The twin scrapyard fires in Sancoale within barely a week—both reduced to ashes, both operating in plain sight, both well known to residents long before officials pretended to discover them—are not isolated accidents. They are the loudest reminders yet of a system that has normalised illegality as an acceptable cost of governance. When a village panchayat is compelled to issue mass notices to all scrapyards only after two spectacular infernos light up the skyline, it tells you everything about how regulation in Goa works: always after the fire, never before it.
Let us begin with the most uncomfortable question, the one the government repeatedly sidesteps—how does an illegal scrapyard begin operations at all? A scrapyard cannot magically materialise overnight. It requires land, access, transport vehicles, labour, heavy material movement, electricity, water and, above all, the confidence that no authority will intervene. Panchayat members and municipal councillors cannot claim ignorance. Elected representatives are expected to walk their wards, respond to citizens, and flag illegalities. If they say they never saw these scrapyards, they are negligent. If they saw and chose not to act, they are complicit. And if they acted and were overruled, someone higher up stands answerable. In every scenario, the result is the same: illegality thrives because the system allows it.
The uncomfortable parallel with the mushrooming of unauthorised structures on comunidade and government land cannot be ignored. Every village in Goa has seen the same pattern—encroachment begins quietly, becomes visible, grows bolder, and eventually becomes a fait accompli. Scrapyards follow the same script. They begin as “temporary metal storage”, grow into full-fledged sorting centres with hazardous material piled dangerously high, and then claim legitimacy simply by having survived long enough. Panchayats issue show-cause notices only when a fire breaks out or when public pressure reaches boiling point. Until then, the default posture is the Nelson’s eye.
What about the government departments that are supposed to enforce the law? The Goa State Pollution Control Board is mandated to regulate units that handle hazardous waste. The Revenue Department is responsible for ensuring land use compliance. The local self-governing bodies must inspect and license trade activities. Yet, the standard bureaucratic response after every blaze is depressingly predictable—issue notices, open files, order inquiries and wait for the public memory to fade. No demolition, no prosecution, no systematic inspection drive, and certainly no political accountability. Illegal scrap yards flourish because the profits are high and the risk is low. Those who run them know that a few “cuts” judiciously distributed often buy more protection than any licence ever could.
Consider Zuarinagar, once known for Zuari Agro Chemicals and later as an educational hub. Today, it is battling a reputation crisis: drugs, illegal scrapyards, fires, unauthorised constructions and whispered scams. Residents say it is turning into a mini Dharavi of Goa. The two recent scrapyard fires are not aberrations—they are symptoms of a social and administrative collapse. And extrapolate this trend across Goa and a distressing pattern emerges. From Pernem to Canacona, scrap yard fires have been recorded with unnerving regularity. Data drawn from the Directorate of Fire and Emergency Services shows that over the last five years, scrapyard fires peak in two distinct seasons: post-monsoon months of November and December, and the pre-monsoon heat of April and May.
Yet, despite the frequency, Goa has been fortunate. No catastrophic human tragedy has been recorded so far, largely due to the professionalism and speed of the Fire and Emergency Services teams who reach even the narrowest lanes and choke points to prevent the infernos from spreading. But this good fortune cannot be the excuse for administrative paralysis. Every officer knows that scrapyard fires burn hotter, spread faster, and often involve toxic substances that release noxious fumes. These are time-bombs placed inside residential pockets. How long before one blaze coincides with a school hour, a gas cylinder delivery, a congested festival market or a trapped worker? Must Goa wait for a mass-casualty event before the law is finally enforced?
The truth is uncomfortable but necessary to state—illegal scrapyards flourish not because the laws are insufficient but because the enforcement is selective. When illegal trade becomes a voter-management tool, when inspections happen only after disasters, when authorities outsource their conscience to political convenience, then the State machinery becomes an accomplice rather than a regulator. Rapid urbanisation has complicated this further. Goa today generates more waste than ever before; consumption patterns have changed; and the informal scrap economy has grown into a multimillion-rupee industry. Reduce, reuse and recycle remain essential principles, but without legal compliance and safety norms, “recycling” becomes a euphemism for chaos. The irony is painful: an industry meant to clean up waste is itself becoming a hazard.
The way forward does not require new committees or fresh laws. It requires will. Panchayats must stop pretending they are powerless; they have ample legal authority to seal illegal units. The Pollution Control Board must stop restricting itself to paperwork and undertake physical inspections. The Revenue Department must end the farce of “surprise” discoveries of encroachments. And elected representatives must decide whether they stand with the people or with the operators who fund illegal backyard economies.
The people of Goa are not asking for miracles. They are asking for safety, honesty and enforcement that does not wait for flames to light up the night sky. Two scrapyards burned in Sancoale in a week. How many more warnings does the state need? The ashes of these scrapyards are not just debris—they are evidence, testimony and indictment. Goa must choose whether it will act now or continue looking away until the next fire.
How illegal scrapyards thrive in plain sight
