‘Our fight is everyone’s fight’: A diary of Goa’s six-day protest against land-regulation changes

At roughly 1 pm on February 25, in Panjim’s central Azad Maidan, it is 32 degrees. Under the dome of the main pavilion, MLA Viresh Borkar and activist Tushar Gawas are on Day 5 of a hunger strike. They are members of the Revolutionary Goans Party.

Right by the giant brass urn containing the ashes of the Goan freedom fighter, Tristão de Bragança Cunha, they have set up a neat circle of mattresses, bottles of rehydrating fluid and fans. An image of Ambedkar and a copy of the Constitution of India are displayed prominently.

Members of their families and neighbours from their village of Palem-Siridao in North Goa have turned up in the state capital to support Borkar and Gawas but large signs around the pavilion discourage them from coming too close – a measure aimed at ensuring that the weakened hunger strikers do not catch any infections.

Borkar and Gawas had started their hunger strike on February 21 after police dragged Borkar out of the Town and Country Planning office in Panjim, where he and others had protested overnight against the implementation of Section 39A of the Goa Town and Country Planning Act, 1974, in their North Goa constituency of St Andre.

Section 39A, introduced through an amendment in 2023, allows the Town and Country Planning Board and chief town planner to modify land-use classifications under certain circumstances. In practice, it enables parcels of land previously classified as orchard, green, or agricultural zones to be reclassified as settlement – opening the door for construction.

The Revolutionary Goans Party asserted that 84,000 square metres of land in Palem-Siridao village, much of it classified in a “no development” zone, had been converted into a settlement zone by the Town and Country Planning department.

The state government has maintained that Section 39A corrects historical errors and addresses legitimate housing needs. Critics argue that it undermines the Regional Plan, which was designed to regulate development in a state already strained by tourism, mining aftershocks and rapid real-estate expansion. They contend that the section enables piecemeal conversions of land without comprehensive public consultation.

After the police allegedly manhandled Borkar on February 21, the local protests against development in Palem-Sirdao snowballed. The Revolutionary Goans Party expanded the scope of agitation: Borkar and his supporters were adamant that the amendment would wreak havoc across the state.

The Revolutionary Goans Party, founded in 2017, maintains that Goans must retain control over their land and political futures. The party is known for proposing a Persons of Goan Origin Bill, which seeks to reserve some land and political rights for those defined as Goan by ancestry. This proposal has drawn support in the state but also criticism for its exclusionary undertones.

As a consequence, party secretary Vishvesh Naik is careful how he positions the protest.

“Our fight is everyone’s fight,” he says at Azad Maidan. “We want people to feel welcome here. We are fighting for a land that benefits everyone, no matter where you’re from.”

On February 23, a couple of days into the strike, supporters had organised what they called a “Maha Andolan” or great gathering at Azad Maidan. Possibly up to 5,000 people gathered. The slogan “karo ya maro” (do or die) circulated widely, reportedly echoing Borkar’s words as he was being dragged out of the Town and Country Planning office.

Slogans describing minister Vishwajit Rane as a thief cut through the humid air. Rane’s portfolios include urban development, forests and town and country planning. The mood shifted between anger and grief.

After a few speeches, Borkar’s supporters unexpectedly declared that they would march from Azad Maidan to Vishwajit Rane’s residence in Dona Paula, approximately 8 km away, to stage a sit-in outside his home. Within minutes, the crowd surged out of the maidan and onto the main road that runs along the Mandovi river. The organisers repeatedly urged restraint, asking participants to maintain decorum.

As the procession advanced toward Dona Paula, the police attempted to halt it. In videos that circulated later, demonstrators can be seen pushing past police lines. At one point, a woman’s voice rang out above the commotion, declaring, “You cannot touch me.” After police barricaded the road, the crowd turned toward the shore, using the beach as an alternative route.

Once the marchers reached Rane’s residence in Dona Paula, the protest swelled. Hundreds filled the road. They stayed well into the night. Women from Siridao sang aloud in Konkani, their voices defiant, at times offering flowers to one another.

In another corner, a group of men staged a mock funeral, performing a satirical enactment of Rane’s political demise, complete with exaggerated mourning.

The atmosphere oscillated between anger and theatre before the protestors returned to the maidan to continue the agitation.

On Day 6 of the hunger strike on February 26, Chief Minister Pramod Sawant’s statements about the protest are being replayed across local news channels. He had described the march to Rane’s residence as improper and unnecessary, urging protesters to use “constitutional means” and designated protest sites such as Azad Maidan instead of taking their agitation to a private home.

Viresh Borkar and Tushar Gawas are sleeping, covered by thick blankets despite the heat, revealing how weak their bodies have become. They are unable to lift themselves without support.

Some supporters are talking to journalists, mainly about how, as the fourth pillar of democracy, they too have a responsibility to report facts and stand with their own people. The questions are direct, not hostile, but insistent.

Visitors come by steadily through the day. Some arrive during lunch breaks from nearby offices. Some stop on their way home. Some have travelled from villages further away.

They enter the pavilion slowly, almost cautiously, walk around the circle of mattresses, read the signs requesting distance, look at the framed Constitution and photograph of Ambedkar. Some sit for a while if they feel compelled to. It’s almost like they’re moving through an art exhibition, drifting from one installation to another, pausing, absorbing, stepping back.

But this is not art. Here, the bodies at the centre are weakening in real time. The consequences are not metaphorical. The law being contested will shape land classifications, construction and the future of villages long after the mattresses are folded away. Whether someone was born in Goa, moved here ten years ago, or arrived last week, the planning regime affects them.

The difference is that for some, the anxiety is about inheritance, about ancestral fields and village commons, about whether the authority to decide remains local or moves further away.

If the movement were to succeed in scrapping Section 39A entirely, supporters admit, it would not solve every problem. It would not restore complete control. But it would signal that amendments enabling piecemeal land conversions can be challenged, that the Regional Plan still carries weight, and that planning decisions cannot quietly bypass public scrutiny.

For many gathered here, that is not abstract environmentalism. It is about whether Goa’s already fragile ecology remains subject to small changes that add up to irreversible shifts.

Not far from the maidan, a cultural festival unfolds in parallel, with curated panels, installations, and performances reflecting on Goa’s identity, ecology and belonging. At such events, Goa is often framed expansively, sometimes romantically, as a shared place of residence rather than a contested terrain.

The politics of land, of ancestry, of who has the authority to decide, tend to be flattened under the discourse of culture and coexistence. The strike exists within walking distance of that event, yet remains largely outside it.

At the pavilion on Day 6, the gap feels compressed. Some people who enter are deeply committed. Others are curious. They stand at the edge of the inner circle, wondering and whispering: is this real? Are they actually not eating? Are the videos online true? Are two young men willing to die over a law?

Every evening, crowds have gathered to check on Borkar and Gawas. Women from Siridao have recited prayers from both the Hindu and Christian traditions. “That’s just Goa being Goa,” my friend tells me.

That evening, after an official letter suspending land conversions in St Andre is read aloud at the maidan, the hunger strike ends not with a slogan but with a small, deliberate gesture. Veteran environmental advocate Norma Alvares steps forward and feeds Borkar his first morsel of food in six days.

As the hunger strike concludes, villagers begin performing Shigmo songs and dances. Shigmo is Goa’s spring festival, traditionally celebrated with folk performances, drum processions and community dance to mark renewal and the transition of the seasons.

The suspension of land conversions is partial, the law itself still intact, the fight clearly unfinished. But for that evening, by the same brass urn that had watched the fast unfold, the mood shifts.

To invoke Shigmo in that moment transforms a political act into a gesture of cultural assertion. Six days of strain and negotiation end in a ritual language deeply rooted in village life. It offers the sense that the struggle will not disappear but move forward in another form.

Saachi D’Souza is a writer and editor from Goa, working on reportage, essays and fiction on culture, identity, and politics. This is a lightly edited version of an article that first appeared on her Substack site.