profession – it's an ethos. It's the belief that it doesn't matter whether you're a baker, teacher, carpenter, or programmer. What matters is what you do with the hour you've just been given. Is there focus in it? Is there care? Is there respect? In this sense, each of us can be a shokunin – not because we achieve mastery, but because we make the decision to treat our work with dignity and mindfulness. To do less, but deeper. Not out of a need for recognition, but out of love for the very act of creation.

In Japanese culture, shokunin have for centuries formed the backbone of daily life – invisible and irreplaceable. During the Edo period (1603–1868), when the country closed itself off from the world, it was they – anonymous masters of paper, wood, iron, lacquer – who developed techniques that have survived to this day. Their relationship with time was the opposite of ours: they didn't ask "how long will it take?" but "how much life am I willing to give to this?" When one master of ceramics was asked how long it takes to create a single bowl, he replied: "a lifetime." Because the final product is preceded by hundreds and thousands of earlier ones – trials and errors that, over decades, led to mastery. Because a shokunin does not work to finish – but to enter the rhythm of work, which is 道 (dō – the way). He does not dominate nature – he learns to coexist with it. This is the philosophy of sunao – being "pure in reflex," flexible, humble towards the world. And it is precisely in this humility – which has nothing to do with weakness – that we can find a signpost for our own times.

A Scene from Craftsmanship Life in Edo

Morning in Edo began differently than today. Before the rooster had a chance to crow, before rice balls began to steam over the embers in the irori, and before the gates were filled with botefuri peddlers singing news of dried tofu and fugu fish – deep in the Shitamachi district, where cramped wooden craftsmen's houses stood side by side, in the shadow of cedar-scented temples, someone had already been working for an hour.

Nakagawa Kinjirō – a ki-shokunin, master of wood, sat in the Japanese seiza position at a low workshop made of raw chestnut. It was barely dawn, and he was already listening to the edge of a hinoki beam, Japanese cedar, gently tapping it with his finger, like a doctor tapping a patient's chest. In the morning silence, only breath, the creaking of wood, and the distant clatter of geta from a monk hurrying across the stone bridge to Zōjō-ji temple could be heard.

He was not alone. On the other side of the small nagaya – a row house inhabited by many families – his younger brother, Tokuzō, was polishing with a chisel a future ranma – a wooden openwork partition that was to be placed above the door of a chashitsu teahouse in a certain daimyō's residence. Their father, Terusada, sat in the corner, almost motionless, only his hands worked with unchanging rhythm – sharpening his kanna, hand planes, on a stone from Narai. He was over sixty years old, and his tools, carefully stored in a paulownia box, had been given names. Each blade was not just a tool, but a companion on the journey.

They did not speak. A shokunin does not need words when hands are immersed in focused work. Silence in the workshop was sacred, in which wood, resin, and man merged into a single story of pride in one's work. The air was filled with the scent of freshly planed hinoki – sweet, resinous, slightly citrusy. Every breath was filled with forest and focus.

Kinjirō was working on a tokonoma – an alcove intended for a scroll and flowers in a certain machiya house on Nihonbashidōri. This was a job for a connoisseur. The wood had to be processed so as not to lose the natural grain direction, yet fit perfectly with the elements. Only the best ki-shokunin knew that wood is alive, that it "wants" to twist and work, and that one must talk to it, not fight it.

Their work was not an expression of ego. No one signed the tokonoma. It was not art in the Western sense – it was waza, a skill that had no beginning or end. Terusada often said: "I am not a master. I am a vessel through which my father's hand and his father's hand flow."

At noon, the okamisan (housekeeper, wife, mother) came with tea and bowls of miso shiru. The break was short. A true shokunin did not need entertainment. He had within him shokunin kishitsu – the spirit of the craftsman, who lived not to gain fame, but to perform his role with dignity and respect.

In the evening, when the sun descended behind the Ueno gate, and the streets filled with the voices of samurai returning from bakufu offices, only one oil lamp was lit in the Nakagawa brothers' workshop. The work did not end. Not because it was necessary – but because kaizen – continuous improvement – knows no end. One cannot touch perfection, but one can follow its trace.

The world of Edo was bustling with life, but in this workshop, time slowed down. Perhaps one day Tokuzō's son would take up the chisel after his grandfather Terusada. Perhaps not. But for one more generation, wood and man would speak a common language.

The Meaning of the Word "Shokunin"

The word shokunin (職人) may at first glance seem simple — often translated as "craftsman" or "artisan." But as is often the case in Japanese, the literal translation does not capture the full depth of meaning. Japanese words carry not only content but also philosophy – traces of thoughts that have formed over centuries. Shokunin is not just a profession. It's an identity. It's a way of life. It's a path.

Let's start with the kanji. The word shokunin consists of two characters:

► 職 (shoku) – means "profession," "function," but also "duty" or "social role." In ancient Chinese script, this character contained components referring to listening (耳) and hand action. It's a subtle hint that true work requires both attention and action – presence of body and spirit.

► 人 (nin) – simply "person" (though nothing in kanji is ever just "simple" – more about this character here: Kanji Characters: Hito and Jin – What Does It Mean to Be Human?).

Shokunin is thus not "someone who does something," but "a person who fulfills a function" – with an emphasis on responsibility towards their community, towards the material, and even towards themselves. This term carries echoes of Confucian ethics: social role as a calling, not just a profession.

In the Polish language, it is difficult to find an exact equivalent. "Craftsman" conveys the technical aspect but loses the spirituality. "Artist" suggests individual expression, often detached from the community. Shokunin, on the other hand, combines technical mastery with an ethos of service. It is someone who perfects their craft not to gain recognition, but to meet the standards they have set for themselves. As Sōetsu Yanagi, one of the fathers of the mingei idea—folk craft—wrote: "What is beautiful is born of humility toward the material and the needs of the community."

From this philosophy stem related concepts that help us better understand the shokunin mentality:

►　職人気質 (shokunin kishitsu) – the "spirit of the artisan", a set of qualities such as diligence, focus, perfectionism, and humility. It is the spirit of repeating daily tasks with unceasing pursuit of excellence, even if it may never be fully achieved.

►　職人気質型 (shokunin-katagiri) – the "temperament of the artisan". A stubborn attachment to detail, an aversion to compromise, a readiness for years of sacrifice to develop one’s own style. Note – it is still used today to emphasize stubbornness – partly with admiration, partly jokingly or sarcastically. A somewhat softer version of "stubborn as a mule".

All of this makes shokunin not a term for a profession, but rather an existential designation. It is not a question of "what do you do?" but "how do you live?" Are you present in what you do? Do you treat your work as a path—with humility, focus, and gratitude? (What is the "path"? – see here: The Kanji “Path” (道, dō) – On the Road to Mastery, the Message is One: Patience).

In this sense, anyone can be a shokunin: not only a potter from Kyoto, but also a baker from Kraków, a programmer from Ciechanów, or a teacher from Olsztyn. The condition is one—work performed with mindfulness, care, and integrity toward both the material and the people it touches.

The History of the Artisan Class in Japan

From Muromachi to Edo

Although the word shokunin (職人) existed earlier (craftsmanship, after all, had been practiced for hundreds or even thousands of years), its deeply rooted cultural meaning began to crystallize during the Muromachi period (1336–1573), when craftsmanship was first recognized not only as a utilitarian domain but also as a spiritual one. At that time, Japan, divided among warring clans, was entering a phase of cultural intensification—the imperial court in Kyoto and emerging urban centers (such as Sakai and Kanazawa) were flourishing with arts, nō theater, tea ceremony, and zen aesthetics. In this same environment, crafts were also developing—tea utensils, weapons, textiles, furniture, and musical instruments—and with them, shokunin kishitsu, the spirit of the artisan.

The true blossoming, however, occurred during the Edo period (1603–1868), when Japan was unified under the rule of the Tokugawa clan (more about the organization of the state then can be read here: What to Do with a Society of Samurai Who Only Know War and Death in Times of Peace? - The Clever Ideas of the Tokugawa Shoguns). Three hundred years of internal peace allowed craftsmanship to achieve an unprecedented level of specialization and geographic dispersion. In cities like Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto, artisan guilds and family workshops flourished, and the products made by shokunin became not only utilitarian goods but also bearers of prestige, social identity, and aesthetic harmony.

Shokunin in Pre-Industrial Japan’s Economy: Connection to Nature, Seasons, and Community

The shokunin did not work in isolation from the environment—their life was closely intertwined with the rhythm of nature and the cycle of seasons. Many traditional artisans, especially in rural regions, worked as farmers in the summer, and when the fields were covered with snow in winter, they returned to their workshops, creating lacquerware, wooden bowls, washi paper, bamboo baskets, or textiles.

Materials were sourced locally: tree bark, clay, rice glue, mulberry fibers. There was no room for waste. Craftsmanship functioned as part of the local circular economy, and the shokunin was an indispensable link—not a solitary creator, but a member of the community, sharing knowledge, cooperating with others, and producing goods with utility in mind, not fame (in theory, at least—in ethics, not necessarily in practice).

The Master–Disciple Tradition (isshi sōden) and Multi-Generational Artisan Families

In contrast to Western guild or academic models, the Japanese craft tradition was based on a close master–disciple relationship, known as isshi sōden (一子相伝), or “transmission to a single child.” This entailed not only the transfer of techniques but also kokoro—the spirit and ethics of the trade, often passed exclusively to family members or adopted disciples (deshi), who lived for years in the master’s home, helping with work as well as household duties, cooking, and caring for children or the elderly.

Multi-generational artisan families—like the Raku family (tea ceramics), the Nishimura family (lacquerware), or the Nakagawa family (woodwork specialists)—built their reputation not only on the quality of their products but also on an unbroken line of transmission that became part of the national heritage. The works of their hands found their way to aristocratic courts, Buddhist temples, and later—museums.

Relationship with Aesthetics: Mingei, Wabi-Sabi, Ichigo Ichie

Japanese craftsmanship did not exist in a vacuum—it was immersed in a deep aesthetic and spiritual context. In the 20th century, philosopher Sōetsu Yanagi coined the term mingei (民芸)—this specific, Japanese folk craft—to emphasize the value of anonymous, everyday craftsmanship made with function in mind, not the fame of the creator. Shokunin products were also connected to the idea of wabi-sabi—acceptance of imperfection and transience—as well as to the principle of ichigo ichie (一期一会), or “one, unrepeatable encounter,” practiced for instance during tea ceremonies.

These concepts shaped the artisans’ sensibility. A bowl was not meant to be perfect like Chinese porcelain—it was to bear the mark of touch, the warmth of the hand, asymmetry—that is, life. The shokunin did not strive for smooth perfection, but for harmony with the material, which held the power of silent expression.

Place in the Hierarchy

In feudal Japan, the shokunin occupied a place just above merchants in the social structure—lower than the samurai, but above the burakumin (the outcast class, such as the eta (穢多 – "defiled", e.g. tanners) and the hinin (非人 – “non-persons”, e.g. beggars or performers)). But although their status was not the highest, shokunin were respected—especially those who provided ceremonial objects, temple goods, or items associated with the daily ritual of aesthetics, such as tea, incense, or calligraphy. Particularly gifted artisans from well-known families, who had for generations supplied high-quality objects to daimyō clans, could be said to have held a status closest (though still lower) to that of the samurai.

Over time, especially in the Edo era, many of them came to be regarded as creators of culture, not merely producers of functional objects. Their works became testimonies of Japanese identity—quiet, modest, finely honed, full of humility toward the material and the world. The shokunin was one who, through his work, realized the principles of harmony (wa), order (jō), and spiritual concentration (seishin).

The Shokunin Philosophy of Life

Everyday Life as Spiritual Practice: Repetition, Focus, Silence

In the Japanese language, there is no clear boundary between the sacred and the profane. The everyday can be ritual, and work—meditation. For the shokunin, repetition is not boredom but a path, walked slowly, step by step, not to approach an end, but to deepen one’s own being through every movement of the hand, every sound of a tool on the surface of wood, paper, or metal.

In Japanese culture, there is a word kurikaeshi (繰り返し) – meaning “continuous repetition.” In the shokunin’s workshop, however, it is not about mechanically copying actions, but about mindful repetition, in which each strike of the chisel is slightly different—because the day is different, the humidity is different, the temperature of the hand is different, the state of mind is different. This repetition does not enslave—it quiets. It brings one closer to what in zen is called mushin (無心) – “no mind,” a state of pure presence (more on that here: Mastering One’s Desires: The Solitary Path of Musashi and Aurelius).

In this sense, the shokunin’s workshop resembles a temple—full of silence, focus, attentive breathing. Everyday life ceases to be merely "life," and becomes gyō (行) – practice. Silence is not emptiness, but a space in which form gains meaning.

Craft as a Dialogue with Nature: Obedience to the Elements

The Japanese craftsman does not subordinate nature—they converse with it. In their hands, wood is not just material, but a living being that must be understood, listened to, and respected. In Japanese, one might say: ki ga kiku (木が利く) – “the wood responds,” or literally “has a sense”—as if it possessed a will of its own. This is not poetry, but a philosophy of work—the shokunin asks the material how it wants to lie, how it will behave with fire, water, lacquer, how it “breathes.”

Urushi—lacquer resin—does not harden when the craftsman wishes, but when it wishes. The lacquer master knows its temperament, knows that a day too dry will ruin the work, and one too humid will prolong the process by a week. They do not fight it—they submit to it. In this sense, the shokunin does not rule over the elements—they accept them and yield the initiative. This is the philosophy of sunao (素直)—being “compliant,” “flexible,” “pure in impulse.”

It is not about technical mastery, but about spiritual acceptance of impermanence. Nothing is eternal—and that is why every object bears the trace of its years, of light, wind, rain, and hands. Mono no aware, the “poignant beauty of transience,” finds its quiet echo here.

Time as Process: “How Long Does It Take to Make an Object?” – Answer: “A Lifetime”

For the shokunin, time does not flow by the hands of a clock. It is not a matter of work hours or deadlines. When a tourist asks, “How long does it take to make this bowl?” the answer might be surprising: “A lifetime.” Because it is not just a bowl—it is hundreds of thousands of previous bowls, hands, attempts, failures, and returns.

In Japanese, one does not say suru toki (“time to do”), but yō suru jikan (要する時間)—the time that a thing “requires.” The object dictates its rhythm. It cannot be rushed; mastery cannot be hastened. The shokunin understands that each action carries within it the memory of those who performed it before—and therefore their work is the layering of time, not a one-time act of creation.

This dimension can be compared to Tibetan mandalas—multi-hour sand compositions that are blown away in the end. What matters is not what is created, but the mode of existence during creation.

Pride Without Ego – The Difference Between an Individual Work and a Communal One

The shokunin takes pride in their work—but it is pride without ego (remember, we are speaking here of an ethos, an ideal—not necessarily of specific individuals). Unlike the artist (geijutsuka 芸術家), who signs a painting and exhibits it in a gallery, the shokunin often signs nothing. In the Japanese ceramic tradition, there are potter families whose works can be recognized by their shape, clay, firing technique—not by name. The modern world glorifies “individuality”—the shokunin values anonymous continuity.

“This work is not mine,” says the master, “but ours”: of the material, the ancestors, the teachers, the community. Hence the concept of uchi (内)—“the inside,” which in Japan means not only home, but also “our people,” one’s community. The shokunin’s work is always part of uchi, not soto (“outside”).

This is a different hierarchy of values: not the success of the individual, but the harmony of the community.

Comparison with Taoism and Zen – Affinities, but Also Differences

The philosophy of shokunin is often compared with Taoism and zen—and rightly so, as they share elements of mindfulness, simplicity, continuity, and humility toward the world.

In Taoism, as in the writings of Zhuangzi, the ideal craftsman is a butcher who has not dulled his knife in 19 years because he cuts “between the joints”—with intuition and sensitivity. In zen—a master gardener or calligrapher does not think about the result but breathes with the brush. The shokunin works the same way: without unnecessary words, without emotional fireworks, with full focus.

But there is also a difference: the shokunin is not a hermit or a mystic. He does not cut himself off from the world but creates within it—for others. His work serves—it is a vessel filled with meaning through relationship with another person. It is not solitary contemplation, but human, social, concrete practice.

Pitfalls

Perfection comes at a price. In Japan, where mastery has for centuries been elevated to a near-religious value, the shokunin lifestyle—the craftsman devoted to a single task repeated over decades—has grown into a symbol of cultural ideal. Yet, like every symbol, this one also casts a shadow. A shadow of perfectionism, which at times burdens more than it supports. Today, as the Western world rediscovers the “shokunin spirit” and writes with awe about €200 spoons and bonsai scissors priced at thirty thousand, it is worth asking: is this still craftsmanship—or already its fetishization?

When Mastery Becomes a Cage

In zen philosophy, there is a saying: shoshin o wasurubekarazu – “never forget the beginner’s mind.” Yet for some shokunin, perfection can become not only a path but also a cage. The traditional model of the Japanese craftsman is one who devotes an entire life to a single, clearly defined task: one technique, one material, one form. It would seem the highest form of freedom—total immersion in the work. But this very one-dimensionality can lead to isolation and stagnation.

In the Edo period (1603–1868), when Japan was closed off from the world (sakoku – more on that here: The Republic of Ezo – A One-of-a-Kind Samurai Democracy), such a lifestyle made deep sense. The economy was local, handcraft production supported by guilds (za) and patrons. The artisan did not need to be an entrepreneur. Today—in a digital, globalized world dependent on marketing and social media—many shokunin cannot find the language to tell the world about their work. Perfection is no longer enough. Visibility is required. And neither skill nor humility alone can provide that.

The Silence of the Master No One Hears Anymore

Many traditional workshops in Japan are becoming empty. There are no students. The isshi sōden system—transmission from father to son—is collapsing, as young people choose cities, corporations, modernity. Master craftsmen become like islands—lonely and unnecessary. In their hands lies knowledge several centuries old, but no one wants to receive it anymore. The effort, once meaningful in an era when life followed the rhythm of the seasons, is now often misunderstood—too quiet, too slow.

It’s not about blaming the young or idealizing the past. The problem lies deeper: in a market structure that rewards not quality, but narrative. In a world where “clicks” and “reach” matter, the master who does not speak simply disappears. And sometimes—burns out. Perfection costs not only time, but also health, relationships, and, more broadly: life. In a culture that teaches one never to be satisfied with oneself (the motto of many shokunin: “I have not yet reached the level I want to achieve”), burnout can arrive unnoticed.

The Return of the Shokunin – But Is It Still Shokunin?

Paradoxically, however, in a world exhausted by technology, mass production, and superficiality, the figure of the shokunin is making a return. It becomes a symbol of authenticity. Films, series, and documentaries appear: about knives, lacquer, sushi, shoes, paper. Everyone wants to have “something handmade in Japan” at home. But is a €200 spoon still an expression of respect for craftsmanship—or already a luxury gadget meant to confirm the owner’s taste?

The modern shokunin has acquired new faces. Take Yuya Hasegawa, for example—a shoeshiner from Tokyo’s Omotesandō—who calls himself a shokunin. His work is not just the shine of a shoe, but a diagnosis of the client’s lifestyle. He creates courses, develops a brand, has fans on Instagram. In one hand—a leather brush, in the other—a smartphone. Is this a profanation of the shokunin spirit? Or perhaps its evolution?

Similar questions can be asked when looking at Jiro Ono—the famous sushi master. Is sticking with one type of rice for sixty years still the spirit of the craftsman—or already blind faith in repetition? Are students who spend ten years learning only to cook rice bearers of wisdom—or victims of a system?

Between Tradition and Transformation

It is not about devaluing tradition—but about understanding it. Shokunin need not be a relic—it can be a bridge. Between past and future, between old clay and new form. Craftsmanship does not need to reject technology to be profound. It can use the Internet to survive. It can engage with the market, show its own face.

Perhaps the new shokunin is not the one who shuts themselves away in a workshop and renounces the world, but the one who knows how to combine quality with communication, humility with strength, tradition with movement. One who understands that today’s excellence is not just “the best-made object,” but also the wisdom that object can transmit to others. In the coming years, we will see how this unfolds—we live in a time in Japan that will certainly focus more on such aspects of life, especially outside the largest metropolises.

Inspiration for Everyday Life?

One doesn’t need to wear a hakama or live in a wooden workshop on the outskirts of Kyoto to feel what the shokunin spirit is. In fact—one can write code in an open space in Warsaw’s “Mordor,” teach math at a primary school in Zamość, bake sourdough bread in a tenement in Sopot, or run a shoemaking shop in Ciechanów. Shokunin is neither a profession nor a social role. It is an internal attitude toward work and the world. It is an ethic of action that—once recognized—can no longer be set aside.

A shokunin doesn’t do something “well” in order to rest afterward. They do something well because only such work has meaning. It’s not about perfectionism that burns one out. It’s about kaizen—patient, daily improvement. About micro-changes that make no noise, but over months, years, or decades transform not only one’s skills but the person themselves. Of course—it’s hard to imagine such devotion to work making sense in a typical full-time job; it would more likely be one’s own venture (though I may be wrong—people are diverse, after all).

Take a programmer—the archetype of the modern craftsman. Working in a world dominated by the pressure of “faster, cheaper, more.” But even there, the shokunin path can be found. It’s not about writing “the best code in the world.” It’s about creating code that is clear, stable, thoughtful—code that someone else won’t have to “fix in a rush” later. It’s long-term, responsible thinking. Writing not for oneself, but for the team. For the future. I believe the ideal example of a shokunin in the modern Western world would be Linus Torvalds…

The world says: “do more, faster, louder.” The shokunin responds: “do deeper, quieter, with more care.” “Focus on one thing—don’t multitask, because that leads to mediocrity.” This is not a path for the lazy. But neither is it a path for the perfectionist. It is a path for those who want to do something—anything—well. With meaning. In harmony with their own rhythm and with respect for the material they work with: it may be wood, flour, a human being, a programming language, light, text, sound, or a letter.

It doesn’t matter how prestigious your profession is. What matters is what you do with the hour you’ve just been given. Is there focus in it? Is there care? Is there respect?

In this sense, each of us can be a shokunin—not because we will achieve mastery, but because each day we make the decision to treat our work with respect. To do less, but better. To work not for a title, but out of love for the act of creation itself.

And perhaps this is the answer to the chaos of the world: not to give up on quality—even when no one is watching.

>> SEE ALSO SIMILAR ARTICLES:

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The Most Important Lesson from Musashi: "In all things have no preferences" (Dokkōdō)

"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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