The regular flight of training aircraft is nothing new in Bangladesh. However, one must ask: why are risky solo training flights permitted in the skies above such a densely populated capital? Is Bangladesh truly lacking in vast, unpopulated regions suitable for flight training?
Since independence, 27 military training aircraft have reportedly crashed in the country. Is this just a series of unfortunate accidents—or the result of continued negligence? Many of these incidents occurred during solo flights, when trainees are in full control, increasing the likelihood of mechanical failure or human error. This raises serious questions: Were the aircraft’s technical capabilities and the pilot’s readiness fully assessed before takeoff?
Geographically, Bangladesh offers ample uninhabited airspace for training—Barishal, Rajshahi, Saidpur, remote river areas, and the vast tracts of the Chittagong Hill Tracts. Despite this, why is the narrow and congested airspace over the capital repeatedly chosen for such flights? Have the authorities responsible for flight training given adequate consideration to public safety?
This tragedy is not just the fall of a military training aircraft—it calls into question national priorities, public safety protocols, and institutional accountability. What we need now is a reform of training policies, strict review of solo flight protocols, and placing civilian safety above military surveillance in urban spaces.
Tragically, the crash was followed by another calamity. Due to traffic congestion and crowding, ambulances and fire services were delayed in reaching the crash site. Lacking necessary equipment, oxygen, or emergency treatment, several victims may have died who otherwise could have been saved.
Dhaka is one of the most densely populated cities in the world. In such a reality, the repeated failure of emergency services due to gridlock seems like a cruel twist of fate—though in truth, it is not just a logistical issue but a policy and administrative failure. Crowd control, alternate route planning, and preemptive rescue logistics are not luxuries—they are urgent needs, even in this mega city.
After the crash, the military cordoned off the site—a standard step for securing military assets. However, when teachers and students were trapped inside a school building nearby, and parents and classmates anxiously sought information about the injured, accusations of information suppression and frustration naturally followed. The military authorities were expected to respond swiftly and transparently: releasing a complete list of the injured and deceased, and showing compassion on the ground.
In fact, students protested at midnight in response to the incident and issued a six-point demand. They did not mourn their classmate alone—they also questioned the responsibilities of the state. Their calls to decommission aging aircraft, relocate training centers, and shift flights to safer and more remote areas reflect a rare maturity among the youth.
One more important question lingers: what compensation will the state offer the victims’ families? True, the lives lost are irreplaceable and beyond monetary value. Still, in the subcontinent, it is customary for the state to provide reparations following such tragedies. The government should clarify what support these bereaved families will receive.
Ultimately, this incident stirs deeper concerns about state responsibility and civilian safety. Flight training over populated cities, delays in emergency response, lack of transparency, and evasion of accountability—all these factors are igniting public outrage. And that outrage is sending a new message.
The question is: Are we listening?
