Citizenship could be dual, changeable, tactical.
In the volatile crossroads of 19th-century Zanzibar, where Arab sultanates, British ambition, and Portuguese citizenship collided, a small community of Goans learned to make themselves indispensable to every power in the room. Historian Selma Carvalho's new work recovers this largely erased chapter, tracing how Goan migrants — arriving first as cooks and stewards — rose to become merchants, administrators, and even consular authorities, shaping the identity of an entire region while fracturing along the very class and racial lines they helped enforce. Their story is one of extraordinary adaptability shadowed by moral compromise, and its disappearance from collective memory says as much about who gets to write history as it does about who lived it.
- A community of Portuguese-Indian migrants navigated overlapping empires with tactical brilliance, holding British protected status, Portuguese citizenship, and Arab patronage simultaneously — sometimes all at once.
- Elite Goans weaponized European cultural fluency to climb colonial hierarchies, then turned that same logic against working-class compatriots, recreating in Zanzibar the very caste divisions they had carried from Goa.
- At least two Goans purchased enslaved people, a practice condemned even then by their French Catholic missionary allies — a contradiction the community never resolved and history has largely buried.
- Women and laborers left almost no documentary trace, their lives absorbed into marriage records and wills, rendering invisible the majority of a community already marginalized within the colonial archive.
- As formal empire hardened and white settler privilege was institutionalized, Goan influence evaporated — and the community's own failure to document itself ensured that erasure would be nearly total.
- Carvalho's eighteen-year recovery effort exposes not only a forgotten diaspora but a broader scholarly blind spot: the Indian subcontinent's persistent disinterest in its own dispersed and inconvenient children.
Zanzibar in the mid-19th century was a place where empires overlapped and fortunes rewarded the nimble. Into this volatile space came Goans — Portuguese subjects from India — carrying ambition and a willingness to cross oceans. Historian Selma Carvalho has spent eighteen years recovering their story. Her new book argues that Zanzibar was not a waystation but the genesis of Goan migration to British East Africa: the place where a small community learned to survive by becoming indispensable to everyone in power.
The earliest arrivals worked as stewards and cooks, saved enough to open taverns, and recruited more men from Goa. As the island's economy boomed and European imperial expansion accelerated, Goans climbed into positions of real influence — doctors, interpreters, merchants, postmasters. By the 1860s, entrepreneur Caetano do Rosário Souza had become one of the richest men on the island, converging with an Arab prince and a British consul-general to shape Zanzibar's destiny while indigenous Africans were systematically excluded.
But success fractured the community from within. Elite Goans, educated and fluent in Portuguese, distanced themselves from working-class compatriots — the tailors and laborers who had not adopted European manners. The British reinforced this division by dismissing poorer Goans as 'natives.' By 1874, wealthier Goans had formed charitable societies that excluded the very people they claimed to serve. Class and caste hierarchies imported from Goa resurfaced, now sharpened by colonial racial logic.
Their relationship to empire was fluid by necessity. Until Portugal established a consulate in 1885, Goans registered with the British and became protected subjects. They learned that citizenship could be tactical — switchable between the sultan, the British, or the Germans as political winds shifted. A Portuguese official called them 'amphibious.' Carvalho reframes this not as opportunism but as pragmatism in a world order still being formed. Portugal, lacking military capacity in Africa, governed through Goan intermediaries; elite Goans were eventually granted consular and even judicial authority over their own community.
Yet this same community participated in slavery, purchasing enslaved people even as their French Catholic missionary allies staunchly opposed the practice. The contradiction was stark and unresolved. Women, meanwhile, remain almost entirely invisible — absorbed into marriage records and wills, remembered only through their relationships to men. The documentary silence around Goan women mirrors the silence around working-class Goans more broadly: those without power left few traces.
As formal empire solidified and white settlers were favored, the Goan entrepreneur faded and their contributions were forgotten. Carvalho locates blame not only in the machinery of empire but in the community's own failure to document itself. Vast chapters remain unwritten — the Goan presence in Mozambique, their role in the Indian Ocean world of commerce — stories labeled 'niche' and left untold, waiting for a reckoning that has not yet come.
Zanzibar in the mid-1800s was a place where empires collided and fortunes were made by those nimble enough to navigate the chaos. An Arab sultanate ruled the island, but British power was rising. Portuguese citizenship meant little when the real authority shifted by season and circumstance. Into this volatile space came Goans—Portuguese subjects from India, carrying little more than ambition and the willingness to cross oceans.
Historian Selma Carvalho has spent eighteen years tracing this overlooked chapter. Her new book, Guts, Glory and Empire: The Epic Story of Goans in Zanzibar, 1865-1910, argues that Zanzibar was not merely a waystation for Goan migrants heading to British East Africa. It was the genesis itself. The island was where a small community learned to survive by becoming indispensable to everyone in power—and in doing so, shaped their own identity in ways that would ripple across the entire region for generations.
The early Goans arrived as stewards and cooks, men willing to do the work others would not. Some saved enough to open taverns and small shops. These early entrepreneurs grew prosperous quickly, recruiting more men from Goa to work for them. As Zanzibar's economy boomed and the island became central to European imperial expansion, Goans found themselves climbing into positions of real influence. They became doctors, interpreters, musicians, merchants. They held the post of postmaster. They managed the government press. By the 1860s, when Prince Barghash was consolidating power as sultan and the British consul-general John Kirk was establishing London's authority, a Goan entrepreneur named Caetano do Rosário Souza was becoming one of the richest men on the island. Three foreign actors—an Arab prince, a British colonialist, a high-caste Goan Catholic—converged to shape the island's destiny, while indigenous Africans were systematically excluded from power.
But Goan success came with a fracture running through the community itself. Elite Goans, many of them educated and fluent in Portuguese, began to distance themselves from their working-class compatriots—the cooks, stewards, tailors, laborers who had not adopted European manners or speech. The British, who grudgingly recognized elite Goans as quasi-European, reinforced this division by dismissing poorer Goans as "natives." By 1874, the wealthier Goans had formed charitable societies bearing Catholic saints' names, institutions that excluded the very people they claimed to serve. Class and caste hierarchies that had existed in Goa resurfaced in Zanzibar, now weaponized by colonial racial logic. Portuguese language became a gatekeeper to mobility and power. Those who spoke it were not merely socially elevated—they wielded quasi-political authority.
The Goan relationship to empire was peculiar and fluid. Until Portugal established a consulate in 1885, Goans registered with the British consulate and became British protected subjects. This accident of administration taught them something crucial: citizenship could be dual, changeable, tactical. When political winds shifted, Goans could request protection from the sultan, or the British, or even the Germans if Portugal's relations with the sultanate grew strained. A Portuguese consul-general in 1897 called them "amphibious," switching nationalities as convenience dictated. Carvalho reframes this not as opportunism but as pragmatism—a small community sensing the necessity of flexibility in a world order still being formed, especially as British power ascended and Portuguese influence declined.
Portugal, lacking the military capacity to colonize Africa directly, had learned to govern through Goan intermediaries. In Zanzibar, this arrangement became formalized. Dr Brás Souza was appointed vice-consul in 1885, later consul-general, giving Goans consular authority. Elite Goans were granted judicial power over other Goans. This was collaborative empire-building—a partnership between native Goans and the Portuguese state that gave both parties what they needed.
Yet this same community participated in slavery. At least two instances exist of Goans purchasing enslaved people to work for them. The practice was already morally abhorrent and legally frowned upon, especially among the French Catholic missionaries with whom Goans were closely allied and who were staunch abolitionists. The contradiction was stark and unresolved. In the racial hierarchy of Zanzibar, where elite Goans had climbed so high, they too became oppressors of those ranked below them.
Women remain largely invisible in this history. Archives preserved the lives of men who occupied public space; women disappeared into marriage, into wills, into obituaries. Elvira Martin, daughter of Dr Brás Souza, is a rare exception—accomplished, multilingual, a musician who moved to the early colonial settlement that would become Nairobi. But she too is remembered primarily through her marriage to a Maltese adventurer. The documentary silence around Goan women reflects the silence around working-class Goans more broadly: those without power left few traces.
As formal empire solidified in East Africa, as white settlers were favored and colonial associations consolidated power, the Goan entrepreneur faded. The halcyon days ended. Their contributions were forgotten, their story rendered obscure. Carvalho locates blame not only in the rise of empire but in the Goan community itself—in their failure to document their own history, to establish institutions that might preserve their memory, to recognize their historical relevance. A vast unwritten history still exists: the Goan presence in Mozambique, their long engagement with the nineteenth-century Arab world, their role in shaping the Indian Ocean as a space of commerce and connection. These stories remain untold because they require resources, because they are labeled "niche," because the Indian subcontinent has not yet learned to be genuinely interested in all of its own dispersed children.
Citações Notáveis
Zanzibar had, in fact, been the genesis of the Goan migration to British East Africa.— Selma Carvalho, historian
That Goans had no sense of their historical relevance has condemned their story to obscurity. That no such institutions or historians chronicled their tremendous contribution rendered them mute.— Selma Carvalho, from Guts, Glory and Empire
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does Zanzibar matter so much to understanding Goan diaspora? Couldn't the story be told through Kenya and Uganda alone?
Because Zanzibar was where it began. It was the proving ground. Goans learned there how to navigate multiple empires at once, how to make themselves indispensable. That skill set, that flexibility—they carried it with them when they moved to British East Africa. Without Zanzibar, you don't understand how they survived what came next.
You mention that elite Goans distanced themselves from working-class Goans. How conscious was that? Was it shame, or strategy?
Both, I think. The British were drawing lines between who counted as European and who didn't. Elite Goans understood that proximity to Europeanness meant power. But there was also genuine shame—the idea that their poorer compatriots were an embarrassment, that they hadn't been properly civilized. It's the internalized racism of colonialism working from the inside.
The book mentions Goans owning slaves. That seems to contradict everything else you're saying about them as a marginalized community.
It does. And that contradiction is important to sit with. Goans were oppressed by the racial hierarchy, yes. But they also participated in it. They had just enough power to oppress those below them. That's how colonial systems work—they create layers of complicity.
Why has this history been forgotten? Is it just that Goan institutions didn't preserve it?
That's part of it. But there's also a structural problem in how we study diaspora. We focus on the big players—North Indians in East Africa, for instance. Goan history gets labeled niche. And the archives themselves are silent about working people, about women. The people with the least power left the fewest traces.
What would recognizing this history change?
It would force us to see the Indian Ocean differently—not as a space where Europe extracted resources, but as a space where many people negotiated power simultaneously. It would show us that South Asian diaspora is not monolithic. And it would remind us that shared pasts are the foundation of shared humanity.