Sometimes, crisis management veers into the absurd. That's exactly what happened with the statement issued by private jet company Air Océan after one of its aircraft skidded off the runway at Fès airport and crashed into the perimeter fence. Buckle up—this editorial is going to sting. After the dramatic runway excursion involving a Hawker 800—with no passengers on board but three crew members hospitalized for checks—Air Océan understandably moved to reassure the public. They acknowledged an ongoing investigation. Fair enough. But they also took the unusual step of releasing a statement... to challenge the wording used by the media. One word in particular: «crash». Air Océan insists it wasn't a crash, calling the term «factually incorrect» and claiming it causes «unnecessary worry and confusion». But facts are stubborn things—and so are definitions. When PR tries to rewrite reality According to the airline, what happened wasn't a crash—or even an accident—but simply an incident. This despite a statement from the Ministry of Transport, echoed by MAP, clearly referring to it as an airplane accident. Yet, several outlets on Monday adopted Air Océan's preferred wording without much critical distance—or waiting for the findings of the ongoing investigations by the authorities and the Bureau of Enquiry and Analysis (BEA). The distinction isn't a matter of opinion. It's clearly defined in international regulations like Annex 13 of the BEA (see pages 18–19). An air accident—also referred to as a crash, forced landing, or air disaster—describes an event involving an aircraft that results in serious injury, death, or severe and irreparable damage to the plane. An incident, on the other hand, is a less serious event that impacts flight safety without major consequences. «The impact caused significant material damage to the plane. The accident also resulted in injuries to the three crew members, as well as one person on the ground». Ministry of Transport and Logistics A plane veering off the runway and crashing through a fence, with broken wings, upside-down landing gear, and visible damage, clearly meets the definition of an accident. The word «crash» may sound dramatic—but it's an accurate way to describe a serious event that triggers investigations and calls for accountability. Word Games, Image Control By rejecting the term «crash», Air Océan is acting as both damage-control team and language police. In doing so, it's diverting attention from what really matters: a serious event occurred involving a business jet, emergency services responded, and the public has a right to clear answers. Calling it merely a «runway excursion incident» is a convenient euphemism. This kind of language control is a well-known PR tactic—soften the vocabulary to contain the fallout. But in this case, it borders on the absurd. Not only does it play down the facts, it subtly accuses the press of spreading misinformation, calling on journalists to «show rigor». As if the fence wasn't destroyed. As if the pilots hadn't been hospitalized. As if the plane hadn't been seriously damaged after leaving the runway. But this isn't about word choice—it's about transparency. What happened? Why couldn't the aircraft stop in time? Were there technical issues? Did human error or weather play a role? These are the questions people want answered—not a debate over terminology. By trying to rewrite the dictionary instead of being transparent, Air Océan has misjudged the moment. The journalistic rigor they're calling for starts with honest communication. Of course, it's natural to want to protect a company's image. But trying to downplay what—by every definition—is a crash (fortunately with no fatalities) isn't the way to do it. Bottom line: Air Océan missed its media landing just as much as it missed the runway. Not a tragedy. But definitely a fact.
