By the time it was struck, Skylight was both uninsured and effectively stateless.
In the early hours of March 1st, a missile tore through the engine room of the oil tanker Skylight as it moved toward the Strait of Hormuz, killing two crew members and casting a young survivor into a grief that no maritime regulation has yet learned to address. The Iran-Israel war has sealed one of the world's most vital shipping corridors, trapping more than 20,000 seafarers in conditions of abandonment — unpaid, underfed, and unprotected by the very legal structures meant to safeguard them. The Skylight's story is not merely one of wartime tragedy but of a deeper systemic failure: a vessel rendered stateless and uninsured through sanctions, its ownership dissolved into corporate shadow, leaving the families of the dead without recourse or closure. It is the oldest maritime story retold in modern form — men swallowed by the sea, and a world that cannot account for them.
- A missile struck the Skylight's engine room on March 1st, killing the captain and a 25-year-old crew member whose body was never recovered, while survivors jumped into the Gulf in darkness and burning oil.
- Over 20,000 seafarers are now trapped in the Strait of Hormuz as the Iran-Israel war blockades a corridor carrying 20% of the world's oil, with 38 commercial vessels struck since the conflict began.
- The International Transport Workers' Federation has received more than 2,000 distress calls reporting unpaid wages, food and water shortages, and crews abandoned by shipowners who have gone silent.
- The Skylight was both uninsured and stateless at the time of the strike — stripped of its flag registration and insurance after US sanctions — leaving crew families with no legal path to compensation.
- Recruiting agents who placed seafarers on the vessel have deflected responsibility across borders, and the Dubai-based shipowner has not contacted the families of the dead since the attack.
- Survivor Sunil Puniya, 26, says he will never return to sea, and has not yet found the courage to visit the home of his lost friend — a grief suspended between what the law cannot remedy and what words cannot reach.
Sunil Puniya was three weeks into his first job at sea when the missile hit. Asleep in his cabin aboard the oil tanker Skylight, he was thrown awake by an explosion that shook the entire vessel. A second blast followed — the missile had struck the engine room. Fire spread quickly through oil-slicked corridors, and in the darkness and smoke, Sunil helped panicked crewmates toward the deck before the heat forced them all into the sea. The Oman Navy arrived within an hour and pulled survivors from the water.
When the count was taken, Dalip Rathore was missing. He was 25, from a village neighboring Sunil's own in Rajasthan, and had joined the Skylight just one day after him. Far from home and sharing a language, the two had grown close. Hours before the strike, Dalip had taken over Sunil's watch in the engine room — the exact space the missile destroyed. His body was never recovered. The ship's captain, Ashish Kumar, was also killed.
Their deaths unfolded against a wider catastrophe. Since the Iran-Israel war erupted and Tehran blockaded the Strait of Hormuz — through which 20 percent of the world's oil and gas normally flows — maritime intelligence firm Kpler has documented 38 commercial vessels struck in the region. More than 20,000 seafarers are trapped in the Gulf, according to the International Maritime Organization, many on anchored ships with dwindling food, water, and wages. The International Transport Workers' Federation has fielded over 2,000 distress calls since the escalation began.
But the Skylight's story exposed something beyond the immediate violence of war. When the BBC attempted to trace the vessel's ownership, the trail dissolved: a Dubai-based management company with no working website, unanswered calls, and bounced emails. The ship had been sanctioned by the US in December for carrying Iranian oil, which caused it to lose its insurance and its flag registration with Palau. By the time the missile struck, it was stateless and uninsured — with no country responsible for it and no insurer to back the crew.
Maritime law requires commercial vessels to carry insurance covering crew deaths and injuries. Without it, families have no legal path to compensation. Sunil had been told by a recruiting agent that all documents were in order. They were not. When the BBC contacted the agents, responsibility was passed between them across borders, and the Dubai agent did not respond at all.
Sunil says he will not return to sea. He has not yet visited Dalip's home — not yet ready to stand in the place where his friend once lived and feel the full weight of his absence. 'If I see his home,' he said, 'I'll feel presence of him.' Across the Strait, thousands of other seafarers remain on anchored vessels, waiting for owners who do not answer and protected by a system that has, in the most consequential moments, failed to hold.
Sunil Puniya was asleep in his cabin when the missile hit. It was March 1st, early morning, and he was three weeks into his first job at sea—working as crew on the oil tanker Skylight, a US-sanctioned vessel that had left Dubai and was moving toward the Strait of Hormuz, one of the world's most critical shipping corridors. The impact threw him awake. He felt the whole ship convulse beneath him, a violent shaking he first mistook for an engine malfunction. When he stepped into the hallway, another explosion came. The missile had struck the engine room. Fire was already spreading.
The 26-year-old from Rajasthan made his way topside through smoke and chaos and complete darkness. Sailors around him were panicking, some crying, trying to call home on phones with no signal. He helped move them toward the deck, but by then the flames were advancing fast. Oil covered everything. The heat drove them to the rail. They jumped into the sea.
The Oman Navy arrived within an hour and pulled survivors from the water. But when Sunil was hauled aboard and accounted for, he realized someone was missing. Dalip Rathore, 25, also from Rajasthan—from a village neighboring Sunil's own—had joined Skylight the day after him. They had become close in the way people do when they're far from home and speak the same language and come from the same corner of the world. Network problems on the ship meant they couldn't call home often. In those moments, Dalip was there. He had become like a brother. Hours before the strike, Dalip had taken over Sunil's watch in the engine room—the exact space the missile had torn open. His body was never found. The ship's captain, Ashish Kumar, was also killed.
Their deaths were part of a larger catastrophe unfolding across the Strait. When the Iran-Israel war erupted, Tehran blocked the waterway—a chokepoint through which 20 percent of the world's oil and liquified natural gas normally flows. Since the conflict began, maritime intelligence firm Kpler documented 38 commercial vessels struck in and around the Strait: 24 hit by Iran, four by the US, the rest unconfirmed. The blockade has trapped more than 20,000 seafarers in the Gulf, according to the International Maritime Organization. Many are stuck on anchored ships with dwindling supplies. The International Transport Workers' Federation, a union supporting seafarers in distress, has fielded more than 2,000 calls for help since the escalation began—reports of unpaid wages, contract disputes, food and water shortages, and crews effectively abandoned by their owners.
But the Skylight's story reveals something deeper than the immediate chaos of war. When the BBC tried to identify who owned the vessel, the trail went cold. Maritime records listed Red Sea Ship Management, a Dubai-based company. Calls to the firm went unanswered. Emails bounced. The company had no working website. Neither Sunil nor Dalip's family had heard from the shipowner since the attack. The reason was structural: Skylight had been sanctioned by the US in December for transporting Iranian oil. Once sanctioned, it lost its insurance. It was deregistered from Palau, its previous flag state. By the time the missile struck, the ship was both uninsured and stateless—a vessel with no country responsible for it, no insurer backing it, and an owner who had effectively vanished into layers of corporate opacity.
Under maritime law, commercial vessels must carry insurance to cover crew deaths and injuries. Without it, families have no legal recourse for compensation. Sunil had been told by a recruiting agent in India that all documents were in place, that the ship was insured. That was false. Placing seafarers on an uninsured vessel violates maritime law. When the BBC contacted the recruiting agents, one claimed he had no knowledge of the missing insurance; he blamed another agent in Dubai. That agent did not respond. For Dalip's family, the absence of insurance could mean the difference between receiving compensation and receiving nothing—between having some financial ground to stand on and having none at all.
Sunil says he will not return to sea. He has not yet found the courage to visit Dalip's home, to see the place where his friend lived, to feel the weight of what he cannot explain to the people who loved him. "If I see his home," Sunil said, "I'll feel presence of him and will be able to imagine him there. I miss him a lot." Across the Strait, thousands of other seafarers remain trapped on vessels, waiting for owners who do not answer, for insurance that does not exist, for a system that has left them stranded between nations and beyond the reach of law.
Citas Notables
I felt the whole ship shake. I thought there'd been some fault with the engine. But as soon as I stepped outside of my room, there was another explosion.— Sunil Puniya, survivor of the Skylight strike
Unfortunately, the industry as a whole has not succeeded in eradicating this cancer that is the abandonment of seafarers.— Mohamed Arrachedi, International Transport Workers' Federation network coordinator
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does it matter that the Skylight was uninsured? Isn't that just a paperwork problem?
It's not paperwork. It's the difference between a family getting compensation for a death and getting nothing. Maritime law requires insurance specifically so that when something goes wrong—and things do go wrong at sea—there's money to cover the human cost. Without it, you're asking a grieving family to chase down a shipowner who has already disappeared.
But the shipowner is responsible, right? They can still be held accountable?
In theory, yes. In practice, when a company operates through layers of shell corporations across multiple countries, when it changes flags and insurers constantly to avoid sanctions, finding the actual owner becomes nearly impossible. The system is designed to make accountability difficult. That's not accidental.
So Sunil was lied to by the recruiting agent?
He was told the ship was insured. It wasn't. The agent either didn't know or didn't care. Either way, Sunil boarded an illegal vessel based on false information. He survived. His friend didn't. And now there's no insurance to help Dalip's family.
What happens to the 20,000 other seafarers stuck in the Gulf?
Many are in similar situations—unpaid, running low on food and water, unable to leave. Some shipowners are organizing supplies. Others have simply abandoned their crews. The union has received thousands of distress calls. These are people whose only mistake was taking a job at sea.
Is there any way to fix this?
You'd need stronger enforcement of existing maritime law, better transparency in ship ownership, and consequences for companies that abandon crews. But as long as sanctions create incentives for opacity, and as long as shipowners can hide behind corporate structures, the system will keep failing people like Sunil and Dalip.