The crash of the F-7 aircraft over Dia Bari is not merely a tragic accident; it is the tragic symptom of a deeper and chronic institutional pathology. What we are witnessing is not the result of a single point of failure, but rather the slow-motion collapse of an organisational logic that tolerates decay, rewards negligence and defers accountability — until the cost is measured in human lives.
Yes, we mourn the pilot. Yes, we mourn the children. But mourning must not become a ritualised coping mechanism. We must remember — and remembering must compel us to confront the architecture of failure that made this disaster possible.
The very location of a school complex along the known approach and departure paths of the only runway at Hazrat Shahjalal International Airport reveals a planning culture that is either unforgivably uninformed or institutionally indifferent. Despite prior incidents along this corridor, no mitigation has been implemented. This is not just negligence — it borders on culpable ignorance.
But the rot runs deeper.
Across our military establishments, a common aesthetic drift has set in — gloss replacing grit, show replacing substance. The air force is not alone. From the bottom-lit walls of cantonments to the glass-panelled gates at headquarters, we’ve replaced concealment with spectacle. Tiles have replaced camouflage. The architecture of deterrence has become theatre. These are not markers of modernisation. They are the hallmarks of performative decay.
The continued use of the F-7 aircraft — a platform phased out by other nations, discouraged even by its own manufacturer — exemplifies this decay. We acquired these jets in the twilight of their viability, and have clung to them long after others moved on. The question is not just why — but who allowed it? What nexus of political patronage, procurement opacity and military prestige overruled operational logic and human safety?
Here, too, the interim government must accept its burden. Nearly a year since assuming power, the public has seen neither a forensic investigation into airworthiness nor the institutional reforms it was promised. The rhetoric of renewal has not translated into systemic action. The silence of the state grows louder with each passing day.
This is not just a political failure. This is a collapse of organisational reliability.
As a former naval logistician and current researcher of supply chain resilience, I turn to a benchmark that remains relevant across high-risk domains — the High-Reliability Organisation (HRO). These institutions — like nuclear aircraft carriers or air traffic control systems — operate in environments where failure must be anticipated, studied, and preempted. Their strength lies not merely in machinery, but in institutional culture: a culture that resists simplification, fears complacency and values redundancy and feedback.
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A system in need of rewiring
BANGLADESH’S defence ecosystem mirrors the operational complexity of High-Reliability Organisations, but not their discipline, culture or institutional humility. Where HROs cultivate a relentless focus on avoiding failure, our system instead indulges in symbolic rituals, circular blame and dangerous afterthoughts. The result is a brittle ceremonial force — visibly modern, but hollow in preparedness. A show without substance.
Preoccupation with failure: One of the core principles of HROs is their preoccupation with failure. These institutions do not wait for disasters to erupt before taking action. They treat minor incidents, close calls and system glitches as urgent warning signs, to be analysed, learned from and resolved before they escalate into catastrophe.
Now let us ask: in the years leading up to the F-7 crash, were the warning signs there? Yes. Were they studied, documented or publicly debated? No.
The airframe in question — the Chinese F-7 BGI — had already earned a reputation for poor survivability across multiple air forces. The manufacturer itself had phased out production by 2013. Accidents were reported in China, Pakistan, Myanmar and Egypt. And yet we continued flying the aircraft, knowing full well its operational and structural limitations.
In an HRO, this fleet would have been flagged as high-risk. Its continued use would have triggered safety audits, scenario planning and eventually decommissioning. But in our system, aging equipment is tolerated as long as it still performs under ceremonial fly-pasts — until the day it crashes into a school.
Deference to expertise: In most traditional hierarchies, decisions travel downward from rank to rank. But in HROs, especially during a crisis, power is delegated to the person with the most situational competence — not necessarily the highest rank. The technician who understands the aircraft’s hydraulic failure better than the commander is empowered to act, speak and lead.
Ask yourself: could such a culture exist within our military or regulatory institutions? Would a junior engineer or squadron technician be allowed to halt a sortie due to recurring but undocumented engine anomalies? Or would they be pressured to maintain ‘readiness’ regardless?
Deference to expertise is not about insubordination; it is about protecting lives. It reflects trust in knowledge over hierarchy, and the understanding that competence is not always signalled by medals or office size.
We must ask why engineers, aircrew and planners did not speak up — or if they did, why they were not heard. In an HRO, silence is a red flag. In our system, it is a career survival strategy.
From hollow ritual to genuine resilience: A military — or any critical institution — is only as strong as its ability to respond under pressure. HROs build this resilience not through rituals or polished PR, but through deep investments in training, redundancy and systemic learning.
They cross-train personnel. They create backups, not only in hardware but in human capability. They reward transparency. They simulate worst-case scenarios repeatedly — not to impress visitors, but to harden operational instincts. And they invest in systems that fail safely, not just systems that look good.
Contrast that with our own reality: extravagant cantonment beautification projects, choreographed rehearsals and a leadership culture often more invested in prestige than in preparedness. How many of our institutions genuinely incentivize learning from failure? How many reward honest reporting of systemic risk?
Let us be honest — we have invested in appearances, not in resilience.
A framework for crisis: The Dia Bari crash was not a routine failure — it was a chaotic event, where decisions had to be made quickly, in the absence of full information. HRO literature teaches us that in such scenarios, the priority is not to follow rigid protocols but to establish order, gain situational clarity and deploy expertise dynamically.
Instead, our crisis response — across civil aviation, air force and city planning — revealed fragmentation and helplessness. Who was in charge? Who assessed the risk corridor around the crash site? Why were these zones not pre-identified as ‘non-permissible’ for dense civilian infrastructure?
In less extreme but still complex crises, HROs adopt experimental management — working collaboratively, adjusting responses as new data emerges. That requires an agile system that trusts specialists, shares data and evolves in real-time. It requires precisely what we lack: institutional humility and inter-agency trust.
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A mandate for reliability
THE heart-breaking loss of young lives at Dia Bari must not be relegated to a moment of mourning. It is a stark indictment of a system that has long favoured ceremonial optics over the core tenets of high-reliability organisations. This tragedy demands more than remembrance — it calls for a radical redefinition of operational integrity across our defence infrastructure.
HROs are not theoretical ideals; they are practical frameworks built on vigilance, expertise-driven decision-making and resilient systems. The Dia Bari incident was not a random misfortune — it was the predictable result of entrenched hierarchies, outdated assets and a culture that confuses ritual with readiness. The consequences are irreversible and the accountability must be uncompromising.
This is not a plea for symbolic gestures or patriotic silence. It is a call to dismantle performative structures and replace them with a culture of reliability — one that permeates every command, every procurement decision and every maintenance protocol. The supply chain, as the backbone of operational capability, must be governed by rigorous standards, transparent oversight, and continuous evaluation. A single weak link can compromise the entire system, and in defence, that cost is measured in lives.
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Towards a culture of relentless vigilance
WE MUST move beyond ceremonial grief to institutional reform. The memory of Dia Bari should not be immortalised in monuments but in a transformed doctrine — one that refuses to tolerate complacency and insists on systemic accountability. Without this shift, future tragedies are not just possible — they are inevitable. The evidence is clear, and the mandate is urgent: reliability must become our unwavering standard.
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Abdul Monaiem Kudrot Ullah, a retired captain of the Bangladesh navy, is an informed voice on institutional reform, geo-strategy, strategic governance and supply chain management.
