Terakoya Schools for the Children of Ordinary People in the Time of the Shogunate – There Are Still Things We Can Learn From Them in the 21st Century
Education without ministers, systems, or officials – and yet it shaped modern Japan
In the soft glow of paper lanterns and the scent of freshly ground sumi ink on a suzuri stone, children sitting in seiza position lean over sheets of delicate washi paper. The only sounds are the rhythmic movement of bamboo brushes gliding over the pages and the quiet, steady voices of pupils practicing their reading. The teacher – a craftsman of samurai descent, now a rōnin – slowly walks among them, correcting posture, adjusting characters. This is a terakoya – a modest room beside a house, which became one of the most important educational phenomena of Japan during the Edo shogunate. There were no formal classes or standardized lesson plans. Instead, there was an individualized approach, a master–student bond, learning adapted to each child's abilities, and a strict upbringing rooted in respect, ritual, and communal life.
It was in such places, in silence and simplicity, that modern Japan was born. Although education during the Edo period (1603–1868) was not compulsory, thanks to the hundreds of thousands of children studying in terakoya – both boys and girls – the country achieved one of the highest literacy rates in the world. By the mid-19th century, in Edo, 86% of men and 35% of women were literate, and in some villages, like Kitashō, that number reached as high as 91%. By comparison: in the same era, in the Kingdom of Poland, only about 15–20% of the population could read and write; in Moscow – 20%, and in France at the end of the 18th century – barely 2%. And all this without ministries, without officially stamped textbooks – it was grassroots: people organized themselves, and schools were built upon the teacher-student relationship, which in Japan was referred to as sanzé no chigiri – a bond lasting three generations.
Today, the word “terakoya” is returning – not as a wooden building in the shadow of a pagoda, but as a symbol of the idea of education accessible to all. In the 21st century, Japan's UNESCO commission runs an international grassroots educational program under this name – the World Terakoya Movement – supporting literacy, hygiene, women's equality, and human rights in countries across Asia and Africa. Terakoya has become a model of education based not on systems, but on community, respect, and flexibility. In a time of standardized tests and digital pressure, perhaps in that quiet room from the Edo period lies the answer to the question: how do we educate a human being – not just a worker?
Dawn at a Terakoya School
Even before the sun rose above the mountain peaks surrounding the valley, the rural landscape was stirring to life. Once, terakoya were known only in large cities – in Edo, in Osaka. But by the 18th century, they had become increasingly widespread, appearing in smaller towns and even villages, numbering over 15,000 – and by the end of the Edo period, some 40,000 institutions. Wooden homes with thatched roofs steamed gently after a cool night, and the narrow, packed paths were alive with quiet activity – someone was stoking a fire, another carrying water in a bucket balanced on a bamboo pole. On one of the side lanes, within the grounds of a small Buddhist temple, a familiar creak echoed through the sliding doors: the lesson at the terakoya (寺子屋) – a school for the children of the poor – was beginning.
The interior was simple, yet well-kept. The polished wooden floor was covered with tatami mats, and in one corner stood a wooden box with calligraphy brushes, ink, and scrolls. The air was filled with the smell of freshly ground sumi ink. Children – both boys and girls (the majority of terakoya were co-educational, which may seem surprising in the Japan of the shogunate era – and yet!) – knelt in seiza position, neat rows of small figures, some only recently beginning their education. The teacher – shishō (師匠) – an experienced craftsman of samurai origin, once a warrior, now a rōnin, dressed in a simple kimono, sat before them with a straight back. His face was stern, but his eyes carried warmth.
At the start, the children bowed deeply in ojigi. A few brought modest gifts: dried chestnuts, rice flour cookies made by their mothers – a form of tuition payment when the family couldn't afford the full fee. Although terakoya were originally charitable institutions, many eventually became paid structures – yet even then, they remained accessible to nearly everyone.
The lesson began with shodō – calligraphy. The children dipped their brushes in ink and, with great concentration, copied patterns from tehon (手本) – writing examples prepared by the master. The characters formed basic words and expressions: family names like Fujiwara, places like Yamato or Seta, days of the week, numbers. For beginners, ōrai (往来物) were prepared – collections of letters and everyday dialogues. Learning was not done in groups – each student had their own material, their own pace, their own level.
At noon came the time for soroban – the abacus. The children practiced basic arithmetic, essential not only for future merchants but also for farmers, who needed to calculate taxes or keep household accounts. In the afternoon, older students studied moral texts: Teikin orai, Confucian treatises, fragments of classics such as Tsurezuregusa. Education was not only meant to provide knowledge, but also to shape character.
The rules in terakoya were strict, yet fair. Students learned not only to write and count but also how to welcome guests at home, how to behave at meals, how to respect elders, and how not to bring shame upon their family. One teacher, Yuyama Bun’emon from the village of Yoshikubo in Suruga (Shizuoka), wrote down eighteen rules that his students were to recite daily – from “greet your teacher in silence” to “pray to your ancestors each morning.” Over time, these rules spread to other terakoya.
The school was quiet, interrupted only by the rustle of brushes and the rhythmic clicking of the soroban beads. The children sat close together but did not speak. Each had their task, their goal – to become a person of takumi (匠 – “specialist”, “mastery”), proficient not only in the art of writing but in life.
As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, the lessons ended – usually in the early afternoon – as children often had to help their parents with farmwork or household chores. They bid farewell to their teacher and classmates. They stepped outside onto the sun-warmed stone paths, carrying in their bags their notebooks (more accurately – sheets of washi paper usually tied with string) and the awareness that they were learning not for grades, but to become part of the world – good children, loyal friends, responsible adults. Or not. As today – each child was different, lived with different dreams, thought of different things – we are not so different after all.
This is what a day in a terakoya looked like – a place which, though humble, laid the foundation for modern Japan. In its silence and simplicity, among ink, bamboo brushes, and words carefully written by still-awkward hands, one of the most literate societies of the 19th century was taking shape.
What Does “Terakoya” Mean?
The word terakoya (寺子屋) is like a box containing three simple kanji – and yet it holds within it an entire world of traditional Japanese education.
► 寺 (tera) – means temple. In Japan, temples have long been not only places of worship, but centers of social, spiritual – and, as it turns out – educational life. It was there that the idea of learning accessible to all first began to sprout.
► 子 (ko) – means child, a symbol of the future, innocence, but also someone just beginning the journey of life.
► 屋 (ya) – simply means house, building, or space.
When combined, these characters form the name 寺子屋 – “the house of children by the temple” or “a place where children learn by the temple.” It is not only a description of a location – it is a story of origins. In many cases, the first such schools were indeed created on the grounds of Buddhist temples, run by monks, before the idea of terakoya spread and became independent.
However, it is worth knowing that the term “terakoya” was more commonly used in the Kansai region (e.g., Kyoto, Osaka) – known as kamigata (上方, “upper region” – the western part of Honshu) – whereas in Edo (modern-day Tokyo), other names were preferred. Children attending schools there referred to their place of learning more formally as:
► 筆学所 (hitsugakusho) – literally “place of brush learning”
► 幼童筆学所 (yōdō hitsugakusho) – “place of brush learning for children”
These were more official terms, emphasizing the didactic function rather than the association with temples – which illustrates regional differences in language and culture during the Edo period.
Over time, however, terakoya became the widely recognized name – today associated with the democratization of education in early Japan. In modern usage, the word also carries a metaphorical meaning – it is used to refer to small, alternative schools, educational initiatives, or informal learning communities that draw upon the spirit of equality and community.
It is no coincidence, then, that “terakoya” appears in the names of contemporary social projects and grassroots educational programs, such as the “World Terakoya Movement” run by the Japanese National Commission for UNESCO. The term no longer denotes a specific building beside a temple, but rather a symbol of the idea: education accessible to all, regardless of origin, age, or wealth.
The History of Education in Japan Before the Edo Period
Before terakoya existed – before the children of farmers and craftsmen began tracing their first kanji on modest sheets of washi – Japanese education was an elitist phenomenon, closed off and deeply tied to authority – both spiritual and secular, which was no different from the majority of countries around the world.
Monasteries as the First Schools – The Nara and Heian Periods (8th ~ 12th centuries)
As early as the 8th century, during the Nara period (710–794), Buddhist monks in Japan served as the first educators. Education was closely linked to religion – temples (寺, tera) were not only centers of spiritual development but also hubs for learning to write, read sutras, and study Buddhist philosophy, primarily modeled on Chinese texts. Schools such as Daigakuryō (a government-run educational institution for officials) or temple schools for young novices admitted only boys from the higher classes – the aristocracy (kuge) and the clergy.
In the Heian period (794–1185), this situation remained largely unchanged – education was a privilege for the few. The imperial court in Kyoto was surrounded by scholars fluent in Confucian and Buddhist classics, writing in Classical Chinese (kanbun). The Japanese writing system was only just beginning to develop – kana and hiragana were being created – yet education remained reserved for a narrow elite. Girls from noble families could occasionally learn calligraphy and poetry (as did the legendary Murasaki Shikibu, author of The Tale of Genji, and her rival Sei Shōnagon – both of whom you can read about in the book Strong Women of Japan), but access to formal learning was severely limited.
Samurai Education – Hankō and Gōgaku
When power in Japan was seized by warriors – first during the Kamakura period (1185–1333), and then in the Muromachi period (1336–1573) – the educational model also began to change. A new warrior class, the samurai, emerged – one that not only fought but also studied, because to govern, one had to understand law, history, and Confucian classics. What did a samurai need to know? – you’ll read about it here: What skills a Samurai Must Have – Skilled Assassin, Sensitive Poet, Disciplined Philosopher?.
In the later periods, especially during the Tokugawa era, samurai established hankō (藩校) – official schools within each domain (han), funded by the daimyō, where young warriors were educated in ethics, calligraphy, Chinese and Japanese literature, military strategy, mathematics, and sometimes even medicine. In major cities, gōgaku (郷学) – local schools of scholars and lower-ranking samurai – also emerged.
One of the most famous of these schools was Shōheikō (昌平黌) in Edo – a center for Confucian learning, radiating values of order, loyalty, and submission, which were key to the rule of the bakufu (the bakufu system was a clever structure created by Tokugawa Ieyasu and his successors to organize the nation of warriors and prevent further civil wars – more on this 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).
The First Seeds of Commoner Education – Mura Shōgaku and Practical Learning
Although no nationwide educational system existed in medieval Japan, this did not mean that the common people never learned. In some regions, early forms of local education emerged, known today as mura shōgaku (村小学) – or “village schools.” Their existence is confirmed by sources such as Eizan Daishi Den, a biography of the monk Saichō from the Heian period, and by archaeological discoveries – for instance, pottery from that era bearing inscribed characters, suggesting a limited knowledge of writing among some peasants.
However, these were exceptions, not the norm. The overwhelming majority of Japan’s population – especially peasants – had no access to formal education. They learned life and craft through practice, observation, and oral traditions. Important knowledge was passed down verbally. Girls learned weaving, cooking, and home management from their mothers; boys learned farming and craftsmanship from their fathers.
No System, But Not Without Knowledge
Although education before the Edo period was scattered, elitist, and irregular, there were still elements of literary culture: the copying of sutras in temples, the art of poetry developed at the imperial court, itinerant monks and teachers transmitting knowledge orally, and a better-educated populace in port towns trading with China and Korea. However, what was lacking was a stable, widely accessible form of education for ordinary people—until the Tokugawa government brought political stability and the growth of the merchant class created ideal conditions for a grassroots revolution: the birth of the terakoya.
It was these simple rural and urban schools that marked a turning point—the first true model of mass education in Japanese history.
The Emergence and Development of Terakoya – Education for the People
In distant medieval times, under the eaves of temple roofs where oil lamps flickered at dusk, the first small schools began to appear. Monks taught young students how to read sutras and practice calligraphy. These were still elite and spiritual spaces, reserved for the chosen few—but it was from this root that a movement would later blossom across Japan. That movement was the terakoya—schools of the people, everyday institutions, humble yet revolutionary.
Though their origins stretch back to the medieval era, the true explosion in the number of terakoya came in the 18th century, especially during the reformist Tenpō era (1830–1844). This was a time when Japan—despite being formally closed off from the outside world—underwent dynamic internal transformations: trade flourished, cities expanded, and the social structure became increasingly complex. The number of purchase agreements, wills, promissory notes, and property deeds increased—along with the demand for literacy, basic arithmetic, and the ability to understand formulas and expressions used in documents. Society could no longer rely solely on oral transmission and trust—it needed tools for life in a world of writing.
Terakoya arose from this need. They were not established by the shōgun, nor mandated by any edict or reform. On the contrary—the bakufu government kept its distance from the education of merchants and peasants, leaving teaching matters in the hands of the people themselves. This is why terakoya were grassroots, community-driven institutions created by the people for the people. A shop owner, a former warrior, a monk, a doctor’s widow—anyone with knowledge and the ability to share it could become a teacher (shishō) and open a school, often in their own home, behind a temple, in an abandoned storehouse, or a designated room.
The numbers are impressive: by the end of the Edo period, there were an estimated 40,000 terakoya operating throughout Japan. In the capital Edo alone, there were several hundred large and over a thousand smaller schools. And they weren’t just urban institutions—terakoya could be found in towns, fishing villages, farming communities, and even in remote mountainous regions, where children attended classes between farm work and family duties.
In Osaka and Kyoto—cities renowned for refinement and literary traditions—terakoya reached a high level of education. In Edo, the political center where many craftsmen and merchants lived, education was more practical—focused on document handling, bookkeeping, and letter writing. In rural regions, students learned the basics: the iroha syllabary, calligraphy, soroban (abacus) arithmetic, and reading the characters on public notice boards. Everywhere, however, the goal was the same: to make a child a full member of society, capable of functioning in the world they lived in.
What made the terakoya exceptional was their diversity. There was no standard curriculum, no state regulations, no educational oversight. Teachers devised lesson plans individually, tailoring materials to each student’s level and needs. There was no strict age-grouping—children learned together, each at their own level, often using handwritten collections of texts called ōrai. These textbooks contained everything—from the names of samurai clans and lists of towns to examples of trade contracts, poetic classics, and moral guidelines.
In this way, despite the lack of compulsory education, Edo-period Japan achieved one of the highest literacy rates in the world. Education was not an obligation—it was a value, an aspiration, and a duty to one's family and community. And terakoya—humble yet vibrant schools—became the silent foundation upon which modern Japan would soon rise.
Was 19th-century Japan Really a Global Leader in Education? Let’s Look at the Facts.
Although no compulsory school system existed in Edo-period Japan, and the state imposed no curriculum or educational structure, society at the time reached one of the highest literacy levels in the world.
In Edo itself—then one of the largest cities on earth—between 70% and 86% of boys and 20% to 40% of girls were in education, an unprecedented figure for a feudal society. In some rural areas, literacy was equally high: in the village of Kitashō in Ōmi Province (now part of Shiga Prefecture), historical records indicate that as many as 91% of residents had contact with terakoya before the fall of the shogunate. A survey conducted in the same region in 1877 found that 89% of men and 39% of women over the age of six could correctly write their names.
By comparison, in early 19th-century England, about 66% of men and 50% of women could read. In Moscow, about 20% of the population was literate, and in France at the end of the 18th century, only 1.4% of the population could read and write. Even in the United States, despite a growing system of public education, literacy hovered around 75–80%, with significant regional disparities.
Seen in this light, Edo-period Japan appears as a nation with an exceptionally widespread literacy rate—especially considering the absence of centralized educational oversight. It was the grassroots network of terakoya, not any state decree, that enabled the common people—peasants, townsfolk, artisans—to become a conscious, literate society. A society that, on the threshold of the Meiji era, was already primed for rapid modernization and the swift assimilation of modern knowledge—because the educational foundation had already been laid.
Organization, Rules, and Daily Life in a Terakoya
In a quiet alley in Osaka, nestled between a shop selling dyed cloth and a bookbinder’s workshop, the day began with the sound of sliding fusuma doors. It was there, in such a modest wooden room with tatami-covered floors, that the children of artisans, merchants, and small-scale farmers sat in rows, ready to learn. No one forced them to attend; there were no laws mandating school attendance, and yet they came—carrying bamboo pencil cases, inkpots, and hearts full of childhood curiosity.
Terakoya did not impose compulsory education—children attended voluntarily, typically from the age of seven, and finished around twelve or thirteen. The duration of study depended on the family’s circumstances, the child’s needs, and the teacher’s judgment. Unlike modern schools, there were no classes, no bells, no standardized curriculum. Instead, there was an individualized approach that would today be considered progressive pedagogy.
Each student received assignments suited to their level. One child practiced basic syllabaries, another learned the names of samurai clans or local villages, while yet another reviewed templates for trade documents or land purchase agreements. The teacher—called shishō or tenarai shishō—did not give lectures but moved from pupil to pupil, checking progress, correcting mistakes with a brush, and assigning the next exercises.
The Curriculum: Practical and Rooted in Everyday Life
The curriculum was practical and adapted to daily life: – calligraphy, often starting with copying model examples called tehon, – reading (both kanji and the kana syllabaries), – arithmetic using the soroban—a Japanese abacus, – writing documents and letters, – geography, including knowledge of local and national place names, – etiquette and good manners, that is, learning proper behavior at home and in society.
Children used so-called ōrai-mono (往来物)—collections of letters, document templates, and language examples. Some of these textbooks had their roots in the Heian period and were adapted over centuries to suit the level of peasant and townspeople's children. Lessons also included excerpts from Confucian classics and moral texts such as Teikin ōrai and Rikuyō Engi, which aimed not only to develop linguistic skills but also to shape character.
A typical day in terakoya was divided into morning and afternoon learning blocks. For example, in the morning, children might practice writing, copying characters and texts on sheets of washi paper. In the afternoon, the focus would shift to arithmetic, geography, and ethics. Monthly or end-of-year examinations and calligraphy exhibitions were organized, during which students presented their most beautiful work—often adorned with the teacher’s seal and displayed on special hanging scrolls. These were not merely exercises but rites of passage, affirming a student’s growth into a responsible member of society.
Learning did not stop at practical knowledge. Equally important was moral education, deeply rooted in Japanese Confucianism. Teachers cultivated not only the mind but the spirit. The renowned shishō Yuyama Bun’emon from the village of Yoshikubo in Suruga Province created in 1844 a set of eighteen principles that every student was required to know and follow. Among them were: – gratitude to parents and daily bows before meals, – morning prayers to the ancestors and a bow to the sun, – punctuality and politeness toward the teacher, – shared responsibility for keeping the school in order, – treating fellow students as siblings, – avoiding tattling and resolving conflicts without involving adults whenever possible.
(Quite a surprising principle, isn’t it? Here's the original wording:
喧嘩口論ハ皆自分之悪ゆへ内々親々取上ざる事
"Quarrels and disputes among students are the fault of both sides; parents should not be involved.”
Just thought I’d point it out.)
These rules were not empty formalities—they were meant to shape a virtuous, responsible person, someone who lived in harmony with others. That is why the relationship between student and teacher in terakoya was often described with the phrase sanzé no chigiri—“a bond lasting three generations.” Students would visit their teachers’ graves even years later, and after their deaths, would build commemorative monuments—hitsuzuka (筆子塚)—thousands of which can still be found today.
Terakoya did not produce scholarly philosophers but good citizens. They didn’t create elites but trained the foundation of society—those who, through literacy, arithmetic, and ethical principles, built Japan in everyday life. In the quiet of a small room, with the whisper of brushes on paper, a silent revolution was unfolding—one that bore fruit not only in the Edo period but also in the approaching age of modernity.
Who Were the Terakoya Teachers?
Unlike today’s certified educators, teachers in terakoya—known as shishō (師匠) or tenarai shishō (手習師匠)—were often self-taught masters who had gained knowledge through life experience rather than formal schooling. Their authority did not come from titles or government promotions, but from lived experience. That’s why these teachers came from highly diverse social backgrounds: they included merchants, artisans, retired warriors, Buddhist monks, doctors, calligraphers, and even rural clerks.
In an era when women rarely had formal authority, female teachers running their own terakoya were not unusual—especially in cities like Edo. Sources mention over 80 registered female teachers in a study conducted at the beginning of the Meiji era, including masters from the Kōjimachi district and former students of renowned literary schools. Their presence proves that terakoya education was flexible and inclusive—as long as the teacher had both authority and teaching ability.
Students were called fudeko (筆子)—“children of the brush”—a term that reflected the intimate bond between learning and the writing tool. The relationship between fudeko and shishō didn’t end with the last written character. Many students maintained contact with their teacher for years, supporting them in old age and, after their passing, funding shared graves—fudeko-zuka (筆子塚). On the Bōsō Peninsula alone, more than 3,000 such gravestones have survived—silent monuments of gratitude that have withstood even the storms of modernity.
In a world where knowledge was passed not through institutions but through individuals, the teacher’s authority was personal—almost sacred. Students saw their shishō not just as writing instructors but as spiritual and moral guides—figures who shaped not only letters, but the whole person.
Beyond School: How Was Education Continued?
Although education in terakoya usually ended around age 12 or 13, learning sometimes continued—outside the school walls. Young boys would often join wakamonogumi (若者組)—youth groups that served as local civic academies. There, the focus was no longer on calligraphy or arithmetic, but on tradition, morality, community duties, and teamwork.
Members of wakamonogumi often lived together, participated in rigorous physical exercises and communal duties, and were taught behaviors in line with local community values. Older members taught the younger ones how to behave during festivals, care for the local shrine, greet guests, and keep the streets clean. It was a training in societal life, built on discipline, rituals, and responsibility. Parents had no right to interfere at this stage—the authority now rested with the community.
For girls, there were musumegumi (娘組)—their counterparts, though far less documented. It is believed they served a similar role, teaching girls proper behavior, family rituals, household care, and cooperation within local support networks.
In Edo society, education did not end with reading and arithmetic (and Japanese mathematics wasan, which held a special place—more on that here: Japanese Higher Mathematics – Wasan: The Samurai Art of Composing High-Degree Equations). It was a process of forming fully integrated members of the community. Terakoya provided the foundation; wakamonogumi and musumegumi shaped the form. Thanks to this, Japanese villages and towns were so efficiently self-governed without extensive bureaucracy: the community taught, watched over, and nurtured. Education was not just a right—but a rite of passage.
Terakoya Today – Learning for All
Although terakoya disappeared from Japan’s physical landscape with the advent of the Meiji era and the introduction of a modern school system, their spirit survived—and continues to inspire. In the 21st century, in an age of digital screens and global inequalities, the idea of grassroots, universally accessible education is once again strikingly relevant. And not only in Japan.
Since 1989, the Japanese Federation of UNESCO Associations has been running the World Terakoya Movement, bringing the philosophy of the old temple schools to communities that still struggle with limited access to education. In Cambodia, in rural areas of Battambang and Siem Reap provinces, educational centers have been established that teach both children and adults the basics of literacy, hygiene, human rights, and sustainable agriculture. In Myanmar, a network of more than 20 modern terakoya not only educates but also supports people affected by humanitarian crises, providing food, knowledge, and a sense of community.
Yet the legacy of terakoya is more than just humanitarian aid. It is also an educational philosophy grounded in several core values: respect for the learner, flexible teaching, the role of community, and the cultivation of the whole person—not just the worker. In an era of standardized systems, rankings, and mass testing, a model of education rooted in the master–student relationship, daily practice, and moral values can offer a valuable alternative—especially where education has become detached from real life.
And although we no longer hear the sound of a brush gliding across washi paper or the voice of a shishō correcting a child’s seated posture in seiza, the spirit of terakoya is being reborn in new forms. Today’s "online terakoya"—courses created by passionate individuals, educational communities, and knowledge-sharing platforms—are the modern counterparts of the old temple schools. Like their predecessors, they are built by people, for people—not by top-down institutions.
Thus, the legacy of terakoya is not a closed chapter of history, but a living idea for the future—one of education that not only teaches but also connects, inspires, and restores dignity. Just like in Edo, today everything begins with the desire to learn the first characters.
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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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