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By Mihar Dias April 2025
It was barely 8 a.m. when I boarded the flight from KLIA to Kota Kinabalu. Still groggy from the alarm, I clicked into my seat and waited for the familiar pep-talk from the cockpit.
Instead, what greeted me was a torrent of sound that might have passed for a pilot’s announcement if delivered at half the speed of light. His words shot out of the PA like bullets—audible as raw noise, but incomprehensible as language.
I had been flying for over 60 years, at home and abroad, yet never heard speech so frantic, so devoid of warmth or sense.
Within seconds, he cut the transmission.
The message—whatever it might have been—had to rank somewhere between the sound of a distressed kettle and an old dial-up connecting to the internet. His entire performance screamed "check the box" on customer communication: I got the announcement over with, and I've no idea if you understood a word.
The cabin crew followed suit, sounding like extras in a dystopian film, reciting safety instructions in a tone so deadpan it could have euthanized the seatbelt sign itself.
Seatbelts, life vests, emergency exits—words tumbling out in mechanical unison. If enthusiasm were fuel, we’d have been grounded for lack of lift-off.
And then came the pièce de résistance: the onboard sales pitch. Souvenirs paraded down the aisle like rejects from a garage sale, pushed by a trolley and delivered in a monotone that could have lobotomized even the most eager collector. Not a single passenger fished out a wallet.
Is this really the best local airlines can offer? Have training budgets dried up, or has common courtesy been deemed an unaffordable luxury? We live in an era when airlines tout aggressive branding, flashy uniforms, and Instagrammable lounge concepts.
Yet, when it comes to the basics—clear, empathetic communication with paying customers—they seem to have taken a collective vow of silence.
Empathy is not just a buzzword. It is the sinew that connects travellers to the experience. My flight should have been more than a cattle car in the sky. A simple, heartfelt message from the cockpit—"We’re delighted to have you," "Please let us know if you need anything"—would change the tenor of the journey. Instead, we get rote routines delivered with all the soul of an ATM.
Aviation is, at its core, a service industry. It is also an intangible product: we sell comfort, safety, and peace of mind, yet the commodity vanishes the moment the seatbelt clicks.
All that remains is the memory of how we were treated. And on this flight, the memory felt like watching zombies shuffle past, eyes glazed, voices muted.
Perhaps it’s time local carriers audited their heart. Invest in voice-coaching workshops, humility seminars, or a dollop of genuine human connection.
Remind pilots that they are more than throttlemasters and data crunchers—they are the custodians of a tiny, frightened ecosystem hurtling through turbulence.
Train cabin crews to look passengers in the eye, to smile, to speak like humans, not autopilot recordings.
Because, in the end, what keeps us coming back isn’t a bargain fare or a slick mobile app; it’s the simple fact that someone on board cares.
Until airlines remember that, we’ll all be trapped in a sky full of zombies, too busy pushing buttons and churning scripts to recognise the beating hearts they carry.
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