Make hijacking great again
Citizen Jihadi laments the lost age of aviation freedom
12 July 2026
Between 1967 and 1972 over 300 commercial airplanes were hijacked worldwide, with over 130 of those happening in the United States alone. This period would become known as “The Golden Age of Hijacking.” It was an era when the skies were apparently governed less by international aviation law than by the principle that if you were sufficiently determined, sufficiently armed, and sufficiently willing to ruin everyone’s day, you could probably negotiate your own travel arrangements.
Before Munich
The Netflix documentary American Skyjacker tells the story of Martin McNally — the man who, in June 1972, hijacked a Boeing 727, demanded $500,000, and escaped by jumping from the rear airstair of the aircraft. Naturally, he was inspired by the legendary D. B. Cooper, a mysterious figure who had performed the same trick seven months earlier and vanished into the night with $200,000. As a piece of true crime, the documentary is fascinating. As a historical document, it captures a strange moment when American aviation briefly entered an alternative reality in which every disgruntled man with a parachute became a potential international celebrity.
The first thing to understand is that these crimes were not, in most cases, what we would today call terrorism. They were acts of aircraft piracy, extortion, kidnapping, and occasionally desperation. Many hijackers in the United States during this period wanted money, escape, or a one-way ticket to Cuba. They were criminals, certainly, but they were not generally understood as political actors attempting to reshape society through fear.
That distinction matters. Not long after McNally’s escapade, the word “terrorism” itself underwent a transformation. Traditionally, “terror” had often referred to state violence — the Terror of the French Revolution, the terror of totalitarian regimes, the deliberate use of fear by governments against populations. It was only in the early 1970s that the word increasingly became associated with non-state groups using spectacular violence for political purposes.
Then came Munich. The massacre at the 1972 Olympics, carried out by the Palestinian group Black September, became a pivotal moment when terrorism began to crystallise as a distinct object of public discussion, academic research, government policy, and international security. The world watched as a political hostage crisis unfolded before their very eyes, as TV camera crews broadcast live footage and experts began trying to understand a new phenomenon: violence designed not merely to kill, but to communicate.
Extreme decentralisation
Martin McNally, however, was not interested in communicating a political message. His message was apparently: “I would like half a million dollars and a parachute.” In ideological terms, this is perhaps the purest expression of American individualism: distrust the system, reject authority, and when necessary jump out of a moving aircraft because the government has temporarily failed to provide adequate customer service.
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What makes American Skyjacker compelling is that McNally himself tells the story. He is not a mysterious figure like D. B. Cooper, whose disappearance has allowed decades of speculation and conspiracy theories to flourish. McNally is alive, reflective, and willing to revisit the crime. The documentary gives us something unusual in the true crime genre: not just the crime, but the criminal’s attempt to understand himself.
Of course, Citizen Jihadi cannot help but notice the deeper revolutionary implications. Because what was McNally really doing? Was he merely stealing money? Or was he challenging the assumption that governments should monopolise the use of aircraft? Here was a private citizen taking control of a Boeing 727 and conducting his own foreign policy from 10,000 feet. No parliament. No bureaucracy. No five-year plan. Just a man, a parachute, and a complete disregard for aviation regulations.
Some people call this a hijacking. I call it extreme decentralisation.
American grifters
Unfortunately, McNally lacked ideological discipline. He copied D. B. Cooper but failed to appreciate the larger philosophical lesson. A true revolutionary does not merely escape from the aircraft; he transforms the aircraft into a symbol. He does not demand $500,000; he demands a new social order, preferably with free Wi-Fi and a respectable in-flight meal.
Still, one must admire the historical significance. Before airport security became the modern ritual of removing belts, emptying pockets, and surrendering small bottles of shampoo to the security authorities, aviation existed in a more innocent age. The cockpit door was a suggestion. The passenger list was a courtesy. The rear staircase of a Boeing 727 was apparently an invitation.
Watching American Skyjacker today feels like observing an extinct civilisation. These men were not terrorists in the modern sense. They were something stranger: criminals who accidentally became cultural icons during the brief moment when the combination of mass media, weak security, and human ambition created a new form of celebrity.
The lesson of Martin McNally is therefore complicated. He was not a freedom fighter. He was not a revolutionary. He was not the beginning of a new political movement. He was a man who saw D. B. Cooper disappear into history and thought, “That looks like a good career opportunity.” And perhaps that is the most American thing about the entire story: even the hijackers were entrepreneurs. Honestly, these yanks are so materialistic.
Citizen Jihadi gives American Skyjacker four out of five parachutes. The missing parachute is because the documentary fails to answer the most important question: if Britain is already an Islamic republic, why are we still paying for airport security?
