Goa’s identity has never been one-dimensional, nor can it be confined to a single language, script, or linguistic tradition
Across the world, we celebrate Indians who rise to great heights—CEOs of global companies, leading scientists, diplomats, authors, entrepreneurs, and global change makers. One of the key tools that enabled their journeys is the English language. It opened doors and connected them to a global community. We take pride in their accomplishments and often hold them up as examples of India’s remarkable talent on the world stage. Yet, when Goans speak English—sometimes as their first and most natural language—we suddenly hesitate. Somehow, their Goanness becomes questioned, as though fluency in English dilutes identity. Why is it that English, when used abroad, becomes a sign of brilliance, but when spoken at home by Goans, becomes a reason to doubt their roots?
This tension forms the backdrop to the current debate on making Konkani a compulsory qualifying test for government jobs in Goa. On the surface, it appears to be a measure aimed at cultural preservation. But beneath the surface lie many layers—historical, emotional, and sociocultural—that shape how different communities experience this issue. Goa’s identity has never been one-dimensional, nor can it be confined to a single language, script, or linguistic tradition. Many Goans, particularly among the Catholic community, grow up speaking English at home. Others, especially along the borders, speak Marathi as their primary language. Thousands who work in tourism, hospitality, or professional services shift comfortably between English, Hindi, and Konkani each day. Every one of them is Goan and carries the spirit of this land.
So the question is not whether Konkani deserves respect; it certainly does. The real question is whether Konkani should be used as a filter to determine who qualifies as a “true Goan.” When identity is compressed into a single language test, a diverse heritage becomes a narrow definition—one that excludes as much as it includes. I recall a personal experience from my school days at Fatima Convent, when I found a “Pen Pal” column in a magazine and began corresponding with an Australian girl named Sue Stout. I believed that writing to a native English speaker would help improve my language skills. Yet, as our letters crossed the seas, I noticed frequent spelling and grammatical mistakes. One line remains with me: “I wish you were hear,” spelled h-e-a-r. It taught me that being a native speaker does not guarantee mastery, and being a non-native speaker does not imply inadequacy.
The Konkani debate itself is not new. For decades, Goa has grappled with sensitive linguistic divisions, especially between Romi Konkani and Devanagari Konkani. These debates are not merely academic—they involve memory, belonging, and community pride. Into this already delicate landscape enters another dimension, with groups now advocating for Marathi to be given equal recognition, citing historical ties and long-standing cultural influence. Devanagari, Marathi, English, and Hindi all coexist within the same small space, overlapping in complex ways that ordinary Goans negotiate every single day. In such an environment, imposing a rigid language requirement does not strengthen unity; it risks deepening old divides and creating new anxieties.
Beyond cultural identity lies a more practical concern: should the ability to pass a language exam determine whether someone is eligible to serve Goa? Historically, Goa has always been multilingual. Even during Portuguese rule, people shifted easily between Portuguese, Konkani, Marathi, English, and local dialects. This linguistic flexibility enriched Goan society, and it continues to do so. Recruitment, therefore, should rest on merit, integrity, skill, and commitment—not merely the ability to clear a language test. A well-designed system could certainly encourage the learning of Konkani, but without making it punitive or exclusionary. Encouragement builds loyalty; compulsion breeds resentment.
A meaningful example arose when former Goa Governor PS Sreedharan Pillai assumed office. He openly admitted that he did not know the local language but pledged to serve the people wholeheartedly. His humility highlighted an essential truth: service is not measured by linguistic proficiency. It is measured by intention, sincerity, and the willingness to work for the welfare of the people. If our own Governor can serve without knowing Konkani, why should educated, hardworking young Goans be denied opportunities simply because their mother tongue is English, or because their Konkani happens to be in Romi script instead of Devanagari?
A deeper concern is also emerging. Many citizens quietly feel that language issues are sometimes used as political tools to shape sentiment and divide communities. The Konkani–Marathi tension, the Romi–Devanagari debate, and now the mandatory test narrative all risk being used not to strengthen Goan identity but to fragment it. When one linguistic tradition is elevated at the cost of another, mistrust grows, communities feel marginalised, and young Goans feel excluded in their own homeland. Promotion of Konkani, when done with wisdom and inclusivity, can uplift Goa. But promotion should inspire, not punish. Language thrives through culture, creativity, and pride—not through compulsion or exclusion.
Goa is too small, too layered, and too special to be boxed into a single linguistic mould. Identity lives in our shared history, our traditions, our values, and our love for this land. The real question before us is simple: do we want language to build bridges or erect barriers? Goa’s future depends on choosing inclusion. The path ahead must honour Goa’s diversity and safeguard opportunities for every Goan—English-speaking, Konkani-speaking, Marathi-speaking, Romi, Devanagari, Hindu, Catholic, Muslim, tribal, urban, and rural. Goa has room for all. Goa was built by all. Goa belongs to all. And the future of Goan unity depends on remembering that truth.
