The serene coastal enclave of Goa, where beaches and beautiful Churches and Temples stand tall sometimes masks simmering tensions. A violent eruption of what can be only thought as lawlessness on September 18, 2025, shattered the illusion of tranquility. Social activist Rama Kankonkar, a 39-year-old firebrand known for his unyielding defense of Goan land rights, communal harmony and cultural heritage, was savagely beaten by six assailants in Caranzalem, near Panaji. The attackers, armed and brazen, punched, kicked, and hurled him onto the road, even smearing cow dung on his face in a grotesque act of humiliation. Captured on CCTV and viral videos, the assault has ignited outrage, with police booking the perpetrators for attempted murder. By September 19, five suspects were in custody, but one remains at large, as investigations probe the motive behind this targeted strike.
Kankonkar, who stood as an independent in the 2017 and 2022 Goa assembly elections from St. Andre, has built a reputation as a populist warrior for the marginalized. His campaigns against unchecked development, corruption, and environmental degradation have rallied fishermen, farmers, and indigenous communities—embodying the “people” in their raw, unfiltered form. This incident can be viewed as isolated; it echoes a pattern of intimidation against dissenters in a state grappling with rapid urbanization and political polarization and paints frightening future for Goa.
To unpack the deeper currents, may be Ernesto Laclau’s theory of populism offers a compelling framework. In On Populist Reason (2005), the Argentine philosopher reimagines populism not as demagoguery, but as a political logic that forges a collective “people” through antagonism against an elite “other.” Laclau describes this as the construction of equivalential chains—disparate demands (e.g., land protection, anti-corruption) linked by “empty signifiers” like “justice” or “Goan identity”—to challenge hegemonic power. Kankonkar exemplifies this: his activism weaves together the grievances of ordinary Goans into a unified front against developers, bureaucrats, and politicians seen as betraying the state’s soul. The attack, with its ritualistic degradation, acts as a visceral counter to this populist surge, attempting to fracture the “people” by assaulting its symbolic leader. This suggests that we Goans are challenged to face violence and viceral politics today.
Condemnations have poured in, amplifying this populist echo. Chief Minister Pramod Sawant, as Home Minister, vowed swift justice, assuring the sixth accused will be immediately arrested, emphasizing Goa’s intolerance for violence. Opposition voices, from Congress’s Girish Chodankar decrying a “Narakaasur” (demonic) regime to Goa Forward Party’s Vijai Sardesai labeling it an assault on democracy, have mobilized under shared signifiers of “law and order collapse” and “silencing dissent.” MLA and Adv. Carlos Ferreira and former minister Govind Gaude visited Kankonkar at Goa Medical College, framing the incident as a broader threat. Even the ST community in Sattari warned of a march to Azad Maidan if justice falters, while AAP’s Capt. Venzy Viegas called for a united front of MLAs, activists, and panchayat leaders to protest at 11 a.m. on September 19. These reactions aren’t mere solidarity; they construct Laclau’s “people” anew, equivalizing Kankonkar’s plight with Goa’s collective injury.
But what does this mean for Goa? At its core, the attack signals a profound rupture in the state’s social fabric, threatening the very essence of what makes Goa a beacon of harmony in India. Once synonymous with peace, beaches, and multicultural coexistence, Goa now teeters on the edge of a “violent society,” as Dr. Oscar Rebello lamented. Laclau would argue that such antagonism accelerates populist dynamics: when institutional failures—like delayed arrests despite clear CCTV evidence—leave demands unmet, the “people” harden into a force demanding radical reconfiguration. For Goa, this could manifest as escalating protests, eroding trust in the BJP-led government, and fueling a backlash against perceived cronyism in land deals and development policies.
The implications ripple outward. Economically, tourism—the lifeblood of Goa’s economy—relies on its image as a safe haven; incidents like this could deter visitors, amplifying calls for sustainable growth over exploitative projects Kankonkar opposed. Socially, it exacerbates divisions: the cow dung smear evokes caste and cultural fault lines, potentially alienating communities and stoking identity-based conflicts in a state where 37% are Scheduled Tribes. Politically, it portends a populist realignment. As Laclau notes, populism fills voids left by representative democracy; here, it could empower independents and opposition coalitions, challenging the BJP’s decade-long dominance ahead of future polls.
Yet, Laclau cautions that populism is double-edged—emancipatory or exclusionary. If the investigation uncovers links to powerful lobbies, as whispers suggest, it might galvanize a progressive “people” for reforms like stronger environmental laws. Conversely, unchecked vigilantism could descend into chaos, mirroring national trends of polarized politics. For Goa, the stakes are existential: reclaiming the populist space means safeguarding dissent as the guardian of its unique identity, lest the “other” prevails, turning our paradise into a battleground.
As Kankonkar recovers, flanked by supporters at GMC, Goans face a pivotal choice. Justice isn’t just punitive; it’s restorative—reknitting the equivalential chains that bind “the people” against erasure. In Laclau’s words, true politics emerges from such frontiers. Goa must cross this one toward renewal, or risk losing its soul to the shadows of antagonism.
