Image Credit: Copilot
By Dr Rahim Said
In the 1980s, when I was a consultant working with my impeccably disciplined Japanese counterparts, one of them gave me advice so cold it could have been stored next to sashimi.
“In an emergency,” he said, “you call your company first. Not your wife.”
I laughed. He did not.
In his world, the company was family, insurer, crisis manager and, if necessary, evacuation specialist. The boss needed to know where you were before your spouse did. The wife, he implied gently, provides sympathy. The company provides extraction.
Which brings us to a Malaysian gentleman recently stranded at Dubai International Airport when the United States decided to rearrange Iran’s skyline. One minute he was on his way to America. The next, the pilot announced they were not going anywhere because someone, somewhere, had just bombed someone else.
Five hours on the plane. Three nights in a nearby hotel. Midnight alarms are screaming. Eleven flights of stairs in the dark, wondering whether this was a drill or the trailer for World War III.
His first instinct was noble. He called the embassy.
According to his wife, nobody answered. Possibly because geopolitics, like mamak stalls, also has closing hours. He filled in a Google Form meant to track stranded Malaysians. The form disappeared into the digital Bermuda Triangle.
What finally got him home?
His employer.
Somewhere in a glass building, a crisis team sprang into action like a well-rehearsed K-pop group. Emergency protocol. Alternative routing. First available commercial flight. Ticket issued. Problem solved.
His wife, understandably anxious, posted about it online. It went viral. The government was accused of prioritising condemnations over citizens. Comment sections turned into mini United Nations General Assemblies, minus the diplomacy.
But while Malaysians were sharpening their keyboards, something deliciously ironic happened. The mighty United States Department of State was issuing advisories to its own stranded citizens in the region that sounded suspiciously like, “Good luck, champ.”
No rescue convoys. No Navy SEAL cameo. “Depart now,” they said. Commercial options only. On your own dime. Possibly via a tourist shuttle to a border crossing. Even the planet’s most expensive military establishment was effectively saying: if the missiles are flying, please find the nearest exit sign.
This is the part where we adjust our expectations.
Governments are not Grab drivers. You cannot press “Evacuate Me” and watch a little icon of a C-130 Hercules moving towards you on a map. When airspace closes, it closes. When airports shut, they shut. Diplomats cannot karate-chop radar systems back online.
And here is the uncomfortable adult truth: in a real crisis, you are mostly responsible for yourself.
Your spouse will panic beautifully. Your friends will forward prayers and unverified Telegram messages. Your government will issue statements in dignified fonts.
But your HR department? They have a spreadsheet with your name on it.
Multinationals run risk assessments the way we run fantasy football leagues. They have crisis consultants. Insurance policies. War clauses in contracts are thicker than some national budgets. Somewhere, a risk officer whose entire KPI reads “Employee Not Featured on International News Crawling Text” is working the phones.
Embassies manage thousands. Your company manages payroll.
Choose your loyalty wisely.
None of this means anger is not real. It is terrifying to be stuck abroad when bombs start falling. Midnight fire alarms and unanswered calls are not theoretical inconveniences. They are very human moments of fear.
But perhaps the lesson is less about which government failed and more about how modern life actually works. The nation-state provides passports and press releases. Corporations provide boarding passes.
Before travelling through regions where history has a habit of exploding, maybe pack like someone who has read the news before. Buy insurance that does not faint at the word “conflict.” Download airline apps. Keep emergency cash. Save your boss’s number.
And, with apologies to romance, remember the Japanese wisdom: in an emergency, inform your company first. Inform your spouse immediately after — ideally, once you have secured a seat on something with wings.
Because when the alarms go off, and the world briefly loses its mind, it may not be Putrajaya or Washington that gets you home.
It may be Maria from Corporate Risk Management. And Maria does not issue condemnations. She issues tickets.