The father of the Air India crash pilot has come out swinging, defending his son’s honour as British investigators pore over the black box. One can sympathise. No father wishes to hear his child’s competence questioned, especially posthumously.
But let us not confuse filial loyalty with forensic truth. The cockpit data will speak, and it will not care for sentiment. We are witnessing a clash between two worlds: the ancient code of family honour, where blood is thicker than black boxes, and the cold, secular faith of modern aviation, where algorithms and altimeters are the only priests.
The father’s statement echoes a Victorian sense of duty: my son was a gentleman, a professional, he would never err. But gentlemen err all the time. The Titanic was commanded by gentlemen.
The difference is that today we have the data to prove it. British investigators, with their methodical detachment, will strip the flight down to its binary bones. They will find the exact moment when human fallibility met metal and momentum.
And when they do, they will not be swayed by appeals to character. That is the brutal contract of modernity: we traded the comfort of honour for the clarity of evidence. The father deserves our compassion.
But the crash deserves our scrutiny. And the two should never be confused.
