Hızlı Git
The city… A vast organism where the wind struggles to weave its way between concrete blocks and glass façades, while the echoes of thousands of footsteps fill the streets at the break of dawn. But does this organism truly belong only to us? A stubborn daisy pushing through the cracks between paving stones, a sparrow searching for scraps beneath a garbage bin at midnight, a colony of earthworms beneath the soil absorbing rainwater as they prepare for winter dormancy—they are all invisible yet indispensable participants in this great urban drama. Every line we draw on the design table, every section we take, inevitably touches their lives as well.
Perhaps our greatest misconception is seeing the city as a finished project. In reality, a city resembles open-source software that is constantly being updated. Today we design “Version 1.0”; tomorrow climate change demands a new patch; the day after, shifting social dynamics call for an entirely different module. Embedding bees, soil fungi, and underground water networks into the code may well mean correcting tomorrow’s errors before they even emerge.
An Invitation to Imagine a More-than-Human City
For years, we have embraced the slogan of “human-centered design.” In ergonomics and construction courses, we have evaluated the height of benches, the intensity of street lighting, and the slope of ramps solely according to the standards of “Homo sapiens“. Perhaps it is time to move that ruler slightly aside. Space is not a property allocated exclusively to us; it is, rather, a shared ecosystem in which we are merely tenants. Cities shaped around modules based on human dimensions can become enormous labyrinths for other species. The illuminated façades of skyscrapers become deceptive star maps for migrating birds; the pedestrian boulevards we proudly build turn into wide trenches that interrupt the safe passage of hedgehogs; beneath flawless ornamental lawns often lies lifeless soil, stripped of resilience and biological diversity.
Can There Be a Social Contract That Ignores Every Living Being Except Humans?
The list of signatories to the abstract concept of the Social Contract includes humans—but no other species. Yet without bees carrying pollen, flowers would never bloom, and without trees storing carbon, the air would no longer be breathable. In reality, they are parties to this contract as well; they simply cannot read its legal language. This places an unexpected responsibility upon the designer: that of an ecological negotiator. In other words, someone who advocates for provisions that protect soil, water, and the countless silent forms of life. After all, the city is inevitably both a legal and political construct, where safeguarding one interest can all too easily come at the expense of another.
You are familiar with metro maps of cities such as Istanbul or Ankara—colored lines, interchange stations, and network nodes. The very same diagram exists beneath our feet among the roots of trees. Roots transport water and nutrients from one “station” to another; mycorrhizal fungi exchange information much like the signaling cables of a railway network; soil moisture serves as the system’s energy source. Now imagine constructing a waterproof concrete parking structure directly across this underground network. It would be much like cutting through the Marmaray tunnel. This intervention may be almost invisible at the human scale, yet underground it interrupts ecological connectivity, triggering a chain reaction that can lead to declining tree health and the loss of nesting habitats for birds. Can we truly empathize with this? What if hell on Earth were, in another world, living among beings whom we have wronged—beings regarded there as the noblest of all creation?
Can the Principle of “First, Do No Harm” Become Part of Design Ethics?
The well-known medical principle of “primum non nocere” (“first, do no harm”) can also be adapted to urban design practice. The question is this: when designing a new public square, can we preserve portions of the existing soil profile instead of stripping it away entirely? Or can we plan floodplain meadows capable of absorbing seasonal floods rather than confining streams within concrete channels? This is not a romantic ecological manifesto. On the contrary, it represents one of the most rational strategies for adapting to the climate crisis. Protecting nature also means preventing costly infrastructure repairs in the future.
Replacing urban streetlights with LEDs appears to be an excellent step toward energy efficiency. But what happens when the spectrum of light changes? How is the navigation system of nocturnal moths affected? That bright blue-white light, which feels slightly safer to humans, becomes a deadly trap for moths. They lose their orientation, circle endlessly around the lamp like spinning propellers, exhaust their energy reserves, and eventually die. That very moth might otherwise have become the breakfast of a blue tit chick hatching in the park the following morning. The ecological chain breaks at that point, ending beneath a streetlamp where the moth falls lifeless onto the asphalt. Recognizing that something as seemingly insignificant as the choice of an LED can weaken a distant ecological link is where genuine design empathy begins.
Compassionate Architecture Inherited from Our Ancestors: Kindness Carved into Stone, Wood, and Myth
In calling for the reconciliation of our cities with more-than-human beings, we are not reinventing the wheel; we are simply recalling the nearly forgotten legacy of our ancestors. The Ottoman birdhouses adorning building façades, the Tree of Life carvings on the arches of Seljuk caravanserais, and the elegantly sculpted tulip and carnation motifs on gravestones… Each of these was a clause, inscribed in stone, brick, and wood, within a historical covenant of compassion that recognized non-human beings as fellow inhabitants of the city.
Our mythology likewise serves as the oral memory of this collective compassion. In the Book of Dede Korkut, the Simurgh spreads healing to every living being sheltered beneath its wings, while the Sky Wolf that appears in Oghuz Khan’s dream does more than guide the way—it also protects the weakest members of the pack. These stories quietly remind us of a sacred covenant between humanity and other species: Your existence completes mine, and in return, I will protect yours.
Yet such sensitivity is rarely found in today’s cities. Dinosaur-themed parks become little more than theatrical attractions, while flowerpots attached to apartment façades are reduced to marketing accessories. The birdhouses we install often serve as props for Instagram photographs, and the bowl of water we leave for stray cats becomes little more than a footnote in a corporate social responsibility report. Compassion is transformed into a politicized display, stripped of the selfless kindness that once defined it.
Within Anatolian culture, it was once widely believed that every tree, every spring, and every mountain possessed a guardian spirit. Local legends tell of wish-making ceremonies held beneath the sacred shade of ancient juniper trees. Modern secular cities may have weakened this metaphysical connection, yet designers can reinterpret this ancient empathy through scientific understanding. In the drought-prone landscapes of Central Anatolia, for example, creating rain gardens instead of merely praying for rain represents a contemporary form of environmental prayer. It reconnects water with soil, replenishes underground reserves, and reduces urban flooding by preventing parking areas and residential sites from becoming inundated. In this way, mythology finds common ground with the hydrological cycle.
Can Spatial Justice Also Be Extended to Birds and Insects?
So, how do we translate theory into practice? The garden walls we build between parks and residential areas are not merely security barriers; they are also impassable obstacles for hedgehogs. Yet something as simple as leaving 15 cm openings at ground level can preserve security while allowing nocturnal wildlife to move freely. Considering the flight corridors of migratory birds when planning pedestrian routes, creating rooftop rainwater ponds and vegetated islands that provide microhabitats for insects—these are no longer luxurious design ideas but emerging obligations increasingly reflected in contemporary planning regulations. Have you ever considered the importance of green corridors, rooftop gardens, or living walls for species such as butterflies that can fly only 50–100 meters?
In Türkiye, the rights of ecosystems have not yet been granted constitutional status. Nevertheless, several initiatives have already published exemplary guidelines recognizing trees as “urban residents”. The designer’s task, therefore, is to reinterpret and renew both urban law and the abstract social contract. Just as accessible ramps first became widespread through the initiative of a handful of conscientious architects, ecological corridors are now awaiting the same transformation. Giving water, soil, and wind a voice at the design table often emerges not from regulatory requirements but from the designer’s ethical commitment.
The Vulnerability of Cities in the Context of the Climate Crisis
On one side, record-breaking temperatures; on the other, sudden floods. Impervious urban surfaces prevent rainwater from infiltrating the ground, while the urban heat island effect turns the night into an oven. It is precisely here that more-than-human rights bring humanity back into focus. When soils remain porous, they absorb floodwaters; trees cool the air through evapotranspiration; birds and insects regulate pest populations. Recognizing the rights of other species is, in reality, an investment in the resilience of our own existence.
As you read these lines, perhaps you are looking out from your office window at the city skyline, watching sunlight shimmer across concrete rooftops. Give yourself a small assignment: open the window and close your eyes for five minutes. Whose voice do you hear first? Is it a starling, the rustling of trees stirred by the wind, or the blare of a car horn and the harsh noise of a nearby construction site? Layer these sounds together, and you begin to hear the city’s true soundtrack. We are not its composers—every living being contributes to the score. Design is not about adding new instruments to this orchestra; it is about respecting the quiet notes that already exist without disturbing their harmony.
When preparing your next design proposal, overlay tree canopy projections with seasonal shadow analyses—you may discover natural pergolas capable of cooling public spaces throughout the summer. Instead of using EPDM poured rubber surfaces for children’s playgrounds, reduce impermeable paving and increase direct contact with soil, allowing children’s immune systems to benefit from exposure to beneficial soil microorganisms while also reducing construction costs. Replace artificial turf with mixed wildflower meadows; landscape maintenance costs decrease, while bees expand the city’s pollination network. As these examples illustrate, ecological sensitivity does not diminish design quality—it enriches it.
The Future Belongs to All of Us
The Holy Qur’an describes humankind as ashraf al-makhluqat—the noblest of creation. Yet could it be that, driven by the arrogance so frequently condemned in other verses, humanity has come to believe that the Earth was created solely for its own benefit?
Indeed, We have honored the children of Adam, carried them on land and sea, provided them with good and wholesome sustenance, and granted them distinction above many of Our creations. In light of these blessings, is it not the height of ingratitude and ignorance for human beings to worship anything besides Allah? And what could be the consequence of such ingratitude other than loss on the Day of Judgment?
Qur’an, Surah Al-Isra (17:70)
Our responsibility today is not to display forgotten traditions such as Ottoman birdhouses or the Tree of Life merely as nostalgic ornaments, but to reinterpret the ethical values they embody for the contemporary world. Rather than installing rows of anti-bird spikes on our buildings, we should seek design solutions that allow birds to make our cities healthier and more livable places. Reweaving the compassionate details inherited from our ancestors through contemporary materials and regulations is, at its core, an act of reviving architecture’s ancient memory—renewing that historic covenant in which stone, soil, and design were equal stakeholders. In doing so, we can stitch together the compassion of the past with the resilience required by the cities of the future. And who knows? Perhaps when a sparrow once again finds safe shelter beneath a roof eave, we too will feel a deeper sense of belonging to the city we call home.
As I bring this article to a close, I would like to invite you to become part of this open-source project. In your next landscape design, a simple seed ball placed beside a lawn may help sustain a butterfly migration route. Perhaps removing a single curb stone could open a lifeline for an ant colony. Accumulating small acts of kindness may be the simplest way to restore urban landscapes together with the more-than-human beings that share them.
What comes next will be shaped by your words, your drawings, and perhaps your conscience. Listen carefully to the voice of the city—for every sound you hear may be whispering the rights of another living being.
