Some journeys begin with hope. Others begin with loss.
When war reached Angola, one family had no choice but to leave everything behind. Forced from the only home they had ever known, they fled to Portugal, then to Brazil, searching for stability in a world that seemed to reject them. Crime, poverty, and uncertainty shaped their experiences as they moved between cultures, continents, and unfamiliar realities.
When they finally reached the United States, the dream of a better life came with new challenges—the fear of being undocumented, the struggle to gain legal status, and the constant pressure to adapt to yet another country that did not always welcome them. Childhood unfolded in the shadows of instability, marked by brief moments of joy and a strong connection to family.
My Father’s Land is more than an immigrant’s story; it is a gripping account of sacrifice, uncertainty, and the enduring pull of home. From the villages of Portugal to the streets of São Paulo, and finally to the uncertain promise of America, this memoir paints a vivid portrait of growing up between worlds—where home is no longer a place, but a collection of memories, people, and the land that shaped you.
Some journeys begin with hope. Others begin with loss.
When war reached Angola, one family had no choice but to leave everything behind. Forced from the only home they had ever known, they fled to Portugal, then to Brazil, searching for stability in a world that seemed to reject them. Crime, poverty, and uncertainty shaped their experiences as they moved between cultures, continents, and unfamiliar realities.
When they finally reached the United States, the dream of a better life came with new challenges—the fear of being undocumented, the struggle to gain legal status, and the constant pressure to adapt to yet another country that did not always welcome them. Childhood unfolded in the shadows of instability, marked by brief moments of joy and a strong connection to family.
My Father’s Land is more than an immigrant’s story; it is a gripping account of sacrifice, uncertainty, and the enduring pull of home. From the villages of Portugal to the streets of São Paulo, and finally to the uncertain promise of America, this memoir paints a vivid portrait of growing up between worlds—where home is no longer a place, but a collection of memories, people, and the land that shaped you.
“Where are you from?”
It is such a loaded question, one that unravels the threads of my complicated life. I have been asked this countless times, and each time I found myself struggling to answer. How could I explain the patchwork of places I have inhabited, each of which has left an imprint on me, shaping my perspectives, my sense of belonging, and even the way I see myself? The places where I had left fragments of my heart?
I used to say “all over the place” as a reflex, not wanting to dive into the tangled web of my past. But as the years added layers to my life, the more that answer felt like a lie. My response never seemed to satisfy those who asked, their curiosity twisting into confusion or fascination.
Guilt set in. Was I overcomplicating a simple question? Should I say “Connecticut,” where I had spent most of my adult life, amidst the rolling hills and quiet suburbs? That would have been the easy route. But it would not have been the truth.
The truth is, I am from nowhere. Every home I have known has felt temporary, a layover on an endless journey with no final destination. Each place offered me shelter, but never a deep-rooted sense of belonging. The walls around me changed, the languages spoken shifted, but the feeling remained the same: I was a stranger, merely passing through.
My story is an old, fraying sweater, each thread a different experience, woven together with joy, fear, loss, uncertainty, and struggle. And every time someone asks me where I am from, they yank at one of the loose threads, exposing the raw, unvarnished fabric of my life.
To me, this question is not just small talk. It is a key that unlocks every segment of my life, each piece set in a different corner of the world, with landscapes as varied as the stories they hold. Together, they form a tale of growth and exploration, of pain and longing. And even as I continue to stitch it all together, patching up the holes and reinforcing the seams, the question remains:
“Where am I really from?”
Home, from my perspective, has never been a singular place but a series of exiles. And exile began in Angola.
In the shadow of war, childhood faded quickly, but Angola remained an indelible part of me, woven into the stories that shaped my upbringing. Among them is the story of my Godfather, a man who stood as a monument to resilience, someone who had defied his family by crossing racial and cultural lines to pursue the woman he loved. When a tragic hunting accident claimed his left leg, he did not waste time mourning his loss. He surged forward, a force of will, achieving more on a single leg than most did on two. His story, a testament to perseverance, became an enduring lesson for my family: do not wait for the world to accommodate you; forge your own path, and if the price is pain, endure it!
Angola also taught my family that loss does not always announce itself with grand gestures. Sometimes, it creeps in quietly, disguised as a new beginning. As the Angolan civil war drew closer to my family's doorstep, there was no choice but to run. We escaped with our lives, which was more than could be said for the ones we left behind. The weight of that truth settled in as we moved, every kilometer putting more distance between us and our home. But war does not grant time for reflection; it demands urgency. My family's convoy passed through a guerrilla checkpoint, granted safe passage where others had met a bleaker fate. The bodies on the road haunted those of us who made it out, a stark contrast between luck and fate. We lived. Others did not. Surviving should have been enough, but guilt clings to survival like a parasite. All of us who fled carry the weight of a life once lived and forsaken, tormented by the ghosts of those who could not follow.
We left Angola for Portugal, which should have been a refuge, an open road to explore, and a chance to rebuild our lives. But for us, it became nothing more than a dead end. We arrived with hope, only to find ourselves outsiders in a land that should have been ours by heritage, but instead treated us as strangers. We had fled war but found ourselves suffocating in a different kind of struggle—one of invisibility, rejection, and the slow erosion of dignity.
Brazil became our next beacon of hope—a country that, for a fleeting moment, seemed like an enchanting dream. Even today, Brazil feels more to me like a dream than a memory; a place that was painted in golden beaches stretching endlessly under the sun; the familiar, comforting aroma of fresh bread wafting from my parents’ bakery; the endearing sight of our pet tortoise ambling through the cozy spaces of our small apartment. It was the first time in my life that anything resembled normalcy. But normal was an illusion.
Beneath the brilliant sunshine and the air of celebration, Brazil bled corruption and violence. I saw it in my father, in the way his eyes flicked over his shoulder, the way his body stayed rigid even in moments of laughter. He carried the weight of vigilance, the burden of a man who had seen too much and knew better than to believe in safety. The beaches, the warmth, the fleeting happiness—they were all mere distractions from the harsh reality that we lived in a place where blood dried quickly on the pavement, a place where justice never arrived.
When we returned to Portugal in the early 1980s, I traded beaches for a vast network of uncles, aunts, and thirty first cousins, all of whom welcomed me warmly as one of their own. Family gatherings transformed into vibrant, sprawling affairs filled with food, where stories flowed freely amidst a chorus of voices that carried the same history in their timbre. I cherished each encounter, surrounded by faces resembling my own, experiencing laughter that filled rooms in ways I had not known possible. Yet, in this newfound haven, fate had other plans for me.
The hit-and-run happened in an instant. A blur of speed, screeching brakes, followed by the sickening crunch of impact. The world tilted, pain splitting through me, gravel biting into my skin as I lay in a ditch. As my father learned of the accident, he arrived in a storm of rage, his fury burning hotter than my wounds. He set off to find the driver, the woman who callously decided my life was worth less than the inconvenience of stopping. He never found her. And part of me was quietly relieved he never did.
Fate would lead us to the United States during my teenage years, whereupon I would discover that America was the land of freedom and opportunity. However, the first lesson I learned in America was the weight of the responsibility to tread carefully. A sudden football injury at school served as a startling reminder of the precarious razor’s edge on which we lived; my moment of carelessness made me painfully aware of the thin line we walked as undocumented immigrants, balancing hope with the ever-present fear of losing everything in an instant—including the promise of the American Dream. The burden of medical bills, the fear of deportation, and the unrelenting need to stay invisible—to blend in—shaped my early years in this country.
Even now, with American citizenship firmly in my grasp, I am often transported back to those early days of fear. In a society where racist and derogatory views toward immigrants have been fueled by political divisiveness and have become increasingly normalized, I find myself caught between my profound love for this country and the casual disparagement of immigrants by not only strangers, but also friends and neighbors. Their public hostility on social media and in everyday conversations stands in contrast to the warmth with which they seemed to welcome me into their lives. This dissonance brings with it a familiar uncertainty for someone who has never had a place to call home. It is as if the concept of home slips further from my grasp each time I think I have found it, leaving me to wonder if I will forever be searching, a traveler whose roots can never quite settle in one place.
My life has never been a straight road; it has been a winding, fractured, unpredictable mess. Each chapter is like another stitch in a story that never quite forms a single image. If I pull on any thread, the past unravels at my feet, a tangled clutter of memory and exile. Yet, every thread weaves into a broader tapestry, one that portrays me as a wanderer, an improviser, and someone who has held onto hope through every displacement and in every chapter that is anything but straightforward.
My Father’s Land examines both belonging and exile, the major themes of this childhood memoir. It is a study in how personal identity is shaped through these two sides of the same coin.
Author Rui Batista’s “home … has … been a series of exiles”. He comes from “all over the place”, realising with “the years adding layers” to his life how much of his sense of home is anchored by family.
The prologue comprehensively encapsulates Batista’s life. It could be a stand-alone essay, yet that would deny the audience the intricacies revealed as Batista honours with tenderness “each chapter … another stitch in a story that never quite forms a single image” where “every thread weaves into a broader tapestry”, depicting “someone who has held onto hope through every displacement”.
The narrative’s easy flow carries the reader on the author’s journey through the different cultures of his upbringing. Observing events through Batista’s eyes of the child, supplemented by deeper understanding he gained as an adult, results in highly effective storytelling: events, linked across timelines, reveal intergenerational threads weaving substance into his extended family.
The joy in Batista’s writing is his sense of place: evocative imagery and emotive writing draw the audience in deeply. While the brutal Angolan civil war scenes – where “guilt clings to survival like a parasite” – are difficult to witness, the childhood escapades in Brazil and Portugal – with “moments of mischief, chaos, and near disaster” – exude delight.
At times, the writing can be repetitive when Batista wants to highlight the importance of an event: more diverse word choice would have avoided this.
The stunning front cover juxtaposes the vastness of the land the author’s forebears worked, with a single fistful of soil. This visual contrast merges the toil of hard physical labour with the yearning to have a secure place to call home.
The story comes full circle: the foundation of family as the basis of all things solid. Batista concludes, “It is not places that make a home—it is the people who make us feel like we belong, no matter where we are, or what we’re going through”. The threads of life are tied firmly through extended family, where Batista ultimately finds his home.
The predominant themes of belonging and exile in My Father’s Land will appeal to many, especially to readers with a migrant background whose own experience – or that of their forebears – will be reflected in this poignant memoir.