The old churches of Goa stand like ghosts of another era. Their grand facades, worn down by hundreds of monsoons, are reminders of when this small coastal area was called the "Rome of the East". Yet to walk through these empty ecclesiastical halls today is to confront a profound historical paradox: how does a post-colonial nation reckon with monuments built upon conquest, maintained through extraction, and preserved as heritage?
Today, the churches of Old Goa possess an undeniable magnificence that transcends their troubled history. The Basilica of Bom Jesus, with its intricate baroque facade and the preserved remains of St Francis Xavier, draws pilgrims from across the world who find genuine spiritual solace within its walls. For Goan Catholics, these aren't museum pieces but living sites of faith where baptisms, weddings, and feast days continue to mark the rhythm of spiritual life. The artistic craftsmanship—from the detailed wood carvings to the painted ceilings depicting biblical scenes—reflects a genuine attempt by artisans, both European and local, to create beauty in service of the divine.
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| Basilica of Bom Jesus in the Night, Old Goa. |
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| Basilica of Bom Jesus, Old Goa. |
Golden Goa, but not so Admirable History
Old Goa wasn't discovered—it was taken by force. When the Portuguese commander Afonso de Albuquerque seized the city in 1510, he started what would become 451 years of Portuguese rule over Goa, the longest colonial occupation anywhere in India. What happened next was the deliberate destruction of the existing culture and religion. Hindu temples were torn down, their stones often reused to build Christian churches. The Inquisition, which began in 1560, turned Goa into a place of religious terror for over two centuries, targeting Hindus, Muslims, Jews, and even Christians who didn't follow the approved version of the faith.
The magnificent churches of Old Goa—the Basilica of Bom Jesus, the Se Cathedral, the Church of St Francis of Assisi—need to be understood in this context. They weren't just places of worship. They were tools of imperial power, designed to show European dominance and built with wealth from the spice trade and the forced labour of conquered peoples. These beautiful buildings exist because of exploitation. Their spiritual purpose was tangled up with political control.
A City Abandoned and Frozen in Time
By the mid-1600s, Old Goa began to die. Disease and the silting up of the Mandovi River turned the once-bustling capital into a ghost town. The colonial government moved to Panaji, and Old Goa became what it is today—a city of churches with no city around them. Strangely, this abandonment is what saved the buildings. Without modern development pressures that have destroyed historical sites elsewhere, Old Goa was frozen in time, a perfect example of Portuguese colonial architecture.
UNESCO named it a World Heritage Site in 1986, declaring it had "outstanding universal value". But this raises awkward questions about whose heritage we're celebrating. The designation praises the architecture whilst saying very little about the violence that made it possible. Tourist materials talk about "cultural mixing" and "harmony", using comfortable words to gloss over centuries of forced conversions and the erasure of local cultures.
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| The expanse of land around adds grandeur to these structures |
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| St. Francis of Assisi Church, and (to the right) Se Cathedral, Old Goa |
Old Goa's meaning today is deeply contradictory. For Goan Catholics—about 25% of the state's population—these churches are living religious sites. When the body of St Francis Xavier is displayed, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims come to pay their respects. Their Catholic faith, whatever its origins, has become genuinely part of Goan identity over the centuries. To dismiss these churches as just colonial buildings would be to ignore the real religious lives of millions of people.
But for many other Indians, Old Goa represents historical trauma. The destruction of hundreds of Hindu temples across Goa, the forced conversions, the cruelty of the Inquisition—these aren't just old stories. They're wounds that still affect community relations and identity politics in India today. In the current political climate, which emphasises reclaiming pre-colonial Hindu heritage, Old Goa has become a contested space, a baroque battlefield for competing ideas about what it means to be Indian.
The challenge is to think about history in its complexity—to accept that multiple things can be true at the same time. Old Goa is both architecturally magnificent and a monument to colonial violence. It represents both genuine religious heritage and the legacy of cultural imperialism. These churches are evidence of European artistic skill and proof of the exploitation that paid for that skill.
Preserving Old Goa doesn't mean celebrating colonialism. Instead, these buildings should make us ask difficult questions about power, faith, and memory. The information provided to tourists at Old Goa is disappointingly shallow, offering a cleaned-up story about beautiful architecture whilst avoiding harder questions about the human cost of empire. A truly honest approach would talk about the destroyed temples, remember the victims of the Inquisition, and explore how colonial Catholicism both crushed and was changed by local cultures. But are we ready to discuss it dispassionately with academic and historical correctness.
Can buildings built through exploitation be given new meaning? Old Goa suggests the answer isn't to destroy them but to tell their full story. These churches exist. We can't erase them from history. But we can change how we understand them—not as simple tourist attractions or uncomplicated heritage, but as complicated historical evidence that demands critical thinking.
The ruins of Old Goa remind us that all heritage involves choosing what to remember and what to forget. In their crumbling grandeur, these churches ask modern India a lasting question: how do we live with a past we didn't choose, in buildings that represent both beauty and brutality? The answer will shape not only how we think about Old Goa but how we understand the larger challenge of building a nation after colonialism. The stones remain, silent and imposing. The questions they raise only become more urgent with time.
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