Every time an Indian military aircraft goes down—especially one built indigenously—a predictable chorus springs to life. The naysayers awaken, foreign arms lobbies turn hyperactive, and social-media warriors with little understanding of aviation technology rush to ridicule India’s capabilities. Worse, a private TV news channel promoter, who imagines himself an expert in all things under the sun, immediately begins questioning premier defence institutions like HAL. This has become less about conviction and more about performance—an attention-seeking crusade that does nothing to uphold the morale of our scientists and engineers.
Ironically, this self-proclaimed “well-informed” journo, who loves projecting himself as the lone custodian of ‘Nation First’, is also the first to blame everyone and everything at the drop of a hat, without the faintest regard for the possible repercussions.
As someone who has spent over a decade in journalism, I genuinely wonder how he can afford to ignore the basic responsibility of verifying facts—especially when speaking about highly sensitive aviation systems—and how casually he draws comparisons with leaders in other countries without even understanding the context. The tragic crash of the LCA Tejas at the Dubai Air Show—coming more than a decade after its 2012 mishap in Jaisalmer—has once again triggered the same, familiar, tiresome noise: “Can India build fighters?”, “Is Tejas reliable?”, “Should we abandon our indigenous dreams?”
This narrative is not only lazy—it is dishonest. Fighter jets are not cars rolling off an assembly line. They are among the most complex machines ever engineered by humankind. And crashes—while unfortunate—have been part of every nation’s journey towards aeronautical self-reliance. To portray India’s two Tejas crashes as a national failure is to either wilfully distort the truth or betray ignorance of how cutting-edge aviation evolves.
Let us put the facts in perspective.
First, fifth-generation fighters—the world’s most advanced aircraft—have all crashed. The American F-35, touted globally as the pinnacle of stealth aviation, has suffered around 13 crashes across variants. Causes have ranged from engine fuel tube failures and faulty air-data systems to pilot error during high-stress manoeuvres and fires during testing. Yet no one calls the F-35 a failure; it remains the backbone of multiple Western air forces.
The F-22 Raptor, a technological marvel costing more than $150 million each, has seen around five major crashes. It has an accident rate of 7.80 per 100,000 flight hours—far from negligible. One crash even stemmed from a malfunction in the aircraft’s life-support system and cost a pilot his life. Yet the United States did not abandon the F-22 program. It improved systems, fixed protocols, and moved forward.
Russia’s Su-57, which India is now pursuing for co-production, has lost two airframes—one prototype in 2014 and one production model in 2019 due to a flight control malfunction. Still, Russia continues to refine and expand the platform.
Japan’s F-35A has had one fatal crash, attributed to spatial disorientation. No one questioned Japan’s defence manufacturing culture or national competence.
China’s J-20 has no publicly confirmed crashes—but that is because China does not release transparent accident data. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.
Second-, fourth-, and 4.5-generation fighters—the backbone of global air forces—have faced far higher crash rates over the decades. The F-16, one of the most successful fighters ever built, has seen over 230 crashes in U.S. service alone since 1975. In its early years, the crash rate was so high that major structural and flight-control corrections had to be made. The Rafale has reported around five losses, the Eurofighter Typhoon around seven—all flown by air forces with decades of aerospace leadership.
Yet no one mocks American, French, or European aeronautical skill.
Why, then, is India subjected to ridicule for two Tejas crashes over nearly two decades of development and operation? The answer is uncomfortable but obvious. A section of India’s own commentariat still suffers from a colonial hangover—an instinctive belief that India cannot or should not build world-class defence technology. Add to this the pressure from foreign arms import lobbies, and every indigenous mishap becomes a convenient excuse to undermine self-reliance.
Tejas is not an improvised, makeshift machine. It is a fourth-generation, fly-by-wire, composite-rich, combat-proven fighter that has already flown more than 10,000 sorties with exceptional reliability. It is also the foundation for the Tejas Mk-II and the stealth AMCA—the very programmes that will determine whether India remains a buyer or becomes a builder in the future of air power.
Crashes are not evidence of failure; they are the harsh but inevitable tuition fee of technological ambition. The United States, Russia, Europe—even China—paid that fee. India cannot be the only nation expected to build perfect aircraft from day one.
What truly defines a nation is not whether its planes crash—it is how the nation responds. Mature countries investigate, learn, fix, and move forward. Weak nations panic or surrender to external pressure.
India must choose maturity.
Instead of amplifying defeatist noise, the country should back its scientists, pilots, and engineers with greater conviction. Because every time an Indian aircraft takes to the skies—whether a Tejas, a Tejas Mk-II, or a future AMCA—it is not just metal and electronics in motion. It is India’s sovereignty, India’s self-respect, and India’s determination to no longer depend on others.
Two crashes do not break a nation. But losing confidence in indigenous capabilities surely will.
