The writer is professor at Columbia University in the USA who hails from Cortalim
A political dignitary arrives from Delhi, and suddenly a section of Goa’s youth discovers its capacity for outrage.
Young people gather at the airport. Placards go up. Slogans fill the air. Social media erupts. The visitor is greeted with a fury one might expect for someone accused of having done grievous harm to Goa.
They have every right to protest. That right should be defended, whether we agree with them or not. A democracy in which young people are afraid to question political leaders is not much of a democracy.
Uncomfortable questions
But watching such scenes raises several uncomfortable questions.
Where is this outrage when Goa itself needs defending?
Where is it when the newly built Savoi Verem bridge struggles to survive a single monsoon?
Where is the anger when the roof of the Kala Academy auditorium comes crashing down soon after repairs that consumed crores of rupees?
Where are the placards when newly paved roads begin to resemble obstacle courses after the first heavy rains?
Where is the outrage when Panaji floods despite hundreds of crores spent in the name of making it a Smart City?
Where are the slogans when electricity bills rise while interruptions continue, garbage piles up, traffic becomes unbearable and basic infrastructure struggles to keep pace with the relentless construction around us?
Where is the outrage when street violence and crime make people wonder what is happening to a Goa that once felt remarkably safe?
And where is the anger when hills are cut, fields filled, trees disappear and villages that have stood for generations find themselves surrounded by projects far beyond the capacity of their roads, water supply, electricity and sewage systems?
These are not distant problems. They are ours. They confront us when we turn on a tap, switch on a light, drive to work, walk through our neighbourhoods or look at another hillside being carved away and wonder what kind of Goa our children will inherit.
Yet these failures rarely summon the passion that the arrival of a politician can produce.
Perhaps the problem is that we have slowly become accustomed to them.
A road is resurfaced and falls apart. We complain, then learn to drive around the potholes.
A public building is repaired at enormous cost, and part of it collapses. There is outrage for a few days, statements are issued, and perhaps an inquiry is announced. Then the story disappears.
A city floods. A promenade washes away. A hill is flattened. Another field becomes concrete.
We shake our heads. And then we adjust. That may be the most dangerous form of apathy, not silence, but acceptance. The gradual lowering of our expectations until things that should be unacceptable become simply another part of living in Goa.
Meanwhile, crores continue to be spent in our name.
We sometimes speak of “government money” as though it comes from some distant treasury belonging to someone else. It does not. It is our money.
It comes from the taxes we pay on our incomes, our electricity bills, our fuel, our meals and almost everything we buy. Every crore squandered is a crore that could have repaired a school, improved a hospital, strengthened a bridge, fixed a drainage system or provided reliable water to a village.
So where is the public demand to know who designed a failed project? Who approved it? Who supervised it? Who certified the work? Who was paid? And when something built with public money fails within months, who is held responsible?
Need for accountability
Accountability cannot simply mean issuing another tender to repair what the previous tender failed to build properly.
Nor should outrage depend on the political scarves worn around your necks. If something is wrong when the other side does it, it should remain wrong when our side does it.
A pothole has no ideology. A collapsing roof does not ask how you voted. Floodwater does not distinguish between government and opposition. Garbage does not carry a party flag.
These are not BJP issues or Congress issues. They are Goan issues.
And that is why selective outrage deserves some reflection, particularly among our young people.
Consistent, unbiased protests
Goa needs young people who protest. It needs their impatience, their idealism and their willingness to question authority. Every generation needs citizens who refuse to accept that things must remain as they are.
But that energy is far too precious to be reserved for the arrival of a politician from Delhi. Imagine that same energy when a hill is being destroyed. Imagine those placards when public money is squandered.
Imagine hundreds of young people demanding answers when a newly completed public project fails.
Imagine that determination when a village goes without water, when garbage overwhelms a neighbourhood, when violence frightens a community, or when another piece of Goa’s natural inheritance quietly disappears behind construction barricades.
That would be something larger than political protest. That would be citizenship.
Because the dignitary who arrives at the airport will eventually board a plane and return to Delhi. The television cameras will leave. The slogans will fade. Social media will move on to its next controversy.
But we will still be here. The potholes, floods, garbage, damaged hills, disappearing fields, crowded roads and squandered crores will still be ours.
And whatever remains of Goa will be what we hand to the next generation.
So perhaps the question is not whether Goans have lost their capacity for outrage. Clearly, we have not.
The harder question is whether we are willing to summon that outrage for Goa itself, not according to party, personality or political convenience, but according to what is right and what is wrong.
We know how to raise our voices. We know how to protest. The question now is whether we know what is worth protesting for. And before too much more of Goa is lost, perhaps all of us, government, opposition, young and old, should ask ourselves one final question: what will it take for us to finally say, 'Enough'?
