The question “What’s your religion?” always strucks as a lightening and paralyzes the answerer for a moment. 

“What’s your name, where are you from,” the children are one by one pulling our shirts just after we’ve moved into our new home. There’s seven of us living here and everyone has to answer the obligatory questions. We laugh with the children when we’re trying to explain where our countries are on a map, in the noisy yard we’re explaining about Brasil, Russia, New York, Singapour and Estonia. The sun is shining, the mood is cheerful, the children coquet and we giggle. Until a really little brat with his eyes innocent and big like saucers asks: “But what’s your religion?”

Suddenly the yard becomes absolutely quiet. The children are excited to get the answer, but the weird bules (white people) stare at each other with dismay. No one said a word and…

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