Rapes. Murders. Kidnappings. Acid attacks. Sounds like the dark underbelly of some lawless region torn apart by gang wars, poverty, and administrative collapse, doesn’t it?
But no, my friend. This is not Uttar Pradesh. Not Bihar. Not some remote hinterland struggling with governance. This is Goa. My Goa. Our Goa.
And today, I say it with a heavy heart — I am ashamed.
Ashamed that the land once known for its Sussegad spirit, harmony, and safety is now inching dangerously close to becoming a jungle where predators roam freely — and the prey, sadly, are our daughters, sisters, children, and neighbours. Ashamed that we, as a society, have watched it unfold and said nothing, done nothing, and become numb to the horror. Ashamed that our silence is now indistinguishable from complicity.
Let me be blunt. We are not in a crisis that happened overnight. This is the result of years of neglect, apathy, and a dangerous cocktail of political tokenism and societal denial. Goa has not become unsafe overnight — it has been decaying silently while we were distracted by parties, festivals, and photoshoots on beaches.
The recent acid attack in Dhargal is not just a heinous act — it is a symptom. A symptom of the rot that has taken root in the conscience of our state machinery. A teenage boy’s body was scarred for life. But do you know what’s more tragic? The fact that this doesn’t even shock us anymore. We scroll past the headline and move on to memes and cricket scores. We have become desensitized to violence unless it happens in our own backyard.
Where is the outrage? Where is the accountability?
Our ministers are busy inaugurating statues and promising “Smart Cities,” while real human lives are being disfigured, destroyed, and dumped like yesterday’s garbage. They issue token condemnations and promise swift justice — but when the dust settles, justice becomes just another file gathering dust in a government office.
Let’s not be naive. Crime doesn’t grow in isolation. It grows where it is allowed to fester — where political will is weak, where policing is inconsistent, and where the social fabric is torn by moral decay.
Goa’s police force, though filled with many sincere officers, is overstretched, under-resourced, and often strangled by political interference. How many rape cases in Goa have resulted in timely convictions? How many murders have led to life imprisonment of the accused? The numbers are sobering, and yet no systemic reform is visible.
But governance is only half the problem. We, the people, are the other half.
We post Instagram stories about injustice in Iran, Palestine, or the US, but not a single word about the crimes happening in our own state. We attend candlelight vigils when cameras are present but go home and forget it all the next morning. We call it “bad luck” when someone is assaulted, instead of calling it what it is: a brutal failure of our society.
Do you know what Goa’s biggest tragedy is? We are still living under the illusion that it’s the “safest state in India.” We assume crime happens elsewhere, not here. This delusion has allowed crime to creep in, unchallenged, until it is now part of our reality.
Wake up, Goa. The predators are not hiding in the forests — they’re walking the streets, watching, waiting, and acting — while we pretend everything’s fine.
And to the political establishment: Don’t wait for another acid attack, another rape, another dead body on the beach before you act. The time for symbolic gestures is over. We don’t need photo-ops; we need police reforms, fast-track courts, street surveillance, public safety education, and most importantly — political accountability. Stop managing headlines. Start managing crime.
And to the youth of Goa: You have inherited a paradise. Don’t let it turn into a hellhole. Speak up. Mobilize. Demand justice. It is not just the job of police or politicians — it is your job, my job, our job.
Every time we stay silent in the face of such violence, we are not just betraying the victim — we are betraying the soul of Goa.
I am a Goan. I built my dreams here. I raised my children here. And I refuse to accept that this is what our home has become. I refuse to allow this silence to define us. This is not about politics. This is about humanity. About justice. About reclaiming the dignity of our state.
Let us be clear: Goa is bleeding. And unless we — its people — wake up and demand change, we too will have blood on our hands.
We cannot undo what has been done. But we can still act. Still stand. Still fight.
Not just for justice. But for the very soul of Goa.
Because if we don’t, then maybe we deserve the shame.
