It Wasn’t Suicide

On my first trip to Las Vegas, in the mid-80s, I sat in the cockpit with the pilot and copilot and they invited me to strap in and stay during landing. I was too chicken and declined.  

That flight had more of a party atmosphere than any I’ve been on since. In the days long before 9/11, the pilot used to welcome you on board the aircraft. Sometimes they still do. But back in the day, I’d stop and say something like, “you feeling good today? No fight with your wife this morning, all is well?” It was a joke. The pilot would roll his eyes or smile and I’d take my seat. Never once did I seriously consider that someone in control of the flight would want to do anything but land it safely where it said on the ticket.

What happened in the French Alps last week is so distressing because there’s no greater betrayal than someone in charge of your safety, deliberately doing you harm. I hope that if someone entrusted with the lives of dozens of people is deemed unfit to fly, it will become a doctor’s duty to inform his employer, not just trust that the patient will do it. That’s the least of the changes that need to be made.

But don’t call this a suicide. Andreas Lubitz is a mass murderer. One of the worst in history. I don’t claim to be able to diagnose him but it’s clear that his mental illness went beyond depression.

My friend Eric is a pilot with American Airlines and, safe to say, an air travel nut. He was one of the pilots grounded in Halifax on 9/11. He has been everywhere and experienced all sorts of issues in the air in his career. He’s worried about what the crash in will mean to the industry. And he wrote a thoughtful blog post about it. You’ll find it HERE.