“In this sense, Goa is beginning to resemble the very states it once mocked for their lawlessness—Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. That comparison might sound unfair at first glance, but the parallels are striking. In both UP and Bihar, the erosion of institutions, the politicisation of policing, and the casual acceptance of criminal elements in public life have led to a culture where violence is just another tool of business and politics. Goa’s trajectory today mirrors that descent.
The pattern is visible in every new headline. Gunshots over sand extraction. Turf wars between rival gangs. Shady land deals involving migrants and middlemen. Drug seizures that quietly vanish from follow-up reports. Even in tourist zones, fights, stabbings, and deaths are now disturbingly common.”
Goa, once synonymous with peace and susegad, is fast losing its calm. The recent shooting in Pernem’s sand belt, where two migrant workers were injured in what appears to be a turf war over illegal sand extraction, is not an isolated crime. It is another warning shot—literally—of how Goa’s underbelly of illegality, political protection, and administrative apathy has begun to rot the state from within.
The irony is bitter. A state celebrated for its safety and communal harmony is now routinely making headlines for murders, assaults, gang rivalries, drug trafficking, and land scams. The image of “peaceful Goa” is giving way to one of a lawless frontier where the powerful do as they please and the ordinary live in fear or indifference.
This is not an exaggeration. The firing in Pernem, reportedly linked to the illegal sand trade, reveals a disturbing nexus between political patronage and criminal enterprise. Illegal sand extraction has long been an open secret, carried out under the watch of local strongmen, often with links to ruling party leaders. Police inquiries, if at all initiated, rarely lead to convictions. The same story repeats itself across Goa’s coast—be it illegal mining, drug peddling, land grabbing, or flesh trade. Each racket thrives because those involved know that influence, not innocence, determines guilt.
In this sense, Goa is beginning to resemble the very states it once mocked for their lawlessness—Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. That comparison might sound unfair at first glance, but the parallels are striking. In both UP and Bihar, the erosion of institutions, the politicisation of policing, and the casual acceptance of criminal elements in public life have led to a culture where violence is just another tool of business and politics. Goa’s trajectory today mirrors that descent.
The pattern is visible in every new headline. Gunshots over sand extraction. Turf wars between rival gangs. Shady land deals involving migrants and middlemen. Drug seizures that quietly vanish from follow-up reports. Even in tourist zones, fights, stabbings, and deaths are now disturbingly common. Behind this growing menace lies a deeper truth: the state’s machinery has lost control—or, worse, ceded control—to vested interests.
Chief Minister Pramod Sawant’s government, despite its tall claims about “zero tolerance” for crime, has been reactive rather than reformative. Each incident sparks political outrage, press conferences, and promises of “strict action,” but nothing changes. Law enforcement remains under-resourced and politically pressured. Whistleblowers are discouraged. Honest officers are shunted out. Meanwhile, criminals operate with impunity, emboldened by the knowledge that political protection is just a phone call away.
Goa’s social fabric too is changing. Economic desperation and unchecked migration have created tensions between locals and outsiders, often exploited by politicians for votes. The rise in violent disputes over sand, land, and drugs reflects the decay of community norms. It is no longer about survival—it is about profit, territory, and muscle.
When the Leader of the Opposition warns that “Gangs of Goa” could soon be a reality, it isn’t political theatre. It is a grim forecast. What began as sporadic lawlessness is becoming a pattern of organised criminality. And unless the state acts decisively now, Goa may soon lose the very qualities that made it distinct from the rest of India—a sense of safety, tolerance, and simplicity.
The way forward is clear but politically inconvenient. Goa needs depoliticised policing, strict enforcement of environmental and land laws, and transparency in trade and tendering. It needs the courage to admit that illegalities thrive because they are profitable to those in power. Above all, it needs moral leadership—leaders willing to govern rather than merely campaign.
Goa doesn’t have to become like UP or Bihar. But the warning signs are flashing. When guns fire over sand, when mafias decide who digs the rivers and who dies, when political patronage shields criminals instead of citizens—that’s when a state begins to lose its soul. Goa is dangerously close to that edge. The time to pull back is now.
