I feel the immediate whiplash. I accept the term given to me by this Goan, who continues to invite me for every event they host. I stop going, because I wonder why they would want me there. Maybe the problem is that their definition of “settler” is different from mine.

I came to Goa first when I was 13. It was one of the only trips my parents could afford, both in terms of money and time. We stayed by the beach in Bambolim and, as a voracious reader even then, I declared that Goa was where I would come to write my book. The people were friendly, there was a feeling of tranquillity. Once I turned 18, and for all the years that I lived in India, Goa became my annual pilgrimage spot. It was where I hurriedly wrote my grad school essays, the last place I visited before I left for America and the place I came to three days after I decided to move back to India, for good. I love this state because the greenery, the sea and the sand under my toes help me feel centred. Three years ago, I finally found the courage to move.

Does a person have a greater right over a place if they were born there? How many years do I need to live somewhere before I can claim it as home?

In 2021, I flew back to New York, after a work trip. New York is notorious for a horrible immigration process and I braced myself for it. All the immigration officer said when he looked at my Indian passport was “Welcome home”. I almost cried in shock.

In Washington DC, I lived in a swanky apartment with a rooftop pool, grill stations and an indoor gym. The block on which I lived had nail and wine bars, Pilates studios, gyms, fine dining, grocery stores, bars and coffee shops to complement the upmarket housing.

There were also people who had lost their homes, who would sit outside and jeer at you if you were brown or Latino. Maybe the name calling and suggestive gestures were the only outlet for their frustration. Shootout alerts became commonplace. Security was increased and somehow, we thought that would solve the problem. We all pontificated about gentrification being a necessary evil in capitalism. Surely there had to be guardrails and alternate housing provided to those displaced? Whose responsibility was it? I was so ridden with guilt, with George Floyd on my mind, that when I was attacked by a Black homeless person on the street, I didn’t report it. But I was scared to go out on my own.

My life in Goa is the exact opposite of my life in DC. And that is a conscious choice. I don’t long for a coffee shop, a fancy bar or a Pilates studio in my building. I moved here for the greenery and the opportunity to possibly contribute locally instead of always working on areas far away.

I have no interest in seeing any part of Goa look the way Delhi or any other sprawling metropolis does. It doesn’t have to. Goans who live around me say they are happy when a Starbucks or a KFC or a new mall opens up — it is a sign of progress as long as it’s not destroying a protected forest or area. Just because I don’t want it, why should I roll my eyes? I can register my protest by never inhabiting those spaces.

I’m learning slowly about repressed violence and ugliness in the state. I try to absorb the sentiment that only Indian tourists and settlers are destroying Goan culture. I watch the local boys drink at Torda Creek and the adjoining Khazans, and dump their trash right there. I’ve been advised not to ask them why because I am a lowly settler who pays rent to a Goan. All the non-touristy roads are covered with garbage bags that are torn to pieces by dogs. Plastic and waste will be burnt by the roadside for everyone to inhale, even though there is a substantial allocation in the state budget for solid waste management by municipal bodies. Fire crackers will be burst, visarjans will occur and public spaces will be trashed. Fields will be set on fire and the air will be thick with smog. When I ask the neighbouring farmer why, the response is, this is how we’ve always done it.

Goa has the highest per capita income in the country and one of the lowest population densities. Can one then attribute the rampant selling and conversion of land to economic compulsion? Can we examine what else is at play? Why aren’t we coalescing around keeping rents controlled or regulating the market? Why aren’t we advocating for a higher tax rate for people who own more than one home? I guess it’s easier to attack a settler filmmaker from Aldona, instead, for wanting to belong?

The main highway connecting Porvorim to the other side represents a Mad Max set. The roads are constantly dug up and dangerous. Why are the roads in this state for years on end? There have been 200 accidents, resulting in 18 deaths, in October alone. Why hasn’t the government introduced more public transport or allowed ride shares that are reliable and affordable? Don’t these daily problems warrant our attention more than the settlers allegedly destroying culture?

I don’t like being called an outsider or settler in my own country. Using this trope to explain away structural problems in Goa is lazy. It is intended to create more divides. And Goa is embroiled in that very “us vs them” fight. And while we fight amongst ourselves, the government continues passing orders that only benefit a chosen few.

Developing a sense of belonging to the place where you live is a worthy goal to pursue. It is the foundation required to begin to address intractable problems. This task demands an infusion of new ideas which requires people with different lived experiences to come together. The answer won’t appear if we stay in our little silos of hate. To go beyond the performative nature of these arguments, collect your neighbours and discuss one local issue that you all want to collectively resolve. See who shows up to create a culture we are all happy to co-opt.

The writer is a Goa-based development economist

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# Goa