On the edge of Japanese cliffs where the sea and despair seem to sing the same song, an eighty-year-old retiree stands with binoculars and a bowl of mochi. For twenty years he has been repeating one phrase: chotto matte!

The wind at Tōjinbō doesn’t blow — it pushes. It strikes your face flat, forces its way under your jacket, presses between your ribs. It is salty, cold, and so intense that after a few minutes you forget why you came. Tourists from Osaka and Tokyo take photos at the edge — leaning forward like sailboats, phones extended at arm’s length. Behind them stretches a shopping arcade where you can buy oroshi-mochi, local zuwaigani crab, and a T-shirt reading “I’m hanging off a cliff.” Twenty meters below, the Sea of Japan crashes against columns of andesite rock so old that beside them all of human civilization is a mere blink. Thirteen million years ago, the local magma slowly cooled and arranged itself into pentagonal and hexagonal pillars — a geological structure so rare that only three such sites exist in the entire world: here at Tōjinbō, in the Keumgang Mountains on the Korean Peninsula, and on the western coast of Scandinavia. Tōjinbō is a natural monument, a landscape with the status of meishō (名勝) — officially one of Japan’s most beautiful views. But, sadly, that is not why people travel here from all over the country.

They come because it is easy to die here. The cliffs stand twenty-five meters high, there are no barriers of any kind, and below wait sharp rocks and a current that will carry a body dozens of kilometers away — or never return it. Over thirty years — from the late 1970s to 2009 — six hundred and forty-three bodies were found at the foot of these cliffs. In the darkest years, more than twenty-five people died here annually. Not by chance: eighty to ninety percent of those police intercepted at the edge came from outside Fukui Prefecture. They drove for hours — from Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya — because Tōjinbō is a place Japan knows. Knows from television suspense dramas where the detective corners the criminal against a cliff face. Knows from newspapers. Knows from legends. And this is the darkest paradox of these cliffs: their fame kills.

But there is someone who waits here. Every day, from dawn to dusk, for twenty years. With binoculars around his neck, wearing a windbreaker, with the face of a man who has seen too much and therefore cannot look away. Shige Yukio is eighty-two years old. He is a retired police superintendent, the founder of a small non-profit, and the owner of a tea house where he serves rice cakes with grated radish. Over two decades, he has saved more than seven hundred and fifty people. He doesn’t do it with binoculars as a weapon — he does it with a single phrase he repeats to everyone he sees sitting motionless on the edge: chotto matte (ちょっと待て). “Wait a moment.” And it turns out that most of them were waiting for exactly that.

Stone, Water, Time

When you see Tōjinbō for the first time, you don’t see cliffs. You see a cathedral. Steel-gray columns rise from the sea like organ pipes — some vertical, others tilted, still others broken and scattered in the water like rubble after an earthquake. Waves have been beating against them for thirteen million years and have not won. Erosion sculpted here slowly, patiently, with the precision of a Japanese gardener: it created Rōsoku-iwa (ローソク岩) — the Candle Rock, a solitary obelisk jutting from the foam; Raion-iwa (ライオン岩) — the Lion Rock, whose profile genuinely resembles a drowsing beast; Senjōjiki (千畳敷) — the “Thousand Mats,” a flat rock terrace where you can stand and watch the horizon dissolve in the gray of sky and water. This formation — chūjō setsuri (柱状節理), columnar jointing — forms when volcanic lava cools slowly underground, contracts uniformly, and fractures into geometric pillars. Only three sites of this scale survive anywhere on Earth. Tōjinbō was designated a natural monument and included in the Echizen-Kaga Coastal Landscape Park. Geologists come here from around the world. I am by no means an expert in geology (I know practically nothing about it) — but there are plenty of brochures on site that convey this information. In any case — it was not geologists who gave this place its name.

Tōjinbō is a person’s name. A monk who was pushed from these cliffs more than eight centuries ago. And it is from that fall that everything begins.

The Monk Who Plunged

In the twelfth century, the temple Heisen-ji (平泉寺) in what is now the city of Katsuyama, forty-three kilometers inland from the cliffs, was a religious empire. A center of the Hakusan mountain cult, housing thousands of monks and warrior-monks — sōhei (僧兵) — occupying a complex of several thousand buildings. Military might comparable to the monasteries of Mount Hiei (I write more about the militant side of Buddhism here: The Monk with the Naginata: The Martial Face of Buddhism in Kamakura Japan). It was in this world that the man we remember as Tōjinbō lived.

According to the most popular version of the legend — inscribed on information boards at the cliffs themselves and retold in Kigan-ki (帰雁記), an eighteenth-century chronicle of Echizen Province’s landmarks — Tōjinbō was a monk of superhuman physical strength and brutal temperament. He terrorized local residents, broke monastic rules, and when he fell in love with a beautiful woman from the area, he entered a fierce rivalry with another monk, Magara Kakunen (真柄覚念). On the fifth day of the fourth month of the first year of the Juei era — that is, April 5, 1182 — his fellow monks decided to solve the problem their own way. They invited Tōjinbō on a seaside picnic. They settled on the rocks, opened barrels of sake, drank, sang, danced. When Tōjinbō got drunk and dozed off, Kakunen — or, according to another version, several monks simultaneously — pushed him over the cliff’s edge. Half-awake, Tōjinbō managed to drag several of those standing closest down with him.

And then, the legend says, the sky darkened. Black clouds shrouded the horizon, the sea began to roar, lightning struck the rocks, the earth shook. The murdered monk’s fury pulled Kakunen into the abyss — the rival died that same night. The storm lasted forty-nine days. From then on, every year on April fifth, the sea around the cliffs raged and thunder rolled eastward toward Heisen-ji — as if Tōjinbō’s ghost was searching for the path back to those who had killed him. The fishermen of Antō village (安島) did not put out to sea on that day. For centuries.

But there is also another story — recorded in the chronicles of Okaho village and in the collection Wakasa Echizen no densetsu (若狭・越前の伝説). According to this version, the monk’s name was Tōnin-bō (当仁坊), and he was no tyrant at all. He came from a family of faithful parishioners at Shōen-ji temple (勝縁寺) in Fukui, spent his youth on Mount Hiei, then moved to Heisen-ji. He was physically strong but righteous and devoted to study. When a group of corrupt monks began appropriating temple lands for private use, Tōnin-bō opposed them publicly. For this they hated him — and arranged a picnic identical to the one in the first version, with an identical ending. Then, to cover their tracks, they declared him a criminal. History was written by the victors.

For some reason, this second version seems far more interesting — and, it must be said, far more plausible. A curse is not born of rage — a curse is born of guilt. Someone who looks at the raging sea on April fifth and says “that’s Tōjinbō” is really saying: “we killed someone who didn’t deserve it.” In the Heisen-ji Hakusan-jinja complex, in the shadow of mighty cryptomeria trees, a stone inscribed “ruins of Tōjinbō’s residence” still stands to this day, alongside a well whose water is said to have turned red after the murder. According to legend, if you pour rice bran into it, the bran will surface in the sea beneath the cliffs — forty-three kilometers away. Tōjinbō and Heisen-ji are connected by an underground channel of blood and memory.

The curse was supposedly silenced at last by the monk Zuiun of Tōkō-ji, who composed a poem in classical Chinese and submerged it in the sea.

好図見性到心清 迷則平泉不太平 北海漫々風浪静 東尋何敢礙舟行

“He who sees his own nature, his heart is clear.

In delusion, even the Peaceful Spring (Heisen) knows no peace.

The northern sea stretches without limit — wind and waves grow still.

Tōjinbō, would you still dare to block the passage of boats?”

According to another tradition — an anonymous wandering monk (per sources at Ōminato-jinja in Antō) left a tanka verse on the seabed:

しつむ身のうき名をかへよ法の道　西をたずねて浮へ後の世

(shizumu mi no / uki na wo kaeyo / nori no michi / nishi wo tazunete / ukabe nochi no yo)

“Let the sinking one, bearer of ill fame,

turn to the path of the Dharma —

seeking the west,

may you rise into the life beyond.”

Yet another version holds that it was not until Shinran or Rennyo — meaning the thirteenth, perhaps the fifteenth century — that the spirit was finally pacified. Which would mean the sea raged for three hundred, perhaps five hundred years. In any case — the monk’s name endured. The cliffs bear it to this day. And to this day, though no longer for forty-nine days a year, the sea at Tōjinbō can roar as if someone down below were still waiting for justice.

When the Cliffs Began to Kill

No one knows exactly when Tōjinbō became a “suicide spot.” One suspects sporadic cases had occurred for a long time — a tall, open cliff above a cold sea is a landscape that attracts despair like a magnet. But the real transformation came in the second half of the twentieth century, and the catalyst turned out to be television.

In the 1980s and 1990s, Tōjinbō became the favorite location for Japanese two-hour television crime dramas — a genre known as nichiyō sasupensu. The scene was always similar: the detective corners the criminal at the cliff’s edge, wind tears at their coats, the criminal confesses and jumps — or doesn’t jump, but the cliff wins anyway as a metaphor for finality. Japanese actress Momiji Yamamura, the “Queen of Suspense,” listed Tōjinbō among the locations she visited most often in her career. It was fiction, but fiction has the power to create reality. People who had never heard of Tōjinbō as a geological formation knew it perfectly well as “those cliffs from the crime shows.” And when they searched for a place to end their lives, their subconscious supplied a ready-made set.

Fukui Prefecture police data are clear: in the thirty-year period 1979–2009, six hundred and forty-three bodies were found at the foot of the cliffs — an average of more than twenty-one per year. In the decade preceding 2004 — two hundred and fifty-six people, an average of over twenty-five. After Aokigahara (the so-called “Suicide Forest”) — the woodland at the foot of Mount Fuji — Tōjinbō was Japan’s most notorious suicide site.

The local community responded with a characteristically Japanese mixture of care and pragmatism. A phone booth appeared at the cliff’s edge bearing the inscription 救いの電話 (Sukui no denwa) — “Lifeline Phone.” Inside lay ten-yen coins (about three US cents each), a slim volume of poetry, and cigarettes. Plaques bearing poems about the value of life were mounted on the rocks. At the same time, in the shopping arcade — one hundred meters from the edge — souvenirs exploiting the site’s dark fame were on sale. T-shirts with slogans like “I’m hanging off the edge.” Figurines of tourists balancing on rocks. Local politicians — as Shige Yukio later publicly admitted — expressed concern that if suicides ended, Tōjinbō would lose its “tourist appeal.” That quote deserves to be remembered: elected representatives treated human death as an element in the region’s marketing strategy.

Japan’s Silent Killing

To understand Tōjinbō, you must understand the context. For decades, Japan has grappled with one of the highest suicide rates among developed nations. In 2024, the rate stood at 15.3 per hundred thousand inhabitants — more than double the European average. Among OECD countries, Japan consistently ranks near the top, alongside South Korea, Lithuania, and Belgium. In the record year of 2003, thirty-four thousand four hundred and twenty-seven people took their own lives. Every day that year, ninety-four Japanese citizens died by suicide. That is more than perish in many modern wars.

The causes are complex, but several threads recur in the research. The bursting of the asset bubble in 1991 and the Asian financial crisis of 1997 threw hundreds of thousands out of work and destroyed Japan’s model of “lifetime employment” — shūshin koyō (終身雇用). In 1998, the number of suicides leapt thirty-five percent in a single year — from twenty-four to thirty-two thousand — and for fifteen years did not drop below thirty thousand. The 2008 crisis brought another wave: Shige told journalists that he suddenly began encountering young men at the cliffs who had lost factory jobs as temporary workers — haken rōdōsha (派遣労働者) — and had then been evicted from company dormitories, leaving them with no job, no roof, and no address at which to file for social assistance.

There is also a darker, cultural layer. Japan has a long tradition of treating suicide with a certain acceptance, at times even respect. The samurai’s seppuku (切腹) — a demonstration of honor stronger than death. Kamikaze — death as the highest patriotism. Shinjū (心中) — lovers’ double suicide, the subject of countless jōruri puppet plays and kabuki dramas. This tradition does not mean that Japanese people want to die — but it does mean that the cultural language at their disposal does not contain enough words to say: “I need help.”

Shame — haji (恥) — is more powerful than pain (more on haji here: Haji 恥. Shame. What lies at the very bottom of the Japanese soul?). And conversation about emotions, depression, fragility — was for generations perceived as weakness unworthy of an adult. It was not until 2006 that Japan passed its first suicide prevention law — Jisatsu Taisaku Kihon-hō (自殺対策基本法). In 2021, the government appointed its first-ever Minister of Loneliness. The numbers are slowly declining — in 2025, for the first time since record-keeping began in 1978, they fell below twenty thousand, to 19,097. But at the same time, the rate among students is rising — in 2025 it reached a record five hundred and thirty-two cases. The “September 1st problem” — a wave of youth suicides after the summer holidays — remains one of the darkest phenomena of the Japanese school system.

The Couple from Tokyo

On September 3, 2003, in the final year of his service with the Fukui Prefectural Police, Superintendent Shige Yukio was patrolling the area around Tōjinbō. Sunset was approaching — that hour when the cliffs take on the color of copper and shadows begin to lengthen until a person standing at the edge looks like a thin pencil line drawn against the sky. In a gazebo near the cliff sat an elderly couple. A man and a woman, both past sixty, with faces on which there was nothing left — neither fear, nor sadness, nor hope. Only silence. Shige walked over.

They were from Tokyo. They ran a pub — a small bar somewhere in the tangle of the capital’s back streets. They had fallen into debt. They could not repay their creditors. They had no family who could help. They had come here to jump together at sunset. Shige spoke with them at length — he persuaded, consoled, explained that legal debt relief mechanisms existed, that the law protects even those who have lost everything. In the end, he succeeded. The couple did not jump. Shige called a patrol car and handed them over to local social services — because that was what procedure required. The officials received the couple, listened, and gave them money for a bus ticket to the next town. Nothing more. No shelter, no legal aid, no human gesture. Buy a ticket and move on.

Five days later, Shige received a letter. It was written in a trembling hand, on hotel stationery, somewhere in Niigata Prefecture. The couple thanked him for trying and apologized that they could no longer go on. By the time the letter reached Fukui, both were already dead.

Shige never told this story lightly. In dozens of interviews — Japanese, Canadian, French, German — he returned to it like a wound that refuses to heal. He did not blame the couple. He blamed the system. “The police have limited time for any one detainee,” he said. “They are prohibited from intervening in private matters. They have regulations, rules, bureaucracy. And those people needed one thing: for someone to sit down beside them and help them solve their problem. Not lecture. Not redirect. Not hand them a bus ticket. Help.” And he added: “A police officer can’t do that. But a civilian can.” A month later he retired. And seven months after that — on April 27, 2004 — he founded the organization that would change Tōjinbō.

“Chotto Matte” — The Man with the Binoculars

Shige Yukio was born in February 1944 in Fukui. He joined the prefectural police in 1962 — he was eighteen years old. Over the next forty-two years of service, he was not a typical patrol officer. He spent twenty-seven years in divisions handling economic crime: sarakin (サラ金) — usurious loans, pyramid schemes, drug trafficking, crimes against minors. He was an investigator — a man who dug through documents, interrogated, looked for patterns. When, in the final year of his career, he was posted as deputy chief of the Mikuni station — the station that oversaw Tōjinbō — he saw something his twenty-seven years in the economic crimes division had not prepared him for: bodies. Pulled from the sea, broken on the rocks, often unrecognizable. And farewell letters — full of apologies that no one ever read in time.

The Kokoro ni Hibiku Bunshū Henshūkyoku Foundation (心に響く文集・編集局) — “Publishing Bureau for Writings That Touch the Heart” — began operating from a tea house at the edge of the shopping arcade by the cliffs. Shige named it Kokoro ni Hibiku Oroshi-mochi. To this day, it serves traditional rice cakes with grated daikon radish — a local dish of the Echizen region. Canadian director Yung Chang, who made a documentary about Shige, said something about this food that is worth remembering: “Traditional food as a nostalgic trigger that restores a reason to live.” People who came here to die sit at a table in the tea house, eat warm mochi, drink tea — and suddenly they have before them something real, simple, and good. And sometimes that is enough to decide to stay one more night.

Shige’s method is simple — and that is precisely why it works. Every day, for eight or more hours a day — thirty days a month, regardless of weather — Shige and his volunteers patrol the cliffs. They look for people who fit the pattern: someone who is not taking photos, not strolling, not admiring the scenery. Someone sitting motionless. Someone who has left their shoes behind. Someone writing on a piece of paper. Then Shige approaches. He does not ask: “Do you want to jump?” He starts a conversation — about the weather, the view, anything. And then he listens. “Everyone I’ve encountered on these cliffs,” he said in an interview with the Fukui Shimbun, “was crying the same thing: “Mada shinitakunai! Dareka, tasukete! Dekiru mono nara, mō ichido jinsei wo yarinaoshitai!” — “I don’t want to die yet! Someone help me! If I could, I’d want to start life over!” (from the foundation’s website).

Asked why people drive hundreds of kilometers to a remote cliff on the Sea of Japan when — as director Chang observed — “it would be easier to kill yourself at home,” Shige answered consistently: “Because they don’t come here to die. They come so that someone will stop them.” This is a key insight that shifts the perspective entirely: Tōjinbō is not a place people travel to with a firm decision. Tōjinbō is a threshold — a place where the decision has not yet been made, where a person hangs suspended between life and death, gazing at a beautiful landscape, waiting for a stimulus to tip the scales one way or the other. Shige placed himself on the side of life. And it turned out that this is often enough.

What Saving Looks Like

Over twenty years of observation, Shige collected data you will not find in any psychiatry textbook. Suicides at Tōjinbō occur exclusively between sunrise and sunset — never at night. The most common days are Mondays and Tuesdays — after a weekend that brought no relief. On Thursdays, Fridays, and weekends, almost nothing happens. On Wednesdays — the tea house’s day off — the statistic drops to zero. As though the mere existence of an open establishment by the cliffs, the mere presence of people with bowls of mochi, were enough to serve as a barrier. Shige knew this. “The tea house operates from nine to five,” he said. “People die during business hours.”

But stopping someone at the edge is only the beginning. Shige understood very early that conversation alone is not enough — that if you send a person back to the problem that brought them here, they will return or find another place. That is why his foundation does something no government system in Japan could do at the time: it accompanies the person to the source of the problem. If someone is in debt, Shige goes with them to a legal aid office. Unemployed — to the employment center. Homeless — he takes them to one of six shelter apartments the organization maintains at its own expense. If someone has a family problem, Shige travels with them to their home, school, company, or government office. He has been to Hokkaido, Tokyo, Chiba, Aichi — wherever he needed to go, he went. “If you don’t remove the weight pushing someone to the edge,” he repeated, “you’ve given them today, but not tomorrow.”

The numbers speak for themselves. Before Shige began his work, in the decade 1994–2003, an average of twenty-five people died at Tōjinbō each year. After 2004, the number dropped by half. In 2021, it reached a historic low of eight. By November 2021, Shige and his volunteers — sixteen people, mostly retired police officers and teachers — had stopped seven hundred and forty-five people at the edge. Data from 2022 raised the figure to seven hundred and fifty-five. For the first four years of his work, Shige received not a single yen from anyone — he funded everything from his pension and savings, roughly one million yen per year (about $7,000). Then came subsidies from the city of Sakai, grants from the Ministry of Health, and — what sounds like a joke but is not — financial support from Goldman Sachs, Pfizer, and the Citizen Watch Company.

Shige is no saint. He is not a Buddhist monk or a mystic. He is a former financial-crimes investigator who drinks too much (his own words), smokes too much, and has PTSD from decades of working with people ruined by loan sharks. Director Yung Chang, who spent a month with him at the cliffs, recounted that Shige hears voices — a woman’s scream at sunset, children’s crying at night. He runs to look, finds no one. He claims Tōjinbō is haunted. “This is a pragmatic former detective saying this,” Chang noted. “But after twenty years at these cliffs, it would be hard not to hear things.” Belgian director Vanja D’Alcantara, who met Shige while working on a feature film inspired by his life, described him in a single sentence that says more than any biography:

“Contrary to expectations, he’s a rather rough man. Nothing like the image of a Buddhist monk. He’s a pragmatist who does what needs to be done, out of a sense of duty.”

Tōjinbō in the Eyes of the World

Shige’s story crossed Japan’s borders long ago. In 2010, French writer Olivier Adam, inspired by an article in the newspaper Libération, wrote the novel Le Cœur régulier — “The Steady Heart” — in which the heroine travels to a Japanese village beneath cliffs and meets a retired detective who saves the suicidal. The character bears the name Natsume Domburi, but Adam never concealed that he had modeled him on Shige. The novel was adapted into a film directed by Belgian filmmaker Vanja D’Alcantara, starring Isabelle Carré and Jun Kunimura. The film was released in 2016 under the title “Kokoro” (“Heart”). That same year, Chinese-Canadian director Yung Chang shot a short documentary, “The Gatekeeper,” produced by Field of Vision and available for free on YouTube. In 2018, French director Blaise Perrin added another documentary: “La Ronde.” Films were made in Germany, Korea, Iceland. Shige was interviewed by media from fifteen countries.

“All over the world, people feel the same way about life,” Shige told a Japan Today journalist. “I hope this film will transcend national boundaries and get people to think about life.” That sentence — simple, free of pathos, spoken by a man who struggles with his own demons — is the quintessence of who Shige is. Not a philosopher. Not a therapist. Not a guru. A former cop who decided the system was too heartless to even attempt saving people — and resolved to do it himself, with binoculars, a tea house, and the words “wait a moment.”

Cliffs You Don’t Have to Jump From

Toward evening, when tourists pile into coaches and the shopping arcade shuts its crab stalls and souvenir stands, Tōjinbō changes. The light thickens. The andesite columns lose their grayness and take on the hue of old gold. The sea still beats against the rocks — but more gently somehow, as if it, too, had its rush hours and its hours of rest. On a bench by the gazebo sits an elderly man with binoculars. He gazes toward the horizon, but his eyes keep returning to the path from the parking lot. He is looking for someone walking too slowly. Someone not taking photos. Someone searching not for a view, but for an end.

Eight hundred and forty-four years ago, a monk fell from these cliffs whose very name we cannot read with certainty — Tōjinbō or Tōnin-bō, tyrant or righteous man, murderer or victim. He left behind a name and a curse that was, in truth, a collective pang of conscience. Twenty years ago, a man took his place at these same cliffs and set out to answer a question no one had asked before: what would happen if someone were waiting at the end of the road?

Tōjinbō is a cliff you don’t have to jump from. It is a landscape that can be simultaneously beautiful and terrifying — like life itself. And at its edge, between the pentagonal columns of ancient lava and the murmur of the Sea of Japan, an eighty-two-year-old retiree stands repeating words that, when it comes down to it, each of us would want to hear when standing over any abyss — literal or otherwise: “Chotto matte.” Wait a moment. Not yet.

SOURCES:

1.  杉原丈夫（編）「若狭・越前の民話」(a collection of local legends containing the alternative version of the Tōnin-bō monk legend).

2.  福井新聞ONLINE「元警察官、東尋坊で自殺願望の人に声掛けする日々 — NPO法人『心に響く文集・編集局』」福井新聞D刊、2022年。(fukuishimbun.co.jp)

3.  波名城翔「自殺者を減らす！ ゲートキーパーとしての生き方」新評論、東京、2024年 (excerpt with Shige Yukio interview published in Diamond Online, April 26, 2024).

4.  Yung Chang (dir.), The Gatekeeper (documentary, 39 min.), prod. Field of Vision / Eye Steel Film / Brave River Films, Canada–USA–Japan, 2016. Available at: fieldofvision.org.

5.  Olivier Adam, Le Cœur régulier, Éditions de l'Olivier, Paris, 2010 (novel inspired by Yukio Shige; film adaptation by Vanja D'Alcantara, 2016).

6.  OECD, Society at a Glance 2024: OECD Social Indicators, chapter "Suicides," OECD Publishing, Paris, 2024.

7.  Masami Okada, Rina Matsumoto, Eishi Motomura, "Suicide mortality rates in Japan before and beyond the COVID-19 pandemic era," Psychiatry and Clinical Neurosciences Reports, vol. 3, no. 2, 2024 (Wiley / Japanese Society of Psychiatry and Neurology).

"Strong Japanese Women"

see book by the author

of the page

    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)

Write us...

Ciechanów, Polska

dr.imyon@gmail.com

___________________

inari.smart

Would you like to share your thoughts or feedback about our website or app? Leave us a message, and we’ll get back to you quickly. We value your perspective!