The Goa government’s recent inclination toward regularising illegal houses built on Communidade land — especially those largely occupied by migrant populations — has sparked deep concern among locals, legal experts, and defenders of Goa’s cultural and ecological identity. It’s a move that is not only legally and morally questionable, but also grossly unfair to Goans who abide by the law and yet struggle to own a piece of their homeland.
Communidade lands — held in common by village communities and protected under a unique legal framework — are not just parcels of real estate. They are repositories of Goan heritage, history, and tradition. Any attempt to arbitrarily regularise illegal encroachments on such land strikes at the very heart of this legacy.
The hypocrisy of the current administration becomes evident when contrasted with the treatment meted out to Goans. Time and again, small encroachments — sometimes as minor as compound walls or temporary sheds — by native Goans have been ruthlessly demolished.
The state, in these instances, hides behind High Court orders and claims of “legal compulsion,” showing zero empathy to families who may have erred more out of necessity than design. Yet when it comes to large-scale illegal settlements, predominantly occupied by migrant populations who conveniently serve as votebanks, the government appears eager to extend amnesty.
This selective application of law not only creates a two-tier system of justice but also insults those who respect the rule of law. Why should a Goan who saves for decades to buy a small plot of land — and follows every regulation to build a modest home — be penalised, while another who grabs land illegally is rewarded with ownership?
The answer lies in vote-bank politics.
Over the past few decades, successive governments in Goa have quietly encouraged the influx and settlement of migrant populations, often with an eye on electoral gains. These populations, once settled, become loyal voting blocs for those who promise them “regularisation” and protection. Meanwhile, the local Goan finds themselves priced out of the market, burdened by increasing land costs, declining job opportunities, and a cultural erosion they can neither stop nor influence.
This is not a xenophobic argument. Goa has always welcomed people from across India and beyond. But when migration turns into illegal settlement, often aided by political patronage, it ceases to be about multiculturalism and becomes a question of land-grabbing and demographic manipulation.
The government may argue that regularisation is a humanitarian measure — to provide dignity and security to the poor. But dignity cannot come at the cost of legality. If illegal occupation is to be rewarded with ownership, then what message are we sending to law-abiding citizens? That the law is flexible for some and rigid for others? That grabbing land is a legitimate path to property?
If there is genuine political will to address housing for the underprivileged — whether Goan or migrant — it should be done through formal housing policies, legal land acquisition, transparent allotment processes, and proper urban planning. Encouraging backdoor settlements only encourages chaos and undermines public trust in governance.
Moreover, regularising illegal structures sets a dangerous precedent. What stops the next wave of encroachment? Once people realise that encroaching on Communidade or government land can eventually earn them ownership, it will trigger a fresh cycle of land grabbing, legal ambiguity, and social tension.
This is not just a land issue — it is about justice, governance, and the long-term identity of Goa.
The state must pause and reconsider. Blanket regularisation of illegal houses on Communidade land is not the solution. What is required is an inclusive, lawful, and transparent housing policy that respects Goa’s history, protects its future, and treats all citizens — migrant or native — under the same framework of law.
Any move that undermines this balance is not progress. It is betrayal.
