Castle to Castle – A Reckoning with Stones
What the Stones Remember
Dear friends,
In Portugal, castles are part of the landscape. They crown hilltops, watch over rivers, and remind us—sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully—that we are walking through layers of time. They often carry a sense of nostalgia, of medieval stories and quiet heroism.
But not all castles were built to protect. Some were built to control, to exploit, to extend power across continents.
Diogo de Azambuja was born in Montemor-o-Velho, a small town near where I live, where the castle still stands, ancient and solid. He was a knight of the Order of Aviz and one of the many figures of Portugal’s Age of Expansion. In 1482, he was sent by King John II to what is now Ghana, to build a fortress on the Gulf of Guinea—what would become Elmina Castle.
Some accounts say that he and his men built the core structure of the fortress in just twenty days. While that number may be more legend than fact, what we know is that the Portuguese moved quickly to establish their presence—and Elmina would go on to become one of the most devastating sites in history.
Elmina Castle became a central hub in the transatlantic slave trade. It was a place where captured Africans were imprisoned, abused, and held before being forced onto ships that carried them across the ocean in horrific conditions. It was the last place many would ever see of their homeland.
I’ve been thinking about what it means to live among old stones. To live near a castle that may feel romantic until you understand what castles were built for. Some were built to defend. Others were built to dominate.
This poem is not a celebration of Diogo de Azambuja. It is a reckoning with his legacy. It is a call to remember the people whose names we don’t know, whose stories were not recorded, but whose lives mattered—whose pain echoes in the stones that still stand.
Castle to Castle
for Diogo de Azambuja
He was born where the stones remember,
in a village crowned with a castle
whose walls held the whispers of kings,
and the weight of loyalty,
and the dreams of empire.
Montemor-o-Velho—the old hill,
where the river curled like a ribbon
through the fields below,
and the wind carried
the sound of horses,
of prayers,
of the forge.
He grew under the shadow
of a fortress built to guard,
to protect,
to endure.
But some stones are meant to be carried.
And so he did.
Across the sea he went,
with iron and mortar and royal orders,
to the red earth of Elmina—
Ghana,
though he would never know it by that name.
There he built another castle,
block by block in twenty days,
under the sharp African sun,
a fortress not for defense
but for dominion.
São Jorge da Mina,
they called it—
Saint George of the Mine.
But it was no saint’s home.
It became
a gate.
A final chamber of land
before the vast, violent ocean.
The last place
where thousands stood on African soil—
chained, silenced,
branded with names not their own.
The stones there do not whisper.
They scream.
They remember the children torn away,
the women violated,
the men who resisted,
and the many
who died in darkness.
And still, the castle stands.
A mirror to the one he knew,
but twisted—
its legacy soaked
in blood and salt.
From castle to castle,
from river to sea,
he brought the tools of empire
and left behind
a wound still open.
Now, we tell it.
Not to honor the builder,
but to remember the broken,
and to listen
to what the stones will not let us forget.
Closing thoughts
If we are going to live in a world filled with monuments, let us also be monument-builders of truth. Let us make space to tell the whole story.
Have you ever visited a place that made you feel the weight of history? That made you pause and reconsider the stories we inherit? I’d love to hear your reflections.
Warmly,
Jaleh