‘Zanzibar was the genesis of the Goan migration to British East Africa’: Historian Selma Carvalho

While the history of the South Asian diaspora readily maps on to the contours of the British empire, this is not the full story and especially not so in the case of displaced Goans. Of course, having been a Portuguese colony from 1510 to 1961, it may be considered likely that Goa saw its migrants seek opportunities in other Portuguese overseas territories. Again, not entirely the case.

In her new book, Guts, Glory and Empire: The Epic Story of Goans in Zanzibar, 1865-1910, Selma Carvalho offers a reconceptualisation of Goan diasporic history as having been the result of the small community navigating the intricacies of multiple and overlapping political dispensations. For Goans in nineteenth-century Zanzibar, their official citizenship may have been Portuguese, but they had to contend with the region becoming a British protectorate; in the meanwhile, the Indian Ocean island was also ruled by Omani sultans.

Slavery, colonialism, and trade have created a complex multicultural heritage in Zanzibar that contrasts with its diminutive size at just over 1500 square kilometres. While currently the Goan presence on the island has been diminished, much like the remembrance of its history, Carvalho chronicles an intrepid community who simultaneously benefitted from, colluded with, and were sidelined by European imperial machinations in the Eastern African isle.

In this conversation with Scroll, Carvalho explains Zanzibar’s importance as a historical location in the making of Goan diasporic identity within the volatile milieu of nineteenth century imperial politics. The author also reflects on why the heyday of Goan involvement in East Africa has receded into the backdrop while considering the part historiography plays in situating communities rendered marginal despite their contributions to shaping global modernity. Excerpts from the conversation:

“Zanzibar” all but disappears in 1964. That is the year it became part of Tanzania, the name of the new nation a portmanteau of two former territories, the other being Tanganyika. If one were to place them in order according to how the former British East Africa factors into the making of South Asian diasporic history and identity, then the country in first place would be Kenya with Uganda a very close second. Tanzania would appear thereafter with Zanzibar lurking within the fused moniker of that nation, almost fatefully so because the island’s name, although of Perso-Arab origins, begins with the last letter of the English alphabet.

Yet, your new book argues for the significance of Zanzibar, both as an important port in the making of nineteenth-century imperial trade relations and for the shaping of Goan identity in Africa. In your earlier writing on Goan migration such as A Railway Runs Through: Goans of British East Africa, 1865-1980 (2014), it is not that Zanzibar does not get a mention; however, the little island is not accorded nearly as much attention as Guts, Glory and Empire deservedly gives it. What prompted this newfound research direction?

Additionally, there is much to be said about the similarity between Goa and Zanzibar. Both are Indian Ocean enclaves, both have been culturally shaped by Portuguese and Islamic influences while also being part of the trade in enslaved Black people, and both became part of other nations in the 1960s. What attracted Goans to Zanzibar, especially in the 1800s?
My research into the Goan presence in East Africa spans roughly 18 years. It coincides with my arrival in London, where I was warmly welcomed by this extraordinarily successful and articulate community who called themselves East African Goans. I realised at that moment that here was an untold story. There was a sparse breadcrumb trail left by the late Teresa Albuquerque in her book Goans of Kenya (1999), and there were a number of academic books which had investigated the subject as one of migration. But there was no literature at all on the actual people who migrated in the mid-19th century, the minutiae of their lives, politics, hopes, aspirations and contributions. During the course of my research, I began to realise that Zanzibar had, in fact, been the genesis of the Goan migration to British East Africa. The question intrigued me – why had they settled in Zanzibar? There was a history of elite Goan communities in Portuguese East Africa, but what had brought them to Zanzibar? There is not one single route that might have led to Zanzibar; rather, there are several possibilities. Indeed, this early exploratory phase of mid-19th-century ocean crossing is for me, at least, one of the most exciting periods, and as yet not fully explored.

Initially, what attracted Goans was this adventurous spirit they carried which enabled them to cross oceans. As Zanzibar grew prosperous and, by a quirk of destiny, became central to European imperial expansionism in East Africa, Goans found their own ascendancy linked to this opportune moment in history. A few Goans who had arrived as stewards and cooks then took to setting up taverns and small shops. They became immensely prosperous, recruiting men from Goa to work for them in Zanzibar. Later, Goans arrived to work in clerical and administrative positions. During the interlude, they became central to the sultanate as doctors, interpreters, musicians and merchants. Important administrative posts, such as that of postmaster and government press manager, were held by Goans.

As you note, “[i]t is during … the mid-1860s … that [the] men who would shape the destiny of Zanzibar – Prince Barghash, John Kirk, CR Souza – began to assemble and their lives began to converge in the manner of small islands.” Thereupon, “within a few years, Barghash would be crowned sultan, Kirk would become consul-general at the British consulate, and CR Souza emerge as one of the richest men on Zanzibar island.”

For Barghash and Goan entrepreneur Caetano do Rosário Souza, the future was not necessarily promised. The former tried several times to become Sultan of Zanzibar, his failed efforts even resulting in him being exiled to British India, and Souza, despite his pluck, often found himself the subject of derision amongst the administrators who were steadily carving out a European sphere of influence in East Africa.

And yet, here we have an ambitious Arab prince, a high-caste Goan Catholic, and a British career colonialist who would come together to shape the destiny of this Indian Ocean African island. What might be said of this particular historical juncture that would bring together such an unlikely assemblage of foreign actors and, even more so, to the exclusion of indigenous people?
I think one of the extraordinary things about Zanzibar is that everything we believe we know about empire and the indigene gets turned on its head. The African was indigenous to Zanzibar, but the Arab did not consider themselves non-indigenous to the Swahili coast. In fact, if I can push this a little further, I suspect even the Kutch with a centuries-long association and settlement along the Swahili coast, did not consider themselves non-indigenous. “Belonging” as we understand it today, with its defined geographical demarcations, does not translate to the early 19th century. The Kutch were under the protection of the sultan, their names appearing in his book of “Sultan’s Hindees.” As in any society, a pecking order had been established, and unfortunately, in Zanzibar, the indigenous African was placed at the bottom of that hierarchy, disenfranchised from every avenue of power other than which they derived from their Arab owners. (It was different on mainland Africa, where indigenous African chiefs asserted territorial power.) It is this curious confluence of Arab royalty, British imperialism, and South Asian merchant capitalism that shaped the destiny of Zanzibar. This tenuous co-dependence laid the blueprint for modern cities as we know them today.

“Mistaken for mixed-race Europeans and called half-caste Portuguese by the British, Goans took pride in being part of the European world…” Your book makes it quite evident that the identity of Goans appeared to be quite malleable in the way they were perceived in Zanzibar of the 19th century. This was not always so: “[N]ot all Goans had their racial identity so easily blurred … [T]hose dwindling at the bottom, the throng of brawling ‘Goanese’ who lived in filthy conditions…, [were] dismissed as native[s].”

Thus, even as Britons may have grudgingly accorded elite Goans some shared cultural (or, less so, biological) Europeanness, this was still in the service of drawing a line between themselves and this other group who were marked by a lack of purity of racial/cultural origin. That there also existed visibly poorer Goans did not help.

This signals two layers of distinction on the island. The first is between the races and the second within the Goan community itself which drew from “[a] recurring theme … among British colonial officials … [who accused] lower class Goans [of] living in squalor.”

The more well-heeled Goans were quick to capitulate:

All the charities, committees and clubs formed by Goans to discuss matters of health, education and welfare, comprised the upper-class who lived in the more salubrious parts of town distanced from … poverty [and working class Goans] … Already an intersectionality between class and race was emerging, where class could blur racial differences, and make oneself acceptable to European hegemony.

Your book is not devoid of mention of non-elite Goan people, but it centres the lives of those Goan subjects whose caste privilege and European acculturation (because of the Portuguese colonisation of their homeland) allowed them to be advantaged in the colonially hierarchical multiculturalism of Zanzibar.

How separated were poorer Goans from their patrician counterparts in everyday life and society at the time?
What becomes obvious in Goan diaspora history, beginning with the 19th-century satellite Goan community in Bombay, is that the Goan elite carried a profound sense of noblesse oblige. They may have socially distanced themselves from working-class Goan – to the extent that they excluded them from their clubs and committees – but they also felt a responsibility towards their well-being. Hence, one of the first collective acts that takes place is the forming of two charities on Zanzibar island, those of St Joseph and St Francis Xavier, by 1874.

It is in the constitution of these charities that an early understanding of democratic franchise and gender equality becomes obvious within Goan society. But a form of internalised racism persisted toward their own working-class populations – the cooks, stewards, tailors, people who were not Europeanised in mannerisms, speech, and cultural pursuits. Their lack of Europeanisation was an embarrassment to elite Goans. The Portuguese language was instrumental in social gate-keeping. Those who could speak the language were imbued not just with social mobility but also a quasi-political power.

Caste rivalries persistent among Catholics in Goa resurfaced in Zanzibar, and from the tired old tropes of caste arose fresh divisions, markedly between the uneducated trading class and the urban educated class. At times, these rivalries played out in public, leading to catastrophic diplomatic tensions impacting international relations.

Although Zanzibar found itself ensconced in the political intrigues of Omani sultans and European colonisers, it did not mean that Goans – as small as this community was – were not also involved in administrative goings-on. Here, I am referring not only to their employment as interpreters and clerks by the island’s Arab and British authorities, but also to the fact that Goans were appointed as vice-consuls and consul-generals in the Portuguese consulate on the island. What does this reveal about the peculiarities of Portuguese colonialism in comparison to its British counterpart?

It is also important to underscore that although Goans were Portuguese citizens in East Africa, curiously, “until a Portuguese consulate was established in 1885, the affairs of Goans were overseen by the British consulate.” With no Portuguese administrative body in place, “[f]or those Goans who had registered with the consulate, effectively, it meant they became British protected subjects.” This was foundational to how Goan identity evolved, you contend, for “[i]t was this ‘protection’ which the Goans encountered in Zanzibar that would lay the foundation of their understanding of citizenship, that it could be dual and changeable.”

In 1897, this mercurial self-making led “the Portuguese Consul-General Ferreira de Castro [to call] the Goan community in Zanzibar, amphibio, amphibious in nature, switching nationalities as it suited them.” I would challenge the consul-general’s characterisation of why Goans switched politico-national loyalties and ask, instead, if the reason this miniscule community’s allegiances were variable is that they sensed the necessity of being flexible given the still-forming world order. Certainly, this must have also had to do with British ascendancy across the globe which contrasted so starkly with Portuguese decline?
In Africa, Portugal found it hard to colonise with boots on the ground. Already, in neighbouring Mozambique, a dependence on Goan elites as agents of empire had been established by Portugal. In Zanzibar, this authority was formalised. The appointment of Dr Brás Souza as vice-consul in 1885 and later as consul-general imbued Goans with consular authority. The trend continued with elite Goans being given judicial power over other Goans. Thus began a period of collaborative empire-building, a sort of partnership between native Goans and the Portuguese.

To the second point, in Zanzibar, Goans understood that political loyalties could be multi-faceted. The book gives us a glimpse into how easily loyalties could switch for Goans depending on the situation – they could ask to be under British protection or the sultan’s protection. Often, if Portugal’s relationship with the sultanate became strained, Portugal would place Goans under the protection of the Germans.

One cannot speak of Africa of the past centuries without addressing the trade in enslaved Black people. Were Goans complicit in these ventures? In the racial hierarchy of the island – where elite Goans were greatly advantaged – how did Goans treat Black people?
There is a notion that the empire was driven entirely by Europe’s militaristic might. But the longue durée was made up of disparate people living together, each one asserting their own power where they could engage in the oppression of other people. Some instances of Goan-inflicted oppressions are detailed in Guts, Glory and Empire – the blurring of slave and servant, for instance. There are at least two instances where Goans buy slaves to work for them.

Although litigating the past is futile, the practice of slave-ownership was frowned upon even at the time. Principally, it fell afoul of the law, but more importantly, it was morally abhorrent. The French Catholic missionaries with whom Goans were closely allied in Zanzibar were staunch abolitionists. It seems incongruent that, on the one hand, Goans kept close company with the French missionaries while, on the other hand, the very same people owned chattel labour.

Elvira Martin née Souza is one of the rare figures in the book of whom we get a fuller profile as a woman. This notwithstanding, your research findings emphasise how rarely she was “referred to by her name. She had simply disappeared into being Mrs James Martin.” Beyond being defined only through heteropatriarchy, how might we understand the lives of Goan women in this moment?
One of the misgivings I harbour is that I could not flesh out the lives of women in the book. The archives were silent because it was men who inhabited the public space and were visible enough to have left behind a documented record of their lives. Once in a while, a glimpse is afforded by way of an obituary or a will where the wife is the beneficiary and then a story can be extrapolated from that nugget of information.

Elvira Martin Souza is that rare Goan woman who is visible in East Africa’s history. Much of this visibility stems from her being the daughter of the aforementioned Dr Brás Souza. Later, Elvira became even more renowned as the wife of the Maltese adventurer James Martin. Elvira and James were very much part of the early colonials who set up camp around what would, by 1899, become known as Nairobi, the capital of Kenya. Accomplished, talented, able to sing in several languages and a great lover of music, an entire chapter is dedicated to Elvira Martin Souza in the book.

“As empire formalised in East Africa, as colonists established associations and increasingly usurped power, as the crown government solidified and favoured white settlers, the Goan entrepreneur faded in East Africa ... A causal relationship has to be assumed between the rise of empire and the decline of the Goan as an autonomous agent.” In so saying, Guts, Glory and Empire signals the end of the halcyon days of Goans in Zanzibar, their legacy obscured.

Apart from the rise of empire, the fault for why this history is little known you lay at the feet of the community itself: “That Goans had no sense of their historical relevance has condemned their story to obscurity. That no such institutions or historians chronicled their tremendous contribution rendered them mute.”

While your book intervenes in this loss, what does it also say about how minority communities are researched in South Asian diasporic studies (where “South Asian” is really North Indian) and what may this advise for future enquiries about Goa and its diasporas?
There is a question to be asked as to why some histories are forgotten or erased. I cannot find an explanation as to why the extraordinary history of the Goan interlude in Zanzibar had not been written about. And a vast unwritten history still exists out there of the Goan presence in Mozambique. To investigate these histories, of course, requires tremendous financial resources. It is incumbent on institutions to set up funding. Goan history suffers from the label of being a “niche history”, but the disparate threads of the Indian subcontinent and the Indian Ocean have to become part of the national consciousness. That is how we become a nation by being genuinely interested in each other’s lives and recognising that these are shared pasts.

Indeed, I would go so far as to say, that is how we begin to understand our shared humanity. For instance, until Guts, Glory and Empire, there was no recognition of the Goan engagement with the nineteenth-century Arab world. We remember the Goan presence in East Africa only as having serviced the British administration, but there had been a long history prior and parallel to that.

R Benedito Ferrão is an Associate Professor of English and Asian & Pacific Islander American Studies at William & Mary (Virginia, US). He is the author of The Girl Who Was the Color of Nothing (2026), illustrated by Maria Vanessa de Sa, as well as the forthcoming Across Continents: Writing Goans, Making Worlds.