The Bashaku Rebellion – Shogun, Do Not Trifle with the Carrier
The Forgotten Force That Toppled the Muromachi Shogunate
They were people of the road, nomads of the samurai Middle Ages — of the Kamakura and Muromachi eras. Not samurai, not monks, not merchants of influence — but carriers, who knew that the country lived only so long as goods moved along its routes. The bashaku (馬借) led horses loaded with rice, salt, wood, paper, sake — from the ports of Lake Biwa to the markets of Kyōto and Nara. Their rhythm was determined by roads, rain, dust, stones, and grain prices. Yet they were the first to see the signs of crisis — long before the court, the monasteries, or the shogunate felt it. At the crossroads where the Karasaki road met the route toward Yamashina, rumors of famine, debt, and usury were first heard.
At a time when the authority of the Muromachi bakufu was crumbling under the weight of internal conflict, corruption, and social tension, it was they who first raised the call of rebellion. It was not the sword but debt that became the weapon. Not warriors, but those who carried the burdens of Japan on their own backs. When new tokusei — debt cancellation edicts — were announced, it was the bashaku who best knew when to believe and when to laugh. They saw how the monasteries of Enryaku-ji and the great merchants of Sakai issued loans at extortionate interest to peasants and artisans. They also knew that insolvency meant the loss of life, land, and family. Their uprising was not a romantic outburst of fury. It was an economic necessity — the moment when the system became so uneven that those who upheld it realized they could also overturn it.
Put bluntly: the shogunate fell not because it was militarily weak, but because it ceased to understand the economy of the country it ruled. The bashaku were the blood running through Japan’s arteries. When they stopped moving — Kyōto froze. When they blocked the road to Sakamoto — famine entered the wealthy city like fog, softly but inexorably. When they refused obedience — the shogun’s authority proved to be a façade. Their story is not one of heroism or betrayal. It is about how power falls not when it loses the sword, but when it loses the roads. And that sometimes the people considered the “background of history” are in fact the axis of its turning.
Let us look more closely today at the medieval bashaku carriers of the Kamakura era.
SCENE
10th day of the 8th month, first year of the Shōchō era
September 4, 1428
Dawn over Lake Biwa was cold and damp. The mist rose from the water slowly and unwillingly, and with it the roads leading to Sakamoto and onward toward the capital began to awaken. Harima, one of many bashaku working this stretch, was tightening the straps securing the twin pack-sacks slung across his horse. They used strong hemp ropes twisted by rural craftsmen, and the packs were lined with dry straw to protect the goods from jolting. Most often they carried rice, salt, sake, textiles, and paper — urban and rural goods that constantly changed places depending on which region had surplus and which lacked.
The road they were to take was one of the main trade arteries of Ōmi Province. Along it stretched small settlements and stations where bashaku gathered in groups, for traveling alone was too risky. There were bandits, and also checkpoints where guards collected taxes or extorted bribes — depending on whether the checkpoint belonged to the shogunate, a local daimyō, or armed monks of Enryaku-ji. The bashaku lived between these worlds: neither peasants bound to land, nor townsmen, nor warriors. They formed their own kind of road fellowship — those who knew what happened between places, not just in them.
That morning, however, something was different, though at first glance nothing revealed the reason. Work went on as usual: horses snorted, someone mended a broken strap, someone else sat on a crate, quickly eating a bowl of cold rice with a few beans. Yet the conversations, usually loud and easy, were muted. Normally they joked about the moods of horses, about how some sleepy guard at a checkpoint had been tricked for less than a bowl of sake, or about spice prices in Nara. Now they spoke in whispers, glancing toward the road, as if someone — or something — might appear upon it.
For several weeks, famine had spread. First came drought, then rice diseases (blight and rust), and finally the death of the shōgun (Ashikaga Yoshimochi), which triggered expensive ceremonies and more taxes. Those who had no money pawned their tools, then their land, and finally themselves — becoming day laborers wherever they could be taken even in exchange for food. The bashaku saw this everywhere because they moved between villages and cities. They knew the weight of debt had become unbearable.
They also knew that in similar moments in the past, the shogunate had issued tokusei (徳政) — decrees canceling debts. That word now drifted through conversations like a bird unable to find a place to land. No one spoke it aloud, for simply calling for tokusei could brand one a rebel — but murmurs and sighs returned to memories of earlier decrees.
Harima looked at the gathered men. Most were like him — small peasants who each year had less of their own land and spent more and more time on the road with their horses. Beside them stood more experienced carriers, sometimes called bashaku-gashira (馬借頭) — group leaders responsible for dealings with merchants, taxes, and sometimes negotiations with monasteries controlling the roads. All were tired — but in their tiredness there was something new: a focus belonging neither to work nor to everyday life.
When a messenger arrived from Ōtsu, bringing word that tokusei would not be issued, no one shouted or struck the ground with a fist. Instead, there was silence — heavy, but not empty. The silence of those who understood that a boundary had been crossed; that if they did nothing now, their fate would never change.
Harima adjusted the strap along the saddle bow. He was not a violent man; he did not even know whether he could fight. But he knew that if they moved together, they would not be a chaotic band of peasants, but people who knew the roads, knew where to strike, how to bypass checkpoints, how to cut a city off from its supplies. Their strength did not come from weapons, but from the nature of their work itself.
As the group set out, the horses walked calmly, as though departing on another ordinary day of transporting goods. Only this time, they did not carry rice.
They carried a decision.
Who Were the Bashaku?
The word bashaku was written with the characters 馬借, read ba-shaku. The first character, 馬 (uma / ba), simply means “horse” — an animal essential to transportation in premodern Japan, though not as common nor as prestigious as in Europe, where the horse was tied closely to knighthood. The second character, 借 (kariru / shaku), means “to borrow, rent, lend.” Together, the characters form a practical, work-oriented term: “those who rent out horses and transport others’ goods.” In this sense, the bashaku were neither owners of great herds nor mounted warriors. They were people of the road — carriers who rented out themselves, their horses, and their time to the route.
It is worth noting that medieval Japan also had the term shashaku (車借) — carriers who used oxen (牛, ushi) to pull carts. The horse was faster, lighter, and better suited to mountainous, coastal, and uneven terrain, so bashaku operated mainly along routes connecting ports, monasteries, and trade centers, whereas shashaku more often moved across flatlands, along broad merchant roads, or near large rice warehouses.
The bashaku emerged as a professional group not by state decree but from the ground up, alongside the development of a money-based economy in the late Heian and early Kamakura periods. Earlier, large-scale transport depended on relay stations and the state postal horse system (denma / ekiba 伝馬・駅馬 — more on the history of carriers in old Japan here: The Shogunate’s Reliable Couriers – Hikyaku and the Carrier Market of Medieval Japan), controlled by the imperial court. But as real power shifted to the warrior class and private landed estates (shōen 荘園) began to function as independent economic organisms, transportation ceased to be a state domain and fell into the hands of those who could organize it themselves.
The social origins of the bashaku are key to understanding their later political role. Most of them were:
- small-scale peasants (零細農, reisai-nō) whose fields were too small to support them,
- craftsmen who made ropes, saddles, and wooden pack-frames,
- seasonal laborers who, over time, stopped returning to agriculture,
- and in some regions, landless people hired irregularly.
They existed partly outside established social structures. They were not bound to land like peasants, but neither were they townspeople who paid guild taxes and belonged to fixed communities. They did not participate in samurai hierarchies, though they often worked alongside warriors, transporting weapons or supplies. Their world was the world of the road — not of the city, not of the village. And it was precisely this “in-between” state that made them both valuable and dangerous.
The road gave them mobility, knowledge of prices, information about poor harvests and tax burdens, the ability to gather people quickly, and a sense of fellowship born not from lineage but from shared circumstance. A horse had to be led regardless of weather. Goods had to arrive on time, or the client would not pay. One had to know the guard posts, know which guards were best avoided and which could be persuaded with a small favor or gift. One had to weigh risk at every bend in the road.
So when, in the first year of the Shōchō era (1428) and again in the first year of the Kakitsu era (1441), the state refused to issue tokusei — debt cancellation — it was the bashaku who first understood what this meant. They saw famine in the fields before the officials did, heard desperate pleas for loans before the merchants did, and were the first to sense that the entire economic system was breathing ever more shallowly.
Thus, they were the first to move.
The Economic Background of the Bashaku’s Emergence
To understand where the bashaku came from, one must look at a long process of transformation that began in the late Heian period (794–1185). Japan was then accustomed to the ryō system (the court-based provincial administration) and to a world in which the basic unit of value was a grain of rice, and local production and consumption imposed a predictable and closed rhythm on people’s lives. Yet from the twelfth century onward, particularly in provinces close to major court and monastic centers, a new world was taking root — one in which land was no longer the sole measure of wealth, and goods began to circulate, and to do so ever faster.
With the rise of military government (bakufu) in Kamakura and the gradual growth of autonomy among great clans, a money economy began to penetrate deeper into society. Coins of the Song dynasty were imported from China, first used only in large transactions, then increasingly in everyday trade. In this world of goods and coin, transport became the condition for everything else to function. Rice from the provinces had to reach Kyōto. Wood and charcoal from mountain villages had to travel land routes to the cities. Paper from Echizen had value only once it arrived at the monasteries of Nara.
Japan already had a state transport system known as denma / ekiba (伝馬・駅馬): official stations where one could change horses and relay messages. Created during the Taika Reforms of the 7th century, it worked reasonably well for several centuries, but by the 14th century it was decaying. The state — weakened by wars, clan disputes, and the growing autonomy of monasteries and provincial samurai — could no longer maintain the network of stations, horses, and personnel. Into this gap stepped the people of the road — the bashaku.
The bashaku were not officials, but private carriers who rose to prominence because the market needed them. They organized transport not because the court or the shōgun ordered it, but because demand had emerged for it. In cities such as Kyōto, Nara, and Sakai, more and more goods arrived by water, but from the docks they had to be moved inland. The bashaku were specialists precisely in that stretch between boat and warehouse, between port and the hills beyond.
Whoever wanted rice, sake, wood, paper, or textiles delivered quickly and on time — hired the bashaku.
Over time, they began to form settlements along the roads — in places where trade routes intersected with opportunities for rest and crossing. That is why Otsu, Sakamoto, and Yodo appear so frequently in historical sources — points where goods came off boats and passed into the hands of the horse people.
One may say that the bashaku were the blood circulating through the veins of Japan’s economy.
Where that flow stopped — the city ceased to breathe.
Where it flowed freely — the iron machinery of politics could continue to turn.
And for this reason — when one day that blood stopped of its own will, demanding tokusei, the cancellation of debts, and a change of terms…
All of Japan trembled.
Life and Work of the Bashaku
The life of a bashaku unfolded along roads and rivers, at the meeting points of water and land, in places where goods had to change their means of transport. Their settlements were unusual: they did not resemble ordinary villages, but rather functional, bustling waystations. They consisted of stables, roofed storage sheds, modest dwellings, and yards where ropes and canvas sacks were hung out to dry. There was always a fire or a clay hearth burning, where bashaku warmed their hands and dried their mud-soaked waraji sandals. The most important centers of their activity were in Ōtsu, Sakamoto, and Yodo — the points where river travel ended and the overland march toward Kyōto and Nara began.
Bashaku communities had their own hierarchy and internal order. At their head stood the bashaku-gashira (馬借頭), literally “head of the horse carriers” — the person who negotiated contracts with merchants, set prices, protected group interests, and ensured safety along the route. Beneath him acted the kogashira, who handled daily decisions, assigned tasks, and determined the day’s route. Below them were the umazashi, responsible for the horses, equipment, horseshoes, saddles, pack-straps, and all the small things that usually go unnoticed, but without which everything stops instantly.
Only at the very bottom were the bashi — those who led the horses, hoisted the loads, waded through rivers, and slept wherever the night happened to catch them. This structure — born not from state directives but from practice, experience, and mutual trust — later became the foundation of their organizational strength during uprisings.
The day began at dawn, often before the first rooster crowed. The horses were fed first: hay, bran, and sometimes cheap rice if the last trip had been profitable. Then the equipment was checked — straps, pack padding, bindings, so the load would not rub the horse’s back. Only afterward came the people’s breakfast: a bowl of rice, miso soup with cabbage or turnip, sometimes a piece of dried fish from Lake Biwa. If the day was expected to be especially hard, they brewed bancha (番茶 — “common tea”), sharp and warm, good for the stomach and the morning dampness.
The march was long. Roads were muddy, slick after rain, and in winter frozen hard. In the mountains the wind was sharp, on the plains dust worked its way under clothing. The bashaku did not complain — they knew that the road leads those who walk it. In the evening, if they were fortunate, they stayed at a humble tavern near a bridge. More often they slept in a shed or beneath the overhang of a port warehouse, with their horse right beside them, for the horse was their partner, their livelihood, and their guarantee of survival.
Their religiosity arose from daily life, not doctrine. They stopped at small roadside shrines to Jizō (地蔵), guardian of travelers and the deceased. Sometimes they left small offerings for Kannon (観音), she who hears the voices of those in need. In the mountains, they whispered prayers to local gongen, deities fused with rock and forest. Their prayers were short, often wordless — more sighs than requests.
Risk was their everyday companion. Sometimes a band of brigands waited at a pass; sometimes guards collected tolls again and again; sometimes illness weakened a man or horse halfway along the route; sometimes rain raised a river so high it could not be forded. Every bashaku knew someone who had not returned from the road. Yet he also knew that the road was the only place where he felt truly necessary.
Horses were treated with great respect. Bashaku knew them by name, by how they laid their ears, by how their breathing quickened on an incline. They treated them with herbs, covered them in blankets of hemp fiber, massaged their backs after long marches. There was even a saying*:
馬を養ひて己が身を後にす、馬は人の足なり。
Uma o yashinai-te onore ga mi o nochi ni su, uma wa hito no ashi nari.
“Care for the horse first, put yourself second — for the horse is the legs of the man.”
* Recorded in sources such as 『古澤流馬医書』 (Furusawa-ryū Baishisho), 14th c.
This was a quiet, laborious daily existence, built on the rhythm of the road, the weight of cargo, and a rough fellowship of work. And yet — beneath that daily life something else simmered. Exhaustion turned into anger. Endless labor and shrinking earnings. Heavy burdens and rising taxes and debts. Those who knew every road of Japan had to realize that they held the power to close those roads.
And, eventually, they did realize it.
The Shōchō (1428) and Kakitsu (1441) Uprisings
In Shōchō 1 (1428), when the entire country was speaking of the death of Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshimochi and the sudden outbreak of the three-day fever (三日瘧 — a deadly early form of cholera or typhoid), the situation on the roads leading to Ōtsu and Sakamoto had already been tense for many months. Rice was being harvested, but yields were low, and prices in the cities rose faster than the goods could be transported.
Bashaku, who until then had been only carriers — people between village and city — found themselves at the center of a spiral of debt. Many had to pawn their own tools: bridles, saddlebags, even their horses themselves, to pay interest to merchants in Kyōto and the sake-districts of Sakamoto. Worst of all were the debts owed to temples — and monasteries like Enryaku-ji or Kōfuku-ji charged interest without mercy, for they needed funds for ceremonies, for rebuilding halls, and for their own political activities.
In that era, it was commonly believed that the death of a shōgun was a moment when the world turned briefly onto its other side and one could “breathe” free from burdens. This practice was called 徳政 (tokusei) — “restoring order through the remission of debts.” People remembered earlier centuries when new regimes proclaimed such relief to calm the populace. But the Muromachi court fell silent.
The bashaku, living daily in motion between villages and markets, hearing rumors, news, and shifts in mood, were the first to say aloud what everyone had been thinking:
- “Tokusei o okonae!” — “Declare tokusei!”
They were not peasants bound to a single village — they had a network.
They were not samurai dependent on a single lord — they had movement.
And they had horses, through which news traveled faster than any decree from Kyōto.
When, in Ōtsu, the first carriers refused to repay their debts and entered the sake storehouses of wealthy merchants in the port districts, it was a clear and unmistakable signal. The next day, bashaku from Sakamoto joined, and later groups from Kinai, who transported goods into Kyōto. In August and September, various villages, market towns, and river ports began to repeat their actions like an echo. Some places acted more chaotically, others with surprising organization: first the debt documents were destroyed, only then were the stores looted.
At this stage, the temples found themselves in a decidedly uncomfortable position. The monasteries themselves were moneylenders, yet at the same time they possessed their own corps of warrior monks — sōhei (more on the military aspect of Buddhism here: The Monk with the Naginata: The Martial Face of Buddhism in Kamakura Japan). In Sakamoto, some bashaku were under contract with Enryaku-ji. As the uprising spread, a split formed between two factions:
- temple-aligned bashaku, loyal to the monastery,
- and urban bashaku, supporting tokusei.
Historians would later call this divide “the bashaku secession of Ōmi” (近江馬借の離反).
When the rebellion reached Kyōto, the situation became critical. Road blockades — something the bashaku mastered better than anyone — paralyzed the cities. Passes, bridges, and river crossings were sealed. Rice no longer reached merchants, sake no longer traveled between ports, and the shogunate lost the ability to collect taxes.
In Kakitsu 1 (1441) the situation repeated itself, but even more dramatically. This time it came after the assassination of Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshinori. Once again prices rose, once again debts crushed livelihoods, once again the word tokusei circulated.
In the Kakitsu rebellion, the bashaku were no longer merely the ones who began the unrest — they had become the logistical backbone of the uprising. Their ability to halt movement was a social weapon extremely difficult to counter. When the bashaku refused to ride, the country stopped.
And a shogunate that could not control its own roads began to lose authority — visibly, and in the eyes of every class: from peasants, to the merchants of Sakai, to the warriors of the countryside.
Bashaku and the Decline of Muromachi Bakufu Authority
If the Muromachi bakufu ruled through authority, it was because it could transform violence into order and belief into obedience. In the 15th century, both of these currencies began to devalue — more quickly than those in Kyōto realized. Tokuseirei proclaimed under pressure — whether from street unrest in 1428 or from organized demands and road blockades in 1441 — signaled clearly to society that the center no longer governed from strength, but from reaction. The decree that should have radiated the majesty of “rule through virtue” (for this is literally what tokusei means: 徳政) became instead an act of capitulation before the street and the road. Once the precedent of forced “restoration of order” was set, every future crisis became a negotiation with the crowd, not a decision of the state.
This struck directly at the trust of merchants and temples, the two pillars of the urban economy. A merchant’s first priority is the continuity of contracts; if debts and credit notes can be canceled — not as a gracious gesture of the ruler, but as the result of collective force — capital retreats into personal networks: into family ties and guild alliances rather than public law. The monasteries, which for centuries had acted as banks and insurers, discovered that their secular economic power was fragile when confronted by those who controlled the physical flow of goods. When bashaku closed passes, bridges, and transfer-points, the wealth of the temples proved to be paper-thin: assets recorded in documents ceased to exist when they could not be transported, sold, or converted into rice or coin.
In the vacuum left by the weakening of central authority, the autonomy of local lords and village communities grew. Shugo and jizamurai (landholding samurai — more on them, and the rise of shinobi/ninja in Iga, here: Iga Province: The Independent Ninja Republic and People's Commune in the Era of the Samurai) realized that real order existed wherever there was the ability to guarantee movement and safety — not where someone in Kyōto stamped a seal. In many regions, it was they, rather than the bakufu, who negotiated with transport groups, market towns, and monasteries. Peasant communities that made mutual agreements with the bashaku regarding deliveries and road patrols gained political agency: they learned that lost tools and land could be regained not through petition, but through stopping motion. This is how politics forms “from below” — not in ideas, but in practice.
In this sense, the bashaku were catalysts of the collapse of the center not because they raised an army against it, but because they revealed the mechanics of the state: the bakufu is strong only so long as goods, taxes, and stipends flow. When those who physically make that flow possible say “no,” authority is reduced to ornament. The Shōchō and Kakitsu uprisings were not merely explosions of anger — they were demonstrations of operational dependency: the capital, the monasteries, the court, the shugo — all were subject to the rhythm of the road. This experience became socially generalized: once tokusei could be forced, taxes could be negotiated, tolls contested, and obligations between center and province redefined.
The result was not an immediate political revolution, but erosion. Merchants began supporting local powers rather than appealing to Kyōto; temples increasingly armed their own sōhei, investing in nearby strength rather than distant legitimacy; jizamurai constructed “micro-regimes” of security based on personal agreements. From these fractures the Sengoku era arose (more here: The Real Sengoku – What Was Life Like for the Swordless in the Shadow of Samurai Wars?): an age in which the ability to maintain roads, bridges, and storehouses became as important as family crest and sword. The bashaku did not “overthrow” the bakufu in the sense of staging a dramatic coup; they accelerated the process by which the center ceased to be taken for granted, and politics fractured into an archipelago of local sovereignties.
This is why the study of tokusei uprisings encourages us to see the 15th century not as an episode of chaos, but as a lesson in infrastructure. The Muromachi government endured only so long as it could align legal authority with economic flow. When law stopped ordering movement — and movement, through the bashaku, began dictating law — the authority of the bakufu expired from within. From that moment onward, Japanese history no longer moves toward a restoration of former unity, but toward a new order of dispersed power — one that will only be formalized at the end of the 16th century.
What Remains of the Bashaku?
When the fifteenth century comes to an end and Japan enters ever more deeply into the age of civil war, the bashaku do not suddenly disappear. Their horses still travel the Nakasendō road, the shores of Lake Biwa, the Hira mountain passes, and the Yamato plain. What changes is the meaning of their work: from rebels and negotiators of the “order of the road,” they become part of increasingly formalized transport networks, subordinated to local lords and emerging urban self-governments. Two generations later, when Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Tokugawa Ieyasu begin to unify and organize the country, it is precisely the bashaku’s experience — their knowledge of routes, inns, horses, and the art of assessing risk on the road — that becomes the foundation of the new communication system.
In the Edo period, the famous courier systems 伝馬 (tenma) and 飛脚 (hikyaku) take shape, along with transport guilds servicing the great cities. In many places — especially in Ōmi, Ōtsu, Sakamoto, and Yodo — their core was formed by descendants and former members of the bashaku. Those who once demanded tokusei now became specialists of the road: controllers of river crossings, carriers of tribute rice, messengers between Edo and Osaka. Within the hikyaku organizations, one can still detect a memory — a shared understanding — that the road is a form of power, not merely a profession.
Traces of the bashaku remain in culture as well. In emaki (illustrated scrolls) such as Ishiyama-dera engi, one can recognize the figure of a man leading a horse laden with packs — an unassuming figure, yet present: “a person of the road.” In temple chronicles, monks recorded with bitterness or admiration the moments when the bashaku could effectively shut down the world by blocking a pass or port. In local legends from the region around Lake Biwa, stories survive of “people who knew where the river ran beneath the earth” — a metaphor for their understanding of terrain, weather, and risk.
And did anything of them survive into modern Japan?
If we look superficially — no. There is no “profession of bashaku.” There are no horse caravans along the Tōkaidō.
But if we look more deeply — the traces are unmistakable:
- the logistics of Japan rely on precision, punctuality, and uninterrupted flow, just as the work of the bashaku once did,
- courier companies (such as Yamato, Sagawa, Nippon Express) often emphasize care, reliability, and continuity of route in their symbolism,
- Japanese cities still organize space along the axis of roads — as former waystations once did,
- the work culture continues to value group solidarity and “we who carry the burden together” — and the origin of that sensibility lies partly in communities such as the bashaku.
One may say: the bashaku did not survive as a social class — their way of thinking about the road survived.
Their story is not a closed tale of the fifteenth century, but an underground current that continues to flow: from the pack slung across a horse’s back to the ability to click “package shipped” at three in the morning.
The road continues.
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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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