It’s a welcome sunny, balmy day in Goa, after weeks of unexpected rain. Tourists in matching co-ord sets mill about the 400-year-old stone jetty, cold beers in hand. One of them puts on lively music on their portable speaker and the sea breeze carries it, along with snippets of conversation, much further ahead. It’s a scene of perfect tranquillity and joy – until the burden of the past crashes the party.
This is Aguad, once the Aguad Port & Jail Complex, a location with a history as complex and violent as the waters of the Arabian Sea that lap around its circumference. Just under a decade ago, these walls contained not revellers, but prisoners. And the only sounds that once emanated from here were the clanging of cell doors and the screams from the torture chambers.
The Aguad Complex came up in 1612 when it was constructed by the Portuguese as a defensive stronghold against external invasions. Over the centuries, it transformed from a bustling port to a formidable prison, bearing witness to the struggles of freedom fighters and political dissidents involved in Goa’s liberation. After Operation Vijay in 1961, Aguad Complex became Goa’s central jail and continued to be the state’s largest prison until 2015, when the facility was shifted to Colvale.
Price of freedom
There is a deep sense of dissonance at Aguad, which has sprung to life again as a cultural hub after years of faithful renovation. While the beauty of the sprawling expanse is undeniable, the weight of its history is equally palpable. Aguad now hosts a very spiffy interactive museum, exhibition rooms, a couple of restaurants, and panoramic outdoor event spaces. It is a vital addition to Goa’s limited array of artistic venues. Yet, there’s an undercurrent of unease that I can’t quite shake.
The restaurants, for instance, overlook two poignant statues from the 1960s – a broken Mother India and a man carrying his fallen comrade. These sculptures, meant to celebrate Goa’s liberation while honouring those who sacrificed their lives, now serve as a backdrop for casual meals. A few metres away is a structure that was once a female prison cell, and housed prominent figures including Sharada Padmakar Sawaikar. At 16, she was falsely accused of killing a supporter of António de Oliveira Salazar, Portugal’s dictatorial prime minister at the time. Sawaikar endured over two years of severe torture within these very walls – she lost all her teeth due to the brutality and had scars on her head when she walked free.
A few metres past the female prison is the torture chamber, located strategically to ensure the screams of those being harmed would resound through the entire prison. There are reminders of the price of freedom everywhere: In the solemn wall of plaques commemorating fallen fighters, in the filled-in dents on the walls along the “Cannon Walk”, which once supported metal cages that prisoners were forced to walk through. It’s present in the solitary cell of TB Cunha, known as the ‘Father of Goan Nationalism’, who spent eight years in confinement for mobilising resistance against Portuguese rule, and died before seeing a liberated Goa. The upper area, closed to the public, still houses a giant pillar that was used for executions and from where bodies would be dropped into a pit that carried them to a watery grave in the sea.
Now, as I watch fellow visitors posing for selfies against the complex’s characteristic white walls, I wonder if it is possible to reconcile the dark history of a place with its new avatar as a space for leisure and entertainment, in a way that honours its complex legacy? Aguad isn’t the first venue to be transformed thus – similar conversions have occurred around the world. The Alcatraz Island in San Francisco, US, which once had a maximum security prison, now hosts millions of tourists annually, who are drawn to its sordid history. In the UK, the Malmaison Oxford hotel, a former Victorian prison, invites guests to “do time” in luxury, its cells converted to plush rooms. Hospitals and sanatoriums in Europe routinely find a new lease of life as art workshops and concert arenas. In a state that doesn’t have too many such settings, is it possible to reckon with the ethics of repurposing sites of historical trauma for public amusement?
Any such exercise in repurposing is bound to be contentious. It is a fine balance between acknowledging history, without being atrophied by it, and imbuing a place with fresh meaning.
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Aguad’s new role
Where Aguad truly shines is in its commitment to commemorating the history of Goa’s liberation. The interactive museum is divided into three distinct exhibits that focus on Goa’s land, struggle, and people. Together, it is a powerful remembrance of some often-overlooked chapters of Indian history. Here, the past is treated with requisite gravitas. The museum’s exhibits are thoughtfully curated, and innovatively presented. I – and the few children around – were most engaged by a nifty gadget that dispenses snippets of information about Goa’s history on paper, turning the learning experience into a tangible one.
Among the many stories highlighted in the museum, one that stands out is that of Libia Lobo, a heroine of Goa’s liberation who recently turned 100. During the tense years of the resistance, Lobo played a crucial role by operating the underground radio station, Voz de Liberdade (Voice of Freedom), from the forests of the Western Ghats. The broadcasts, made at great personal risk to Lobo and her comrade Vaman Sardesai, formed a counter-narrative against colonial propaganda and informed Goans about the progress of the liberation movement. They sustained it for six years, and when the state was finally liberated, Lobo and Sardesai announced the news from an Indian Air Force plane kitted out with a radio and loudspeaker.
Lobo’s story is an impressive demonstration of the determination that fuelled Goa’s path to freedom. More importantly, the solemnity with which these narratives are preserved, strikes a respectful balance with Aguad’s new role.
This thoughtful approach indicates that it is indeed possible for Aguad to straddle its difficult legacy and its new identity – part memorial, part playground. It’s an uncomfortable blend, sure, but maybe that’s the point. After all, what’s history if it doesn’t make us squirm a little?
This article is part of the Goa Life series, which explores the new and the old of Goan culture.
Karanjeet Kaur is a journalist, former editor of Arré, and a partner at TWO Design. She tweets @Kaju_Katri. Views are personal.
(Edited by Aamaan Alam Khan)