Features
University days at the edge of a revolution
by Jayantha Perera
Soon after the first-year examination, I went to Eusabius uncle’s shop to help him as a cashier. I wanted to work there for a few weeks to show my appreciation for uncle’s kindness and magnanimity. One morning, while I was at the cashier’s desk, two young girls came in arguing with the shop staff. The elder was about 15, and the younger, 12. They were breathtakingly beautiful and spoke with a distinct accent. I asked them, ‘What can we do for you two?’ The elder girl said, ‘Please give me another bag of sugar free of charge; otherwise, my mother will punish me!’ She explained that a shop assistant had not properly wrapped the sugar, and by the time she reached home, there was no sugar in the packet.
I told a shop assistant to give her a packet of sugar, thinking I had resolved the problem. But as soon as they left, the senior workers criticized me for giving the girls an extra packet of sugar. One challenged me, ‘Do you know those two girls are of the lowest caste? They are padu (untouchable) girls. That is why they are so pretty. A young man like you should be cautious because they are known for charming men with their beauty and 64 mayam (strategies). We think that you should not go for a walk alone in villages because they might trap you into marrying one of their girls!’ I joked that I wouldn’t mind marrying one of them, and they did not like the joke. They hinted that untouchable people had already charmed me. The workers’ nagging went on for over an hour. Fortunately, the story did not reach Eusebius uncle, and I never saw the two girls again.
The examination results were published in newspapers in mid-August. I did very well and won one of the three ‘exhibition’ prizes, awarded to the three best-performing students. Political science and Economic History were my favorite subjects. I discussed with my teachers which special degree course would be best for me to follow over the next three years. At that time, the Department of Sociology advertised a special degree course, and I sent an application.
The Professor of Sociology called eight applicants for interviews. He checked each applicant’s English proficiency, then distributed cyclostyled sheets of paper. He announced that each candidate should translate two passages—one from Raymond Firth’s Human Types and the other from a political science textbook by A J Wilson—into Sinhala. I translated one passage with little difficulty, but the other was hard. The following day, the professor called me for an interview and checked my GCE Ordinary Level results in English, for which I had achieved a distinction. He told me that I scored 1 out of 10 on the translation test while others scored 0 out of 10; therefore, he would allow me to join the department. I thought he did not want me to do sociology, and I did not expect a score of 0/10; I expected at least 6/10.
Two young women joined the department as English medium students. He invited Sinhala medium students to some of his lectures, usually conducted in the evenings at the department. A young lecturer taught the Sinhala medium students ‘Principles of Social Structure,’ and he encouraged us to read articles and books on sociology. In consultation with the English Department, he arranged special English classes for us. In addition to sociology, I studied ‘History of Social and Political Thought’ at the Department of Political Science. The Professor stammered a lot, so it was difficult to follow his lectures. However, he taught us the contributions of leading thinkers such as Aristotle, Plato, Aquinas, Machiavelli, and Gandhi to modern social and political thought.
During my second year, I stayed off campus. Eusebius’s uncle knew a businessman with a large vacant apartment on the University’s periphery, and the businessman rented it out to eight university students. We had a large garden for playing and hanging out. A large open-air concrete bathtub sat there. Below the tub was the Mahaweli River, where I nearly drowned once while playing with my friends. We had breakfast and dinner at the businessman’s hotel. For the first time, I felt I could do whatever I wanted with my life.
As a Sociology undergraduate, I learned how to do fieldwork, especially participant observations. I visited local courts to observe judges, accused, and complainants. Sometimes, I spent a day at the central market observing different people and guessing their class and caste. I also conducted field research with visiting researchers. Professor Nur Yalman from the University of Chicago chose me as one of his research assistants to study the changing Buddhist culture in rural Sri Lanka. Another specialist engaged me to do fieldwork on mass communication and development in rural Sri Lanka. Both paid assistants a daily stipend, and our friends from other departments envied us for the money we earned from research. I bought my first saree for my mother with the money that I had received from Prof. Yalman.
In the Comparative Political and Social Thought class, we discussed Proudhon, a 19th-century French anarchist, and his famous statement, ‘Property is theft.’ At the end of the discussion, the Professor asked us to write a tutorial on the topic. In my essay, I argued that the statement was wrong and contradictory because ‘theft’ cannot exist unless ‘ownership’ exists, which means property. The tutor disagreed but awarded me a ‘B’ for thinking outside the box. I showed my tutorial to another lecturer in the Department of Political Science. He agreed with my argument, saying that Karl Marx took a similar view and that I should have been awarded an ‘A’ for the essay.
The most memorable research episode in our second year was the department’s field trip to the Uda Walawe. Our first stop was the Ratnapura Resthouse where the Government Agent of the District hosted us for lunch. He was a Sociology graduate and a student of our Professor. We had lots of beer and a sumptuous lunch. We ate with a spoon and a fork, with a napkin tucked into the shirt or blouse. One vegetable served at lunch was murunga (also known as drumstick). We did not know how to scoop the flesh from open slices of murunga with a spoon, so most of us didn’t touch the dish and said we didn’t like murunga.
In Embilipitya, we stayed at a beautiful government circuit bungalow. We spent a day in Thanamalwila, where the famous Victorian-era mansion of Maduwanwela Dissawa (Chieftain) stands. Villagers told us that the small stream where we bathed was where the Government held an elephant kraal in the 1940s. They explained how the lead elephant of the kraal tried to break its chains to protect its herd and was shot dead by a marksman, Kadiragamar. We sang the song written in the elephant’s memory at the spot. Although our interactions with the local people were limited, we had an excellent opportunity to observe rural living, poverty, and their expectations.
During the trip, I sat next to a female colleague on the bus. By the end of the journey, my friends thought I was ‘hitched’ to her, and they mockingly blessed us as the fortunate ones on the field trip! After I returned to Peradeniya, I felt strange disorientation and loneliness. I couldn’t tell what had emerged; I thought I was sick. A close friend told me that I was in love and promised to check with the colleague about her views. However, I told my friend that I wasn’t ready to start a relationship. About 40 years later, I met the female colleague in the UK. We reviewed the facts and rumors of our bygone era and found that we were indeed drawn to each other. With a little more effort from both parties, that interest could easily have led to a life partnership.
I took only the compulsory paper on Principles of Social Structure for the special arts qualifying examination at the end of the second year. I wrote concise answers to each question that I attempted. The lecturer wrote on my answer script, ’37+3= 40.’ The lowest mark a student should get to pass the examination was 40. I got 37, and he added 3 to push it to 40. He called me to his room and told me that I could have been an excellent student if I paid attention to my studies. He wanted me to do well on the final examination at the end of my fourth year. I took the answer script from him and walked to the parapet in front of the Arts Theater, where my friends were, tore it into pieces while promising myself that I would do very well on the final examination.
Although I started studying diligently, rapid political developments in Sri Lanka kept me away from my books. The Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (People’s Liberation Front) also known as ‘JVP’ gathered momentum as a redeeming force for the poor and vulnerable in rural areas. Introductory Marxism classes and discussions on seizing state power and transferring it to the masses became daily events at the University. This forced the university authorities to keep its doors open to outsiders who came as ‘progressive’ forces to mobilize students. Sometimes, such outsiders lived in halls of residence for weeks at the expense of students. The JVP categorized students as ‘reactionary’ or ‘progressive.’ A student categorized as a ‘reactionary’ could expect harassment, threats, and intimidation.
I could not join the JVP, even if I wanted to, because I was a Catholic from an urban private school. The JVP was a rural movement aimed at liberating low-income people, who were predominantly Buddhists. A young catholic man from a private Christian school in an urban city did not match the profile of a JVP member. Interest in Marxism and socialism was insufficient to inspire action-oriented revolutionary activity. Affiliation with the Peking Wing of the Communist Party posed a challenge for me when the JVP began to harass non-JVP Marxists. The JVP branded the Peking Wing Communists as reactionaries who thwarted progressives in achieving a socialist state.
One day, soon after lunch, Peking Wing group leaders mounted a large poster on the student notice board in front of the Main Library of the university. In the poster, the group criticized the JVP’s political activities. As soon as we pasted the poster, a group of JVP members arrived and tore it down. After the leaders of the two groups discussed the issue and failed to settle it, a major clash was inevitable. The battle lasted for about 50 minutes. The two leaders met again and negotiated a peace deal. They decided that neither party should go to the Police.
At the university medical center, about 20 students were waiting for medical treatment, and I was one of them. We talked and joked about how willing we were to get into a fight. The doctor advised me to stay overnight at the medical center because I bled a lot and my head wound was deep. However, my friends asked me to leave the center and return to my Hall of residence for security reasons. I had a large white bandage around my head for two weeks, and friends called me ‘Nehru’ because the head dressing looked like the Indian freedom fighter’s white cap. I was proud to walk around the campus with the head bandage, seeking sympathy from friends and the affirmation from radicals.
There were rumors that JVP would soon attack government institutions, especially police stations, throughout the island. Marcus Fernando Hall, where I was a resident in my third year, was known as a ‘bomb factory.’ The Hall staff told us that during the night, there was lots of movement in the jungle behind the Hall, and the hall ceiling was where JVP members stocked bombs and other weapons.
The Police arrested university students in batches. We heard that the arrested students were severely beaten up or, in some cases, killed by the Police or the Army. Most of them ‘disappeared.’ Increased police harassment encouraged the JVP to launch an attack on Police stations. Because of poor communication, some JVP subgroups attacked a few police stations a day earlier than others—this weakened the JVP’s strategy for capturing state power.
The Government closed the University, and many students got trapped in their halls of residence. The university authorities told us we had to leave campus within 24 hours. While we planned how to go home without getting caught by the Police or the armed forces, my younger brother, Gamini, suddenly appeared at Marcus Fernando Hall. My mother had dispatched him to Peradeniya to bring me back home. He took a serious risk by coming from Colombo to Peradeniya. Gamini told me the Navy and Army stopped the bus at ten locations to check passengers’ identity cards and their bags and belongings.
Gamini, four friends, and I left the campus early on the following morning and walked to Kandy. There were no buses or trains that would take us to Colombo. We saw a private bus with some Buddhist monks. We got onto the bus without seeking permission. The journey from Peradeniya to Colombo was perilous. I thought Gamini and I would either get killed or detained by the Army. At three locations, the Army checked our bags. The officer who opened my suitcase saw my notes file, which had the label ‘Social Administration ‘. He asked me what type of administration I planned to have for the country. That was a difficult question, and he grew impatient when I didn’t answer. He would have thought I was one of the JVP students. Luckily, he walked away from me to harass another young man.
When we reached Colombo, it was under curfew, and we got stranded at the Galle Face Green. It was risky to be in the heart of Colombo City with bags at that time. An army officer asked where we were going. I told him that Gamini and I lived in Wattala. He stopped a van on the road and told the driver to drop us at our doorstep. Four friends came with me to Wattala. At home, we had our first meal after 33 hours. Early in the morning, the curfew was temporarily lifted, and my friends left home after having kiribath (milk rice) for breakfast. In Colombo, the Army detained them and forced them to sleep on the Galle Face Green in front of the Parliament for two nights.
The state crushed the JVP insurrection in eight weeks with the help of several countries such as India and Cuba. About 10,000 youths lost their lives. Another 15,000 JVP sympathizers were arrested and sent to rehabilitation camps. The University authorities kept the University closed for six months.
I spent most of my imposed vacation at Maha Kade. I brought many books and lecture notes with me. Eusebius Uncle supported me by providing a well-lit table for my studies. I studied from 7:00 am to 1:00 pm. After lunch, I worked as a junior cashier at the front desk. Uncle disapproved of this arrangement; he wanted me to study 24 hours a day! We compromised on an extra 3 hours of study after dinner. I then realized how much he wanted me to lift my entire family out of poverty by becoming a good income earner with a university degree.
Features
Regime change and the vacuum:Strategic lessons of Iraq and Libya
by Col. (R) Nalin Herath
There is a question that the international community must periodically ask itself: What happens to a State after its regime has been ousted?
The question is particularly relevant when examining Iraq and Libya. Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi were authoritarian rulers. Their governments were associated with political repression, human-rights violations and the suppression of political opposition. None of this should be ignored or excused. But recognising the failures of authoritarian rule does not prevent us from asking another, equally important strategic question:
Did the removal of these regimes adequately prepare for what came next?
The experience of Iraq and Libya suggests that removing a ruler is considerably easier than replacing the political, administrative and security architecture around that ruler.
Danger of confusing regime change with State reconstruction
A state is more than its leader. It consists of institutions, security forces, civil servants, courts, political structures, infrastructure, economic systems and, perhaps most importantly, an accepted monopoly over the legitimate use of force. When an authoritarian system has concentrated enormous power around one individual, removing that individual can expose weaknesses that were previously hidden. The strategic mistake is to assume that once the dictator has gone, a democratic and stable state will naturally emerge. History does not support such an assumption. The aftermath of Iraq demonstrates this particularly clearly. Following the 2003 invasion, the Coalition Provisional Authority issued Order No. 2, formally dissolving the Iraqi Ministry of Defence and the Iraqi Army, among other security institutions. A US congressional report later documented the enormous consequences of this decision, including the disappearance of hundreds of thousands of military personnel from the institutional framework of the state. Whatever the intentions behind the decision, the strategic consequence was that an established security structure had to be rebuilt while the country was simultaneously experiencing political upheaval and growing violence. That is a dangerous combination.
Iraq: Removing the structure before building the replacement
Saddam Hussein’s government was unquestionably authoritarian. It also reflected a complicated sectarian and political structure in which members of the Sunni minority occupied disproportionate positions of power despite being a demographic minority. But the question for strategic planners should not simply be whether Saddam deserved to remain in power. The question should have been:
What institutional structure would replace the system once he was removed?
An army can be politically controlled without being politically representative. A bureaucracy can serve an authoritarian government while still providing essential state functions. A security institution can be reformed without necessarily being destroyed. The distinction between reforming institutions and eliminating institutions is therefore critical. The post-2003 experience demonstrated the consequences of institutional disruption. Security vacuums contributed to insurgency and instability, while the process of rebuilding Iraq’s security forces took place amid an increasingly deteriorating security environment. The lesson is not that authoritarian institutions should never be reformed. The lesson is that state capacity should not be casually destroyed without a credible replacement.
Libya: prosperity, authoritarianism and institutional fragility
Libya presents an even more complicated case. Gaddafi’s government was authoritarian and deeply personalised. Political freedom was severely restricted, and the security apparatus was deliberately structured around regime survival. Yet Libya, under Gaddafi, also used substantial oil revenues to fund education, healthcare, infrastructure and social services. World Bank data from around the end of the Gaddafi era show life expectancy reaching approximately 75 years by 2011, skilled attendance at birth at 100 percent and measles immunisation at 98 percent. This does not prove that Gaddafi’s system was politically legitimate. It demonstrates something different: economic and social outcomes can coexist with authoritarian political structures.
The Great Man-Made River illustrates the scale of Libya’s investment ambitions. The World Bank described the project as one of the world’s largest engineering schemes, involving thousands of kilometres of planned pipelines to transport water from deep desert aquifers toward the populated coastal belt. The original project was estimated at approximately US$ 25 billion over several phases. Again, this should not become nostalgia for dictatorship. It should become a lesson in state capacity.
What happened after Gaddafi?
The post-2011 experience is perhaps the clearest illustration of the vacuum problem. Libya did not simply move from dictatorship to a consolidated democratic state. Instead, competing armed groups, political factions and institutions emerged. A UN economic and social affairs analysis concluded that the fall of the Gaddafi regime exposed weak state institutions and that the post-Gaddafi period was characterised by the proliferation of armed militias and institutional fragmentation.
The World Bank has similarly described how the security vacuum allowed armed groups to expand, while attempts to integrate them into the formal security apparatus produced a hybrid system in which state institutions and powerful armed groups operated alongside one another. This is the heart of the lesson. The consequences of regime change were also evident in Libya. The 2012 Benghazi attack, later portrayed in 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi, illustrated the security vacuum that emerged after Gaddafi’s fall. The collapse of central authority allowed militias and competing armed groups to fill the space left by weakened state institutions. The lesson is clear: removing a regime may achieve military victory, but without a credible plan to rebuild the state, victory can quickly become a security vacuum.
When the state withdraws, something else occupies the space. If the replacement is not a legitimate national institution, the vacuum can be filled by militias, tribes, ideological movements, criminal networks or competing political authorities. The vacuum does not remain empty.
Terrorism question
There is another uncomfortable issue. Authoritarian regimes frequently suppress political and armed movements through coercive security systems. When those systems disappear abruptly, previously contained organisations can find new operating space. This does not mean that dictatorship is an appropriate method of counterterrorism. It means that counterterrorism cannot be separated from State capacity. The international community therefore needs to distinguish between defeating a particular terrorist organisation and maintaining the institutional conditions that prevent multiple armed actors from competing for power. The destruction of one regime does not automatically eliminate the forces that created insecurity. Sometimes it creates an environment in which those forces multiply.
Strategic mistake: winning the war but losing the peace
Military intervention can have a clearly defined operational objective. State reconstruction does not. A military campaign may successfully remove a government in weeks or months. Building legitimate institutions can take decades.This creates a fundamental strategic asymmetry. The shorter the planning horizon for intervention, the greater the danger of a long-term vacuum. The international community therefore needs to think beyond the first question: How do we remove the regime?
It must ask: Who governs the country the next morning? Who controls the borders? Who controls the security forces? Who pays government employees? Who maintains electricity, water and hospitals? Who protects critical infrastructure? Who administers justice? Who prevents armed groups from becoming alternative governments? Who provides political legitimacy? And perhaps most importantly: Who possesses the authority to enforce the decisions of the new state? If there are no convincing answers, regime change is only the beginning of the problem.
The lesson should not be that the United States or its allies should never intervene. Nor should it be that Saddam Hussein or Muammar Gaddafi should be rehabilitated as models of governance. The lesson is more practical. Regime change must never be confused with state-building.
Before dismantling an established political order, external powers need a credible understanding of the institutions that will replace it. Security-sector reform should normally distinguish between individuals who must be removed and institutions that must be preserved. A national army may need reform. A ministry may need restructuring. A security service may need accountability and civilian oversight. But destroying institutional capacity without having an operational replacement can create consequences far beyond the original objective.
Wider geopolitical lesson
The consequences of Iraq and Libya did not remain within their borders. State fragmentation affects neighbouring countries, migration, organised crime, arms trafficking, terrorism, energy markets and regional power competition. In today’s interconnected world, a failed transition in one country can become a security problem for an entire region. That is why intervention planning should include not only military objectives but also political, economic, humanitarian and security-sector objectives. The most important planning document may therefore not be the operational plan for removing the regime. It may be the plan for Day One after the regime has disappeared.
History should not be written as a simple choice between dictatorship and democracy. The real strategic challenge is more complicated. Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi were dictators. Their governments committed serious abuses, and their populations had legitimate grievances. But the failures of authoritarian rule do not automatically justify the destruction of state institutions without a credible plan for rebuilding them. The experience of Iraq and Libya demonstrates a fundamental principle of international security: A political vacuum is not neutral space. Someone will fill it. If legitimate national institutions cannot fill that space, armed groups, sectarian interests, extremist organisations or foreign-backed factions may do so. The ultimate lesson for the United States, its allies and the wider international community is therefore straightforward:
Removing a regime may win the immediate battle. Building a legitimate, functioning and secure state determines whether the intervention succeeds in the long term. The world should learn to ask not only “How do we remove the dictator?”. It must also ask:
“What happens to the country when he is gone?”
That may be the most important strategic question of all.
(The writer is the Secretary General of the Ceylon Chamber of Shipping, former Director General of the Institute of National Security Studies (INSS), and former Spokesman of the Ministry of Defence. He is also a Non-Resident Fellow at the London Dialogue. His areas of expertise include international relations, geopolitics, maritime affairs, national security, economic policy, and strategic governance. He is a consultant at JITT Group and a member of World Pace Board.).
Features
‘Death at the Sign of the Rook’
Tales of Mystery and Suspense – 23
By Prof. Rajiva Wijesinha
As I have noted with regard to the adventures of John Rebus, I am indebted to Dinali Fernando and her husband Steve for whole hosts of thrillers. The latter strongly recommended Kate Atkinson when I borrowed four books. I wondered about this, for I had not been too impressed with her debut novel, Behind the Scenes at the Museum, which was amongst the entries I had to judge for the Eurasian section of the Commonwealth Writing Prize. Two decades later, I had forgotten what it had been about.
But I am glad Steve persuaded me to read her. Kate Atkinson is distinctively British, and Death at the Sign of the Rook is set in a country house and the surrounding village, and seems a modern descendant of the laidback Agatha Christies I so much enjoy.
There are, however, many differences in that we have a policeman who can go rogue, like Rebus, with again a female sidekick who has a mind of her own, again like Rebus. But Jackson Brodie has retired and set up as a private investigator, while Reggie, a young lady, is still in the police.
There is a lesbian couple living in the converted dairy of the manor house, as has occurred in Agatha Christie too, in A Murder is Announced. But they are peripheral to the story, unlike Ben, the brother of one of them who left the army after losing a leg in Afghanistan. When he turns up at the Manor House to shelter from a snowstorm, along with its chatelaine, Lady Milton, he is asked to answer the door as various characters turn up, including Jackson and Reggie, who then starts fantasising about him.
The others who turn up are two couples, one from America, who have paid for a murder weekend at the hotel. The family is impoverished, and has sold lots of pictures to survive, but most recently a Turner had been stolen, almost certainly by Lady Milton’s housekeeper Sophie, who vanished one night along with the picture. Reggie had been involved in that investigation, but there had been no trace of either picture or young lady.
Jackson Brodie suspects a connection between that theft and the one he has been called in to investigate, which has not been reported to the police. The picture hung opposite the bed of an old woman whose carer vanished after she died, along with it. Her children, adopted twins, have asked Jackson to investigate and also try to trace the carer, though he suspects something strange in that they did not go to the police.
Brodie, in studying the stolen art, is also struck by the disappearance of a Rembrandt from a house in Scotland, along with a member of the cleaning staff. He thinks the three women might be the same one.
But Brodie’s assumption that the three women who vanished when valuable pictures did were identical would not have helped except that Beatrice, as she was also called, kept turning up, including to the funeral home where the old lady’s body was kept. And then that picture turned up, in the village church, and was found by the local vicar, Simon Cate, whose life story is also a prominent feature of the novel. He was an aspiring actor but then smitten by faith, and became a priest, but in time he lost his faith. His wife left him after the death of their son, and he is now in this backwater, where he feels he is of no use to anyone. But he has a great feel for living beings, and his most successful service has been one in which he blessed pets. And he was deeply concerned about the bees that Ben looks after for his sister and her wife.
He too staggers into the manor house in the midst of the storm, in which everyone concerned loses their way comprehensively. But amongst those Ben lets in is a man in a tracksuit with cuts and bruises, who then vanishes after he has been led to a bedroom, when Ben went in search of brandy. We soon work out that it is the escaped murderer about whom Reggie has been alerted.
Simon also turns up, through the back door, carrying the picture and also a gun, for he has found the dead body of one of his parishioners when he went to her house in search of his mobile phone. She had been shot and he had picked up the gun he found there. But he could not tell the police, for though he called he had lost his voice, and for the last few days had communicated only through writing.
This chaotic mix of characters at the manor house is further complicated by the group of players putting on the murder mystery play though some members have either cried off or died before reaching the venue. So, there is much doubling up and confusion over who is an actor and who is not.
The grand now largely empty rooms of the manor house, and its various odd passages and multiple doors, make it a splendid set for the lunacy that runs on and on. Reggie finds herself in a pantry Atkinsonwith a dead body, though this turns out to be the nanny who fell down the stairs and was put there by Lady Milton’s younger son. And there is high drama on the roof when the murderer nearly kills Ben, but he is saved by Reggie, and when he tries to kill Brody with an axe, he is shot by Beatrice, who has been the maid who served at the dinner before the murder mystery play, and explains to Brody how she has managed all her thefts.
And then in the melee, she vanishes on a motorbike, along with the daughter of the old lady’s adopted daughter, the only person who seemed to grieve at the funeral, and to whom the old lady had left her house in a codicil to
her will, which her children have not known about. She leaves the picture to the carer, but it is brought to Simon Cate as he lies in hospital, recovering from a heart attack which adds confusion to the play.
Wonderfully convoluted, but all very clear, despite the headlong pace of the book and its shifts from one scene to another, from one character to another (or rather combinations of them) and from one-time span to another. A writer and a detective well worth looking out for. e more books by her on Dinali’s shelves.
Features
Safety, security and teamwork in aviation
by Capt. (Ret.).G.A. Fernando, MBA
There are three essential components to a commercial airline operation: safety, security and teamwork.
Aviation and teamwork at the ‘sharp’ end of a commercial aircraft, i.e. the flight deck, is unique. Unlike many other teams, it may be quite literally the first and the last time a particular combination of small teams of two, three, or four individual airmen (or women) will fly together. Sometimes even in the same airline that employs them.
Therefore, to make conditions safe and practical, while understanding and trusting tech other, they have to rely on a series of Standard Operating Procedures (SOPs), and ‘Normal’ and ‘Emergency’ checklists for every conceivable situation. That is, to be able to do the right things, and do things right. In fact, there is a saying in aviation to the effect that ‘if you make a mistake in aviation, be original and make a new one’.
To ensure that safety standards are constantly maintained, airline pilots’ proficiency is tested every six months, in simulators, under the supervision of examiners from the civil aviation regulator. In Sri Lanka that organisaton is the Civil Aviation Authority-Sri Lanka (CAASL). Three simulator checks are conducted every 12 months in keeping with the tenet that ‘practice makes perfect’. A pithy adage not confined to the world of aviation warns that ‘prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance’.
The simulator exercises include rejected takeoffs, including in cross-wind situations, landings, engine fires and/or engine failures from a variety of causes, cabin pressurisation failure, precision and non-precision approaches, and landings in bad visibility – amongst other conditions that could be expected in actual flight.
In addition, a flight in a real airplane, on a regular passenger service under the supervision of an examiner from the airline, is undertaken to ensure that the company’s standard practices and procedures are carried out and maintained as prescribed in the airline’s manuals. These publications are in turn approved by the national regulator.
Finally, flight crew members must take a written test annually, on emergency equipment locations and procedures, with 90% as the pass mark.
Since the mid-1980s it has been mandatory for airline pilots to undertake a Crew Resource Management (CRM) programme once every two years. This training essentially emphasises what to do and what not to do to, in a specific emergency situation, or even during normal operations, to make the team cohesive and effective. During the course, the CRM facilitators discuss recent incidents and accidents that have occurred. Results of those events are recorded and could be retrieved, when necessary, by the official aviation bodies.
Not unexpectedly, it is demanding on a pilot to fulfill these requirements on a regular basis throughout his/her career, along with presenting for a bi-annual medical examination, all with the objective of retaining one’s licence to operate an aircraft. It may not be understood, therefore, by persons outside the aviation industry, or even some working in other aspects of an airline organisation, that it is often the passion for flight that keeps many pilots doing what they do to earn a living.
Security
Another important factor is the challenge of maintaining security in all aspects of airline operations, not least in the cockpit. The challenges are many, with new ones surfacing almost every day. It is therefore essential to be always prepared for the activities and ‘methods’ of perpetrators seeking to wreak evil on an aircraft and its occupants. As it is impossible for any airline or national security organisation to cover all aspects, systematic management of risks to effect a safe outcome becomes imperative.
Flydubai Incident
In the recent Flydubai incident of 30 September, 2026, a first officer (co-pilot) attacked the captain of the flight with a crash axe to accomplish his sinister motives, into which investigations are continuing. For the time being, it prompts the questions: should the crash axe be easily accessible to the flight crew? Or even be there at all? I believe it is a case of assessing the greater risk.
With regard to that event, and the circumstances that led to it, other deterrents could have been applied more thoroughly. For example, more thorough screening of pilots’ and other crewpersons’ backgrounds, with emphasis on their mental health, ideological affiliations and previous employment history. Separately, during a time of conflict in the Middle East, should Flydubai have even been operating between Dubai and Tel Aviv? Notwithstanding that cost-cutting and profit maximisation are key aims of any business, an airline’s apparent failure to conduct adequate psychological profiling of flight crew members, while continuing to operate ‘profitable’ routes, regardless of potential danger, can only be regarded and condemned as greed and disregard for human lives.
( Captain. Fernando, RCyAF, SLAF, Air Ceylon, Air Lanka, Singapore Airlines (SIA), SriLankan Airlines, Former Chief Pilot, Air Lanka Boeing 737, Former Deputy Chief Pilot, Lockheed L 1011, Former Crew Resource Management (CRM) Facilitator, SIA, Former Deputy Director (Air Operations) CAASL, Former President, Aircraft Owners and Operators Association Sri Lanka (AOAOASL), President, The Colombo Flying Club, Representative for Aviation, Organisation of Professional Associations (OPA), Hony, and Member Sri Lanka Society of Transport and Logistics.)
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