Shame stronger than death. Japan.

Shame in Japan is not the same as shame in Poland or in Europe. It is not reduced to a fleeting embarrassment after a social faux pas, nor to a moral pang of conscience over a committed act. Haji (恥) is both an emotion and a principle, the axis around which Japanese social life revolves. It is in this concept, like in a lens, that the Japanese soul is reflected—sensitive, attentive to the gaze of others, subordinated to the harmony of the group, and at the same time severe toward its own imperfections. Without understanding haji, it is difficult to grasp why samurai chose death to avoid disgrace, why politicians and managers resign from office for the mistakes of their subordinates, and why a child in school learns not only to write characters, but also that a lack of effort “is a shame for the entire class.” Japanese shame—haji—is also one of the deepest roots of extreme social problems in Japan, such as hikikomori or jōhatsu.

Even the character 恥 itself conceals the depth of this emotion. It consists of 耳 (“ear”) and 心 (“heart, mind”), as if to suggest that shame is the stirring of the heart when others hear us and judge us. In the traditional semantics of Chinese characters, the ear symbolized social reception—that we are constantly being overheard, exposed to the judgment of others (it also functions here as a phonetic component). Combined with the heart, haji becomes a total experience: not only a reaction to the gaze of others, but also the inner beating of conscience. Western psychology usually separates shame from guilt: the first concerning the whole “self,” the second a specific deed. In Japan, however, this separation fades—shame becomes the beginning of reflection on an act, while guilt intertwines with the question: “what will others think of me and of my group?” The shame of haji is not confined to one incident—it influences and spreads across the entire identity of a person, their self-image and sense of worth. This is precisely why, in a country where individualism long remained in the shadows, haji serves as an ethical compass that guides the individual even when no one is watching.

I have personally seen how Japanese people learn Western assertiveness, participate in “active learning” courses, practice public speaking to overcome shyness and learn to raise their voices. And yet those very same participants can later sincerely apologize to the group for not being assertive enough and thereby having “shamed” the other participants who “learned” assertiveness better. Here we can see the double tension of the globalization era: on the one hand, new values of individualism, on the other—the powerful haji, impossible to uproot, for it is embedded in language, in institutions, and in the very structure of the psyche. Haji is therefore not a relic of old Japan, but a living mechanism that to this day determines how Japanese people feel, think, and act. It is what compels them to submit to the discipline of ritual and etiquette, and at the same time to seek tools in the West that allow them, if only for a moment, to lift its weight. To understand haji is to perceive shame as a mirror of the relational “self,” the most delicate link in the chain that for centuries has bound Japanese society together.

Haji as the key to the Japanese soul

Haji (恥) is usually translated as “shame,” but such simplification does not convey its gravity. In Japanese culture, it is not merely the emotion accompanying slips or blunders. It is a system of behavioral regulation, deeply rooted in the social structure, which acts like glue—binding individuals to the group—and at the same time like a knife—capable of painfully wounding, isolating, or even pushing toward tragedy. Haji defines the boundaries of the acceptable “self,” indicating what can be said and done, and what leads to loss of face and place within the community.

In Western reflection on Japanese culture, the contrast between the “culture of guilt” and the “culture of shame” often reappears. Ruth Benedict, in her classic work “The Chrysanthemum and the Sword”, wrote that while Western societies shape individuals through guilt toward an internal moral code, the Japanese are formed by shame—a reaction to the gaze and judgment of others. This distinction was heuristic in nature and is still often cited, but it too easily leads to oversimplifications. For guilt and shame do not exclude one another, but coexist and intertwine. Yet it is precisely haji, in its broad spectrum—from embarrassment to the profound experience of humiliation—that becomes the axis around which many aspects of Japanese social and psychological life revolve.

Therefore, if we want to see the Japanese mentality “from the inside,” we must look through the prism of haji. It is there that individual feelings, group relationality, and philosophical questions about the boundaries of the “self” in relation to others meet. As always—we begin first with the kanji…

The character 恥 (haji)

The character that in Japanese writing represents the word haji is 恥. At first glance one sees its two components: ear (耳) and heart (心). Yet this is no random combination. In the traditional system of Chinese and Japanese writing, most characters were created as a union of a semantic part and a phonetic part. In the case of 恥, it is the “heart” that indicates the domain of meaning: the world of emotions, affects, inner experiences. The “ear,” meanwhile, once suggested the sound, becoming the phonetic component. This was the original logic of the character’s construction—and thanks to it, today we can read it in on’yomi as “chi” (and in kun’yomi as “haji”).

But writing, though born from practical needs, has always also generated a symbolic layer. Thus we see in it more than just a technical composition. Ear and heart together in one character seem to speak of what shame is: an inner stirring that immediately becomes audible, noticeable to others. The heart trembles when it is touched by others’ ears and gazes. Haji is a relational emotion—it does not close itself in solitary experience, but always exists in relation to someone, in the context of the social stage.

The radical “heart” (心) is one of the most fertile in the entire system of kanji. It appears in characters denoting anger (怒), regret (悔), compassion (慈), fear (恐), and hundreds of other feelings—see, for example, our article on urami: Urami: the Silenced Wrong, All-Encompassing Grief, Fury — What Emotions Are Encoded in the Character “怨”. It always reminds us that what is at stake is something that moves the inner world of the human being. In the case of 恥, it plays the same role: signaling that we are dealing not with an external fact, but with a psychological state.

The history of the character’s writing is also interesting. In older forms of the character, “ear” and “heart” were even more clearly separated. In simplified Chinese script, only the “ear” was preserved, while the “heart” was abandoned. The simplified character 耻 still means shame, but it lost its visible emotional layer, leaving only the phonetic skeleton. In the Japanese version, however, it was precisely the heart that was preserved, which is not without significance: it suggests that Japanese sensitivity does not allow this word to be cut off from its emotional depth.

We can thus say that the kanji 恥 reveals the essence of haji: an emotion that unfolds within, but is immediately exposed on the social stage. It is the trembling of the heart felt when one knows that others are hearing, seeing, judging. The very structure of the character becomes a metaphor—not always fully consistent with the etymological logic of writing, but all the more accurate if we wish to capture the psychological truth of shame. In this way, the character becomes not only a tool of writing, but also a visual key to understanding one of the most important emotions in Japanese culture.

Moral and Situational Shame: haji (恥) vs hazukashii (恥ずかしい)

The Japanese language, like every cultural system, not only describes reality but also shapes it. In the case of emotions related to shame, it becomes particularly evident that a single word never exhausts all possible nuances. That is why, alongside the noun haji (恥), the adjective hazukashii (恥ずかしい) also exists, and although both refer to “shame,” their semantic fields are different and embedded in distinct psychological scenarios.

Haji as the burden of identity and morality

Haji is a heavy, intense, dense term. It carries within it the fear that the social world will discover “very bad things” about a person—not necessarily even objective facts, but those that may be regarded as disgraceful, compromising, threatening to reputation. Haji has an existential dimension, for it touches the very core of an individual’s identity and their place within the group.

Traditionally, it was tied to responsibility toward one’s clan, lord, or community, and thus had a power that could lead to dramatic decisions—withdrawal from public life, resignation from office, and in samurai times even suicide as a way of erasing the stain of shame. Haji is not only about “what others may think,” but about the fact that, in the eyes of the group, and thus in one’s own eyes, the integrity of a person as a moral being is compromised.

Hazukashii as embarrassment and exposure

Hazukashii, by contrast, functions differently. This adjective describes an emotion closer to embarrassment, shyness, the sense of being exposed to the attention of others. It does not require that there be an “objective” reason for shame—the mere fact that someone directs attention toward us is enough. That is why hazukashii appears both in situations of faux pas or social tactlessness, and when someone receives an overly flattering opinion, the acceptance of which itself causes discomfort. In this sense, hazukashii is not disgrace, but rather a subtle signal of relational sensitivity: the awareness that the gaze of others always has the power to intrude upon our “self.”

Psychology and language – two cognitive scenarios

We may thus say that haji and hazukashii point to two different cognitive scenarios. The first is a dramatic vision of the revelation of something that places an individual and their close ones in a bad light—a moral weight that may be unbearable. The second is a lighter, yet omnipresent anxiety about judgment: how will I be perceived, even if there is no guilt or real wrongdoing? Haji is the weight of fate, hazukashii—the everyday blush.

These differences show why the attempt to translate haji simply as “shame,” and hazukashii as “embarrassment,” turns out to be superficial and misleading. The word “shame” is strong and may suggest moral condemnation, but at the same time it does not carry the same direct intrusion into a person’s identity as it does in Japan. Meanwhile, “embarrassment” flattens hazukashii into situational awkwardness, failing to capture the cultural norm in which exposure to the gaze of others always carries the risk of losing harmony. Translation here requires commentary, contextual framing, and sometimes even leaving the original term untouched—for only then can one preserve the depth of the Japanese experience of shame.

In this way, language reveals more than semantic nuances: it discloses an entire cultural map, in which haji and hazukashii mark two poles—from disgrace to embarrassment. Both are necessary in order to understand how Japanese people experience themselves in relation to others, and how subtly they differentiate emotions that in European languages are usually confined to a single, overly broad word.

“Private shame” and “public shame”

Psychologist and anthropologist Tsunetsugu Lebra emphasized that the Japanese experience of shame is not about a simple dichotomy between “private” and “public.” These are not two separate phenomena, but the continuity of a single spectrum of experience. Haji may appear in solitude, in an internal reckoning with oneself, when an individual confronts their own ideal and feels distant from it. It may also take a dramatic form—when the gaze of others unmasks, and the entire community becomes witness to a misstep. Both situations, however, share the same core: the experience of a violation of the “self” before a real or imagined audience.

In psychology, this is described as exposure sensitivity—the fear of the very fact of being observed. Shame does not need an actual crowd; the internalized sense that “someone is watching” is enough. A person then experiences what can be described as the reflex of the “shrinking self”: the desire to contract, to hide, to disappear. The face reddens, the body tenses, and consciousness narrows to a burning point of tension. It is a reaction not only emotional but also bodily—shame “presses the individual inward into the body,” preventing free expansion in social space.

Haji thus extends from light embarrassment, which arises the moment one is exposed to the gaze, to deep, paralyzing shame, which engulfs the entire “self” and undermines the sense of personal worth. It is a single continuum: from a slight blush to an experience so heavy that in Japan’s history it led to radical acts of self-annihilation. Understanding this fluidity makes it easier to see that Japanese culture does not so much separate “private” from “public” as show how one continually flows into the other—and that the boundary lies not in social reality, but within the individual themself.

The group and the self – the harmony of wa and the “contagiousness” of shame

In the Japanese experience of haji, the individual never exists in a vacuum. Shame spreads like a wave through the social fabric—from the family, through the school class, to the corporation or state office. What in the Western world often remains the “private sin” of an individual, in Japan immediately takes on a collective dimension. This stems from the very structure of society, in which the supreme value is wa (和)—the harmony of the group. A breach of this harmony by one member results in the stigma affecting all the others as well.

This mechanism operates both horizontally and vertically. Horizontally—when members of the same profession, class, or sports team “co-experience” shame because of one person’s mistake. Vertically—when haji transfers across generations: a descendant who fails casts a shadow upon parents and ancestors; conversely, parents may pass the stigma of their own disgrace to their children. This makes shame something “contagious”—an innocent member of the group experiences it just as much as the culprit.

The consequences can be far-reaching. In language and custom, we speak of loss of face (mentsu), which leads to real social sanctions: from exclusion from the community to forced resignation from office. Contemporary Japan knows numerous examples of ministers, directors, or company presidents who step down not because of legal responsibility, but because their very presence “brings shame” upon the group they represent. In earlier eras, the most dramatic response to haji was seppuku—a suicidal act intended to cleanse one’s own name and that of one’s clan (more on this here: Samurai Seppuku: Ritual Suicide in the Name of Honor, or Bloody Belly Cutting and Hours of Agony?). In both cases, the mechanism is the same: removing the source of shame in order to restore balance to the group.

Everyday language clearly shows how deeply haji is rooted in the social imagination. We say 恥をかく (haji o kaku)—“to incur shame,” literally “to take on shame.” We encounter the expression 恥さらし (hajisarashi)—“a public display of shame,” someone who disgraces themselves and their close ones. And also 恥知らず (hajishirazu)—“one who knows no shame,” that is, a person lacking basic moral and social sensitivity. Each of these expressions not only describes a state, but also functions as a linguistic sanction—a label that instantly places an individual outside the boundary of the accepted wa.

In this way, haji becomes not only an individual emotion, but also an instrument of social control. Where the West emphasizes individual conscience and guilt before an internal moral code, Japan conceives of shame as a network of connections—a dynamic process in which the reputation and face of one person affect the wellbeing of the entire group. Indeed, Japan’s very law was organized this way as recently as the Edo period (see here: Under the Watchful Eye of the Neighbor: Gonin gumi and Collective Responsibility in the Time of the Shogunate).

The Psychology of haji: from norm to disorder

In its everyday form, haji serves a preventive function—it acts like an inner brake that restrains an individual from crossing the invisible boundaries of social acceptance. A child hears the admonition “don’t be a hajishirazu”—do not be someone who “knows no shame”—and learns that a sense of shame is not so much a weakness as a natural mechanism of sensitivity to others. This social language builds a filter into the psyche, thanks to which a person senses situations that threaten reputation even before a norm is overtly violated. In this role, haji is a subtle emotional net that protects the group’s wa from fissures.

Yet the very same sensitivity that supports harmony in daily life can turn into a shadow—an obsession that takes the form of a clinical disorder. In Japan, the category taijin kyōfushō (対人恐怖症) has developed, an anthropophobia specific to that cultural context. Its essence is not the fear of being harmed, but the fear of harming and shaming others through one’s own “imperfect presence.” The patient fears blushing at the wrong moment, that their breath will be unpleasant, that an involuntary tic or body odor will cause someone discomfort. This is shame absorbed to such a degree that every manifestation of one’s corporeality appears as a potential source of social contamination (it need not be focused on corporeality, but often is). Psychologists call this an “obsession with shame”—a state in which a natural control mechanism becomes self-destructive.

For this reason, the culture has developed rituals intended to give haji a safe channel of expression and internalization. One example is naikan (内観), a practice of introspection involving systematic accounting toward others: how much I have received from them, how little I have returned, how much trouble I have caused. This therapy, popularized in the twentieth century, harnesses sensitivity to shame and transforms it into a tool of self-reflection and self-improvement. Similarly, schools hold hanseikai—“reflection sessions,” in which students collectively consider their own behavior, learning to treat haji as a signal to stop, look at oneself, and attune to the community.

The psychology of haji in Japan thus shows how thin the line can be between norm and disorder. What one day functions as a moral compass and social glue may on another become a noose around one’s own self.

The shame–guilt pair

In classical Western anthropology, the opposition between a “culture of shame” and a “culture of guilt” long held sway. Japan was to be an example of the former: a society in which the gaze of others and fear of disgrace are paramount, while the West rests on a sense of guilt before an internal moral code. A closer look, however—especially in light of analyses by Takie Sugiyama Lebra—reveals a more complex picture. In Japan, shame and guilt are not separate, antagonistic mechanisms, but a dynamic pair that co-operate and intensify one another.

Lebra observed that the Japanese speak more often of “guilt,” even where a Western observer would primarily read shame. This is because the experience of haji always contains a strong component of “other-orientation”—reflection on who suffers because of me, who bears the costs of my imperfection. This shifts attention away from humiliation itself and toward the victims of my act or omission. Even if the source of the emotion is exposure to the gaze, further psychological processing moves toward guilt—the feeling that I have burdened others, that I have caused meiwaku (trouble, inconvenience). Shame and guilt are thus like two streams that in the Japanese psyche flow alongside each other, rather than in opposing directions.

Moreover, haji does not replace introspection; it intensifies it. Fear of others’ gaze compels the individual to turn deeply inward. It is often shame that becomes the starting point for self-critique, for practices of “moral hygiene” that in Japan have taken both religious and secular forms. From purification rites in Shintō, through Buddhist meditative practices, to modern methods such as naikan—all consist in returning to one’s faults and transgressions, analyzing them in relation to others, and undertaking the effort of improvement.

In Western psychology—e.g., in the accounts of Helen B. Lewis or June Tangney—it is often emphasized that shame focuses on the whole “self,” whereas guilt concerns a specific act. Takie Sugiyama Lebra’s analyses of Japanese emotional experience show, however, that this simple separation finds no full confirmation in Japanese culture. Shame does indeed engulf the entire “self,” but at the same time opens the way to recognizing the specific act and its consequences for others. Conversely, guilt, though born of a sense of violating a norm, in Japan remains inseparably entwined with how the individual appears in the eyes of their surroundings. Instead of opposites, we have a feedback mechanism in which shame arouses guilt, and guilt strengthens sensitivity to shame.

This is precisely how Japan differs from the Western world. Where Europe emphasizes the individual struggle of conscience with the code, Japan sees shame and guilt as two faces of the same emotional–moral energy by which a person continually corrects themselves in relation to the community.

Upbringing into haji: socialization from preschool to the corporation

The mechanism of haji is not born in a vacuum; it is carefully nurtured from the earliest years of life. Already in preschool, a child hears messages that teach adaptation to the group and avoidance of exposure: “don’t cause trouble for others,” “don’t stick out.” The Japanese proverb deru kui wa utareru—“the nail that sticks out gets hammered down”—contains an entire pedagogy of shame: the individual who violates harmony must be restored to order. This is an education into social discipline, in which haji serves as punishment, but also as a signal that the bond with the group is more important than individual desires.

This process continues through subsequent stages of education. In schools, practices of collective behavior assessment and “reflection sessions” are common, during which students learn to perceive shame not as a private emotion, but as the group’s shared experience. In this way, a mechanism is shaped that in adult life readily adapts to corporate structures. The Japanese company is often called a “second family”—and within this frame haji functions as an invisible regulator of loyalty: the employee prefers to keep silent, comply, and work beyond their limits rather than risk becoming the cause of shame for the entire team. One might say this is an extraordinarily effective way of producing people devoted to the institution, ready to work for others even at their own expense, with an ethos that at times resembles a slave-like mentality.

In recent decades, however, external pressures have emerged—education reforms inspired by the Western model promote so-called “active learning” (akutibu rāningu) and the development of assertiveness. In practice, this means encouraging students to ask questions, present their own opinions, and challenge authority. Yet the question remains open: do these changes truly transform the emotional map of shame, or do they merely change the language in which it is discussed? Much indicates that haji does not disappear, but adapts to new frames—instead of shame over a lack of conformity, there appears shame over a lack of “activity.” The mechanism remains the same: the group’s gaze still defines what it means to be a “good student,” a “good employee,” or a “properly assertive modern person.” It is the same shame; only the words shift slightly.

Ritual – why does rule soothe shame?

One of the most fascinating mechanisms of Japanese culture is how carefully developed forms and rituals make it possible to tame haji. Where the gaze of others could paralyze, there appears the rule—ceremony, etiquette, a strictly prescribed scenario of behavior. This is precisely why the Japanese tea ceremony is described not only as an art of taste and aesthetics, but also as a form of psychological relief. The perfect choreography of movements, the placement of utensils, the way of pouring water—all this relieves the “self,” which no longer has to improvise and risk error. In ritual, responsibility shifts to the rule; if the individual follows the pattern, there is no room for disgrace.

This structure is not confined to tea, but permeates nearly all of social life: from the etiquette of greetings, through business protocols, to everyday linguistic rituals such as formalized expressions of apology. Each of these functions as a buffer that neutralizes the fear of embarrassment—instead of being the creator of one’s own behavior, the person becomes the performer of a script. Psychologically, this does not mean an escape from responsibility, but rather a transition into a role in which the individual gains protection from the risk of exposure.

Takie Sugiyama Lebra described this dynamic as the double rhythm of culture: life ON-stage and OFF-stage. In the official, public space, one moves across a stage fortified with rules that enforce formality and restraint of expression. It is a world where haji lurks nearby, but is subdued through ritual. Outside this stage—in the circle of friends, in private space, in places of “de-hermetization”—appears the possibility of revealing true emotions, naked confessions, unrestrained laughter or tears. Both together form a complementary whole: formality protects against shame, while informality allows for the release of the tension that accumulates in the world of public masks.

It is precisely this alternation—perfection of ritual and intimacy of disclosure—that constitutes the Japanese way of coping with shame. It is not a fight with the emotion, but a subtle taming of it through rule and rhythm of social life.

Haji: destructive shadow and constructive benefit

Shame in Japan is not only an emotion, but also an ethical tool—a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it builds social harmony; on the other, it can destroy the individual. In this ambivalence lies its true power.

On the side of shadow, shame gives rise to fear of exposure, which can lead to isolation and perfectionism. A person, fearing the slightest mistake, withdraws from contact, paralyzes their creative possibilities, and becomes a slave to an idealized image of themselves. Haji is also the root of conformity and self-censorship—it causes individuals to submit to the group even when silent acquiescence means injustice. In extreme cases, the weight of shame becomes so unbearable that it leads to suicide. This is not only the story of samurai seppuku, but also modern cases of suicides among managers, politicians, or students experiencing ijime (the specifically Japanese and extremely cruel form of bullying at school), showing that haji can become a boundary experience that destroys an entire life.

Yet the same mechanism also carries constructive benefit. Haji can be a source of responsibility toward others—it reminds us that our actions do not end with us, but resonate through family, school, or company. It can become a driving force of self-improvement: the sense of shame at one’s own imperfection opens the way to learning and working on oneself. On the social level, haji sustains wa—the harmony that the Japanese value as the highest good of communal life. It is a subtle, “soft” regulator, operating more effectively than the hard sanctions of law: no one wants to be the one who brings disgrace upon the group.

The key remains to find the balance between these poles. A Japanese proverb says: kunshi wa hitori o tsutsushimu—“a noble person is cautious even when alone.” Shame before oneself, rooted in inner vigilance, then becomes an ethical compass. But when shame is born solely from the gaze of others, it can turn into chains that shackle authenticity or make a person easily manipulated. In this tension—between self-control and fear of judgment—lies the deepest paradox of the Japanese ethic of haji.

The 21st century – little has changed

What of today? The internet has created a space where “the audience” is eternal and unlimited, and the old 恥さらし—“being put on display for shame”—has taken on an entirely new dimension. Viral shaming in social media knows no boundaries of time or space, and the shadow of disgrace can follow an individual for years. In the digital world, haji ceases to be a local phenomenon tied to family, school, or company and becomes a global experience, in which the gaze of an anonymous mass can be more ruthless than that of one’s immediate surroundings.

At the institutional level, however, traditional forms of shame still return. Public apologies of company presidents, resignations of ministers or managers who assume responsibility not only for their own mistakes but also for the misdeeds of subordinates, are at once a continuation of the old ethos and an instrument of contemporary PR. This tension—between sincere assumption of guilt and staged performance of humility—could itself become the subject of a separate study. For here we see how haji serves not only the regulation of the individual “self,” but also the management of institutional image in the world of the global economy (an example might be the popular meme of a Japanese company apologizing in a video for the first price increase of its product in years—its popular ice cream).

Younger generations of Japanese move through this landscape differently. On the one hand, they absorb the Western emphasis on assertiveness, independence, and public expression of opinions; on the other, they still feel the weight of wa, the group harmony whose breach continues to evoke haji. Thus a hybrid arises: an identity that longs to speak with its own voice, yet still carefully listens to the echo of others’ gazes. One may therefore say that haji remains the mirror of the relational “self”—teaching that in Japan the individual always exists in the vector of others’ eyes, and that life consists in the art of assembling and protecting oneself before them. Further research can go in many directions: from the analysis of linguistic formulas of shame, through clinical approaches to social anxiety, to management and corporate ethics. Haji has by no means lost its relevance in Japan—it changes shape, but remains one of the most sensitive barometers of the Japanese soul.

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"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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