Frontlines of the Language War: A Reporter’s Memoir of the Konkani Agitation (John Aguiar)

[Frederick Noronha]

John Aguiar

Frontlines of the Language War: A Reporter’s Memoir of the Konkani Agitation
By John Aguiar
The air in Goa during the mid-1980s didn't just carry the scent of the
sea; it carried the heavy, electric charge of a revolution. As a staff
reporter for Herald, I didn't just cover the Konkani Agitation; I
lived it. It was a time of unprecedented upheaval—the first time in
our history that the Army was called to our streets—and I stood at the
crossroads where journalism met activism.
The Secret Spark
The fuse was lit at the Surendra Babu Timblo Hall in Panjim. The Goa
Pradesh Congress Committee was meeting to decide the fate of our
mother tongue. The press was strictly barred from the proceedings, but
the hunger for the story was too great to ignore. Sagar Javdekar of
Tarun Bharat and I managed to squeeze ourselves into the crowded hall,
unnoticed.
We witnessed history in the making as the resolution was passed to
make Konkani the official language of Goa. The next morning, it was
the explosive lead story only in Herald and Tarun Bharat. The secret
was out, and the state would never be the same.
The War of the Words
In those days, the battle was fought as much in newsprint as it was on
the Frontlines. Our newsroom at Herald, led by the indomitable Rajan
Narayan, was the bastion for Konkani. On the other side stood Narayan
Athavle of Gomantak, who championed Marathi with the fiery slogan:
"Tuto he sharir futto he madtak marathicha gazar sodu naye" (Let the
body break or the head shatter, but the chant of Marathi shall not
cease).
The rivalry was fierce. I recall writing a stinging critique of
Athavle’s rhetoric in the Roman Konkani daily Novem Goem, which earned
me a legal notice from his advocate. It was Advocate Kamlakant Pai,
from the chambers of the legendary Uday Bhembre, who stood by me to
file the reply. We weren’t just reporters; we were soldiers for our
mother tongue.
Blood on the Streets
The agitation was physical and often violent. I remember the lathi
charge near the Customs House where our photographer, Menino Afonso,
was injured and his gear smashed. That incident shook the fraternity,
leading the Goa Union of Journalists to protest, eventually forcing
the Department of Information & Publicity to issue "PRESS" armbands to
identify us in the chaos.
One of the most vivid memories involves Shri Eduardo Faleiro, then MP.
He had been touring Goa, sensing the pulse of the people and
explaining that Statehood was impossible without an official language.
Meanwhile Mr Faleiro was inducted as union minister in charge of
external Affairs. He along with Union minister of State for
Information & Broadcasting was to visit Goa to inaugurate the
Programme Generating Facility at Doordarshan Panaji. The people were
waiting for Mr Faleiro at Cortalim Junction. So he decided to face the
agitators by send his colleagues via sea route to Panaji.
At Cortalim, a massive blockade had brought the state to a standstill.
I was there with my driver, Vasant of Kundaim, and Menino Afonso my
photographer. As Faleiro began to speak, stones flew, and the police
swung into action. In the ensuing melee, I lost my photographer—only
to find him later, trekking down a hillside, having fled to avoid a
second lathi charge. I couldn’t blame him; the air was thick with the
threat of broken bones.
The struggle for Konkani as the official language was not just a
political movement; for those of us on the ground, it was a period of
intense personal conviction and professional urgency. I recall the
somber atmosphere following the firing by the Gujarat Reserved Police
in Margao—an incident that tragically claimed the life of a young
activist, Floriano Vaz.
Eager to gather firsthand information for the public, I set out for
Margao. While waiting for a bus at Ponda Tiska, I was offered a lift
by Advocate R.D. Magueshkar on his scooter. At the time, he was the
Manager of the daily Novem Goem. He was visibly disturbed; the
state-wide bandh (strike) had prevented the editorial staff from
reaching the office, threatening the next day's publication.
What began as a ride to gather news turned into a hands-on lesson in
journalistic grit. He took me directly to the Novem Goem office, and
together, we stepped into the breach. Working side-by-side, we managed
to compile and bring out the edition ourselves, ensuring the voice of
the movement wasn't silenced by the chaos of the strike.
The chain hunger strike at Azad Maidan was a pivotal moment in the
1985–1987 Konkani agitation, marking a shift from intellectual debate
to a mass movement for Goa's identity.
While the agitation saw several large rallies at Azad Maidan ( most
notably the massive gathering on December 18, 1986), the chain hunger
strikes served as the "pulse" of the movement between these major
events.
Beyond my professional duties, my heart was firmly with the cause. I
am proud to have stood among the advocates for our mother tongue,
participating in the chain token hunger strike at Azad Maidan. We
stood there with a singular, unwavering demand: the recognition of
Konkani as the official language of Goa—a milestone that remains a
defining moment in our cultural history.
The Grassroots Surge
While the leaders debated in Panaji, the real fire was lit in the
villages. From the youth of Panchawadi digging up roads overnight to
block traffic from Sanvordem, to the people of Pilar burning tires
near the chapel—Goa was a fortress.
In Ponda, I worked alongside the late Roque Pereira of The Navhind
Times. Together, we drove a jeep fitted with loudspeakers through the
taluka, rallying the masses. Our efforts culminated in a "Maha
Mellava" where we organized eight buses from Shiroda, Panchwadi, and
Usgao. It was a logistical triumph that stunned the opposition.
The tension was so high that my own father was warned by the Marathi
faction to "take care of me." For my safety, I stopped going home to
Ponda, instead sleeping on the sub-editors' tables at the Herald
office or at Prakash Lodge, surrounded by other Konkani activists.
Unsung Heroes
History often remembers the names on the bills and the statues, but
the Konkani movement was built on the backs of the "unsung." People
like Sunil Shetye, who worked tirelessly; Roque Pereira, who edited a
Konkani fortnightly to educate the masses; and the brave supporters
like Inacio Gracias and Joildo Aguiar.
We were a generation that refused to let our identity be erased.
Whether we were shouting slogans at the Azad Maidan or dodging bullets
at Pilar, we knew that we were writing the first chapter of a free,
statehood-recognized Goa. Today, as we speak our language with pride,
let us not forget the bruised cameras, the blocked roads, and the ink
spilled to make it so. See less

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