There is something about arriving in Goa that resists easy description, and it is not just the coastline or tourism. It is the way land is held and used.
Across the state, you see laterite hills, orchards, and khazan lands that have been managed over generations. These are not empty landscapes waiting for development, but the working systems where the hills hold and release rainwater. Orchards support local economies and regulate temperature. Khazan lands manage the balance between salt and fresh water, making agriculture and fishing possible.
Many of these lands are privately owned. Yet they function as a shared resource. The livelihoods, water systems, and villages are all dependent on it. A landscape that feels like it belongs to more than its owners. These are not leftover landscapes waiting to be developed. They are the core systems that sustain everyday life.
In 2024, the state government of Goa introduced the Goa Town and Country Planning Act, of which particular attention needs to be paid to Section 39A. This act gives the Chief Town Planner the power to change land zoning of specific private plots based on applications by the property owners, including converting green or “no development” zones into “settlement” zones. Simply put, land where construction was not allowed can now be opened up. This bypasses the slower, collective framework of the Regional Plan.
The Regional Plan is the main document that guides land use in the state. It classifies land into categories such as settlement, agriculture, orchard, forest, and no-development zones. Preparing this plan takes time. It involves surveys, environmental assessments, and consultations with local communities.
While approvals are issued by the Chief Town Planner, the system operates within the government’s administrative framework. There is no independent planning authority reviewing these changes. Local bodies such as panchayats have limited power to intervene.
This process is slow, but that is intentional. Land is interconnected. A change in one place affects many others. The Regional Plan tries to account for this by looking at the bigger picture. Section 39A changes that approach. It allows individual plots to be reclassified through an application to the Chief Town Planner. A notice is published in the Official Gazette, and citizens have 30 days to respond. After that, the change can be approved.
On paper, this may seem like a transparent process. In reality, it is difficult for most people to access. Gazette notifications are not easy to track. The language is technical. Filing objections requires time, awareness, and often legal support. For many village communities, this process is simply out of reach.
This raises an important question about participation. If people cannot realistically engage with the process, can it still be called public consultation?
Section 39A is a small legal amendment, but it has large consequences, as it shows how the idea of the public is being redefined, not through shared access or collective value, but through administrative power. What appears to be a procedural amendment has, in practice, opened up hills, orchards, and ecologically sensitive lands to development through a centralised decision-making process.
In a small state like Goa, land is not just property. It supports everyday life and carries a sense of identity. When such changes are pushed through in this manner, the question is not only about planning permissions.
If a landscape is collectively depended upon but privately owned, how do we define its publicness? And when decisions about such land are made through processes that are difficult to access or contest, and people have to protest to protect their own water and land, who does planning ultimately serve?
For architects and planners, this is not just a legal issue. It is a question of how we understand land. When a hill is reclassified as a settlement zone, it is no longer seen as part of a water system. It becomes a site for construction. When an orchard is rezoned, its ecological and social role is no longer part of the conversation. The planning system begins to treat land as isolated parcels, rather than as part of a larger network. This shift has consequences.
Cutting hills affects drainage and increases runoff. Filling low-lying areas disrupts natural water flow. Increasing density without upgrading infrastructure puts pressure on roads, sewage systems, and water supply. These are not future risks; they are the present. They are already being experienced in different parts of Goa.
The impact is not evenly distributed. Those who benefit from land conversion are often not the ones dealing with flooding, water shortages, or infrastructure stress. These costs are borne by local communities, by the very people who depend on these lands.
In February 2026, these concerns came to a head in Panjim. Residents from affected villages, especially women from Palem-Siridao, gathered at the Town and Country Planning office. They had already tried formal routes, attending gram sabhas, filing objections, and writing to authorities. When nothing changed, they chose to occupy the office.
For several days, they stayed there, refusing to leave. The protest grew, drawing support from across the state. It was not just about one village. It was about how decisions are being made. The government responded with a partial suspension of conversions in one constituency. However, the law itself remains in place, and many approvals have already been processed.
(right) Villagers from Palem-Siridao staged an overnight protest at the office of the Town and Country Planning (TCP) Department. Source: O Heraldo
This brings us back to a fundamental question. What do we mean when we call something public?
Many of the lands being converted are not officially marked as public spaces. They do not have legal protection in that sense. But they function as shared systems. A hill that recharges groundwater serves everyone living around it. A network of orchards affects the microclimate of an entire settlement. Khazan lands support collective livelihoods. These are forms of public value that are not always recognised in legal definitions.
The Regional Plan, despite its limitations, tried to address this by looking at land collectively. Section 39A moves away from that approach. It allows decisions to be made one plot at a time, based on individual applications. Over time, this can lead to the gradual loss of systems that communities depend on.
A protester at Azad Maidan said, “I am here because I love my land, and this government is destroying it.” It is a simple statement, but it points to a deeper issue. Planning is not just about regulations. It shapes how people live, how resources are shared, and how environments are sustained.
If publicness is reduced to what is legally accessible, then these landscapes were never public to begin with. But if it is understood through the systems that sustain shared life, then what is unfolding in Goa is not simply development. It is the gradual dismantling of a commons that was never fully recognised, yet always collectively held.
