In a more dangerous world, unsung mariners are under increasing threat.

Thailand-flagged cargo ship Mayuree Naree engulfed in black smoke after being hit in the Strait of Hormuz in March.

“We are like war prisoners,” says Captain Khan, who is waiting in the Persian Gulf as missiles “go all around” him. One hit a nearby fuel tanker, which caught fire and exploded. On another occasion, debris sank a vessel a few metres in front of him. Mr Khan’s crew have tried to pass through the Strait of Hormuz three times; the Iranians have turned them back on each occasion.

“We are afraid,” says the captain, who does not want to disclose his full name nor identify his vessel. “We have to go home.” Very few have.

On May 3, US President Donald Trump announced a plan to “guide” stranded vessels out of the Hormuz, but it will probably have only a small effect on shipping, in part because America does not plan to provide naval escorts. (Then on May 5, he announced a temporary pause to the plan.)

Around 20,000 seafarers remain stuck in the Gulf. Most hail from relatively poor countries in Asia, such as the Philippines, Indonesia and India. These countries supply a large share of the crew for the merchant fleet that carries 85 per cent of the world’s traded goods (by volume), from oil to smartphones, fertiliser and food. Yet, these sailors are increasingly caught up in conflicts in which they play no part and for which they are unprepared.

The closure of the Hormuz is only one reason why so many seafarers are stuck in the Gulf. The International Transport Workers’ Federation (ITF) has secured for its members a right to refuse to sail into the region and to be repatriated from it. But seamen cannot legally abandon their ships until companies find replacements. Few are volunteering to relieve them.

Tickets on flights out of the Middle East are also expensive and scarce, while visas to enter Gulf countries are hard to get. That means that even if the strait opens, it will take “at least six months before things get back to some sort of normality” for seafarers in the region, says Mr Francesco Gargiulo of IMEC, which represents shipping firms.

Some remain directly in the firing line. Fifteen Filipinos were aboard two ships seized by Iran in late April. They were unharmed, but at least 10 other seafarers, including Indians and Thais, have been killed during the war. Arjun’s (not his real name) crew were preparing lunch when a projectile hit, killing one of them.

Normally, the “ship is alive”, but after the explosion, there was “no sound, no rhythm. It felt like a ghost ship”. Arjun and the crew grabbed buckets, scooped out seawater and threw it on a huge “fireball” before they were rescued.

For those still in the Gulf, conditions vary. Some shipowners have signed up to a collective-bargaining agreement that guarantees seafarers double pay in war zones, in addition to the right to repatriation. Some mariners are happy to be picking up a fat bonus while doing less work than they normally might. But fewer than half of all commercial ships are covered by this deal, according to the ITF.

Even on ships whose owners have signed the agreement, life is getting harder. Captain Khan “has a freshwater crisis”; one tonne of the stuff now costs him US$50 (S$64), up from around US$2 before. His crew are rationing it. As Mr Trump has noted, other seafarers are running out of food. But choosing to leave the Gulf is itself a risk, because most seafarers work from contract to contract.

Seafarers see the war as only the latest of many recent hardships. Their profession has always been difficult and dangerous; occupational hazards still include attacks by pirates near the Horn of Africa and in the Gulf of Guinea. But things got particularly tough during the Covid-19 pandemic, when governments prevented mariners from setting foot on shore and blocked crews from relieving them. Arjun went 20 months without seeing his wife. Others are aggrieved that a growing number of employers abandon seafarers on ships without paying their wages.

Some hope that this crisis will be the one that prompts change. Captain Anam Chaudury, who heads a union in Bangladesh, has a simple request for leaders planning future wars: “Please give seafarers time to get the hell out. Let them not be victimised by your nonsense activities.”

The Gulf is not the only place where seafarers are under threat. In recent years, Houthi missiles and drones have killed several sailors in the Red Sea. Russian strikes have also killed mariners in the Black Sea.

Governments in Asia are sympathetic to mariners, who are a potent political and economic force. The 590,000 seafarers from the Philippines, the largest contingent of any country, remit more than US$7 billion a year, a fifth of the country’s total remittances. They have even previously had their own political party, called Angkla (“anchor”).

It is unsurprising, then, that the Philippine government has stressed that its seafarers can refuse deployments to the Gulf – which may in turn make it harder to relieve those still stranded there. India’s leaders are working to repatriate seafarers from the region and making sure that the public knows about their efforts.

All countries have a stake in improving mariners’ lives. Even before the war, there were too few qualified seafarers to meet demand. The job has long provided men like Arjun a route out of poverty, offering far higher wages than they can get on land and a chance to “roam around the world”. Yet, it also means years spent “on a very lonely sea, in a small ship in a vast ocean” that looks increasingly dangerous.  © 2026 THE ECONOMIST NEWSPAPER LIMITED. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.