Now imagine this: You are at a pedestrian crossing. You are waiting for the green light to cross the street.
As soon as the light turns green, you step down from a height difference of just a few centimeters without even noticing it. If you have a stroller with you, you instinctively lift its front wheels slightly.
You do not do this consciously. But you know there is a change in level there.

This is exactly what I want to talk about:
Are these small differences in grade really necessary in public spaces?

At this point, let us take a look at the effects that changes in level have on us as users.

What Is a Change in Grade, and Why Is It Created?

A change in grade refers to the height difference of one surface in relation to another. Sometimes it appears as a barely noticeable variation, and at other times as a step that directly affects movement. While walking during the day, stepping down from a sidewalk, or moving from one area to another, we actually encounter this difference constantly. In general, it is not accidental; it is created in response to certain needs. It directly affects how a space is perceived, how it is used, and even how people move within it. From a design perspective, levels give depth to a place. A single-level area often creates a monotonous perception, while the use of different levels together offers the user a sense of discovery. People experience space not only by seeing it, but by moving through it. For example, a rise of just a few steps can separate a seating area from a walking axis while also giving the space a natural rhythm. Boundaries that are not felt on a flat surface begin to form almost by themselves through level play.

However, when these necessities are not interpreted correctly, they can create outcomes that negatively affect the user experience.

The main reasons for creating changes in grade in spaces can be summarized as follows:

• Drainage and Water Management: I think this is one of the most invisible benefits of level differences in our daily lives. Grade changes are created to prevent water accumulation and to direct water movement. If they are not resolved correctly, however, this situation can reverse itself and lead to puddles and surface deterioration.
• Separation of Circulation: Today, we frequently encounter the concept of level difference in separating pedestrian, vehicle, and bicycle routes. However, because such differences can create barriers in terms of accessibility, we will discuss in the following sections how these changes are increasingly being eliminated in new design approaches.
• Safety and Boundary Definition: In dense urban areas, this method is often used as a control mechanism. It helps make different use areas more legible and guides the user through the space.
• Separating Spaces from One Another: We use changes in grade to define spaces and boundaries belonging to different use scenarios. Step differences created between seating areas and green spaces, or between circulation routes and green areas, can be given as examples. However, defining such separation through sharp level differences may create problems in terms of accessibility and continuity, especially in public spaces. In current design approaches, these kinds of distinctions have begun to be defined through material changes or surface language rather than changes in grade. We will examine this issue in more detail in the following sections.

What Has Modern Design Changed?

In the traditional design approach we are familiar with, spaces serving different uses were separated from one another by sharp boundaries. Sidewalks, curbs, and visible grade changes were seen as the most basic ways of defining space.

Over time, however, this approach began to be questioned in terms of user experience. Accessibility, in particular, became an issue concerning everyone in public spaces, from people with disabilities and users with strollers to children aged three or four and people over the age of sixty-five.

The emergence of all these issues created the need for a new design approach. Differences between surfaces were softened and made more fluid, reducing changes in grade to a minimum. In this way, the main aim became to guide user movement without interrupting its flow.

In this newly shaped approach, the goal is not to restrict the user, but to create a natural flow within the space.

Minimizing grade differences in this way does not mean leaving the space undefined. On the contrary, it increases the importance of details such as texture and color in material selection. In this changing design language, these details now enter our lives as tools of navigation.

In more traditional designs, hardscape materials were often handled in a visual and commercial manner. In the new approach, however, aesthetic perception gains importance, and the harmony between materials becomes more central. The perception of the space as a whole has led to the emergence of new strategies.

This design evolution is not only a technical solution; it also brings an ethical stance into the present day. The ability of a wheelchair user and an athlete to move on the same plane with the same level of comfort increases the inclusive power of public space. The success of design at this point lies in removing physical barriers while also making social barriers invisible.

The point where aesthetics meets function, and function meets social justice, is, I must say with pride, a real victory of modern landscape architecture.

The Blending of Surfaces

The disappearance of sharp boundaries allows space to break free from its rigid form and take on a more flexible identity. In traditional design, an area defined only as a passageway can, in a modern approach, become a meeting point, an exhibition area, or a resting corner through the blending of surfaces. The disappearance of boundaries can also be understood as the user redefining the space according to their own initiative or needs. In this respect, modern design does not draw strict limits around the function of a space; instead, it opens a field of experience for it.

The physical boundaries and curbs we are used to seeing in daily life have a guiding effect on users, telling them where to stop, where to pass, or how to move. In the spatial logic developed by modern design, however, users enter a more intuitive process of wayfinding. This turns movement into a strategy in which the user draws their own route.

When design begins to manage possibilities instead of drawing boundaries, landscape becomes not just a place to look at, but a process to be lived.

The most concrete and functional expression of the principle of blending surfaces is the meeting of bicycle paths and pedestrian axes on a single flush surface. The high sidewalks and curbstones that sharply separate these routes in traditional urban planning are giving way, in modern landscape design, to a smooth continuity.

In this approach, the distinction between bicycle paths and pedestrian routes is defined not by a physical barrier, but by the character of the material itself. By material character, we can understand differences such as color, texture, size, and joint pattern.

These clean surfaces, where people do not encounter any step or noticeable slope difference while crossing from one side to another, minimize visual clutter in spaces while also highlighting the clarity of the design.

This design language developed on a single plane does not divide the space into fragments; instead, it brings all parts together on a common ground.

The result is a holistic landscape in which design is freed from unnecessary complexity and movement continues in flow without interruption.

Examples of Modern Landscape Approaches from Around the World

1- Road Design Examples from Budapest and Prague

These are photographs I took in Budapest and Prague. Although the roads in question serve both vehicle and pedestrian circulation, they are separated without creating any change in grade, through differences in paving and various guiding elements. Stormwater management is provided through slopes that are almost imperceptible on the surface, preventing water from accumulating above ground.

2- Queens Plaza North, Long Island City, New York

This image shows the Queens Plaza North (Dutch Kills Green) project, a modern and functional example of urban landscape architecture. Planned in 2003 by a team led by Margie Ruddick, the project aimed to resolve complex infrastructure on a single, step-free ground plane for pedestrians and cyclists, transforming it into a corridor that also includes greenery. As can be seen in the photograph, everything is accessible and barrier-free.

The large slabs used in pedestrian paths and resting areas were designed with permeable concrete and stone materials that allow rainwater to move into the ground. Asphalt was preferred for the bicycle paths, while bicycle icons and pedestrian crossing lines were marked in white paint. We can say that the design clarifies visual guidance by creating a strong contrast.

The plants resembling Carex on the right side of the bicycle path, moving with the wind, can also be interpreted from the photograph as adding dynamism to the concrete texture.

3- Street and Road Designs in Hoogeveen, the Netherlands

The unusual and creative sidewalk design in the image is part of the Netherlands’ urban planning approach, especially the concept of the “woonerf” or “living street.” These designs, which are quite common in the Netherlands, transform the identity of the street through geometric shapes and contrasting colors, unlike conventional paving. At the same time, from a sustainability perspective, bricks made from 100% natural clay are used, and products resistant to wear and color fading are preferred.

4- Bancroft Way, Berkeley, California

Designed by Peter Walker and Partners, this project carries highly characteristic qualities in terms of detail resolution, especially for us as landscape architects. The joints between concrete slabs were strategically designed for stormwater management. Channels filled with river stones were used as an aesthetic drainage solution that allows water to filter down into the lower layer. This project can be considered a successful example of how aesthetics and technique, such as water management and durability, can be brought together, especially for university campuses or plazas with intense pedestrian circulation.

About 70 percent of the planet we live on, and nearly 75 percent of the human body, is water. Yet do we truly know something that is so deeply woven into our lives, and even into our existence? Perhaps the first step in protecting water is to understand it. Beyond basic technical definitions, we need a broader way of seeing water as a living force, a cultural memory and an ecological relationship.

Rainwater management is often discussed through floods, drainage channels, storage systems and infrastructure. These are necessary, but they are not enough by themselves. When water is seen only as a risk to be removed from the city, our relationship with it becomes defensive. We begin to fear water instead of learning how to live with it.

Why Do We Struggle to Manage Rainwater?

As floods become more frequent, water is increasingly treated as an element of danger. This fear changes how people perceive rivers, streams, rain and urban surfaces. The protective reflex is understandable, but it can also distance us from water. A city that wants to manage rainwater must first accept water as part of its own body, not as an outside threat.

Conventional urbanization turns soil into hard surface. Roads, roofs, parking lots and paved squares reduce infiltration and accelerate runoff. Rainwater that could feed soil, vegetation and groundwater is quickly collected, carried away and discharged. In this process, the city loses one of its most important ecological cycles.

Landscape architecture can rebuild this lost relationship. Rain gardens, bioswales, permeable surfaces, retention areas and restored stream corridors are not decorative additions. They are living systems that allow cities to slow, hold, clean and reuse rainwater. They also make water visible again in everyday urban life.

From Fear to Coexistence

The question is not simply how to get rid of rainwater. The real question is how to create urban landscapes that can receive it. A city designed with water does not only reduce flood risk; it creates cooler microclimates, supports biodiversity and offers richer public spaces.

Rainwater management therefore requires both technical knowledge and a shift in perception. We need to stop seeing water only as a problem and begin seeing it as a partner in design. The future of resilient cities depends on this change of perspective.

The cities we live in are growing every day. New buildings rise, roads expand, empty spaces are filled and urban boundaries stretch outward. Yet within this growth, an important reality is often overlooked: cities no longer produce. They have largely become places organized around consumption.

Food, one of the most essential parts of daily life, is usually consumed far from where it is produced. The products we see on market shelves reach us after long journeys. The city becomes the final stop of this process, not a place of production but a place of consumption.

Cities Were Not Always Like This

The distance between production and consumption was not always so sharp. For much of human history, settlement and production developed together. Early settlements were directly connected to arable land, water and seasonal cycles. The city was not distant from production; it was part of it.

Industrialization and modern urban planning gradually changed this relationship. Production was pushed outward, while the city center became associated with housing, commerce, administration and consumption. Today this separation creates ecological, economic and social fragility.

Urban Agriculture as a New Possibility

Urban agriculture does not mean turning every square meter of the city into farmland. It means reintroducing production into the urban imagination. Community gardens, edible landscapes, rooftop gardens, school gardens, productive parks and peri-urban farming areas can reconnect the city with food, soil and seasons.

This approach also has social value. It can strengthen neighborhood relations, support food awareness, create educational landscapes and make unused spaces meaningful again. In times of climate crisis and economic uncertainty, the productive city becomes more than an alternative; it becomes a resilience strategy.

Historic examples such as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or productive garden cultures around old settlements remind us that cultivation and urban life have long been connected. Contemporary examples show that this connection can be redesigned for today’s cities.

The question is not whether agriculture can return to the city, but how it can return in a fair, ecological and well-designed way. Urban agriculture can be a tool for producing food, but also for producing knowledge, community and a more grounded urban culture.

Carbon emissions are no longer merely an environmental issue; they have become an economic cost. Carbon tax is one of the most important tools that directly reflects this cost onto the producer. This situation directly affects how cities are designed and how landscape decisions are made.

Carbon Tax

The main purpose of a carbon tax is to reduce high-emission activities and accelerate the transition to more sustainable alternatives. Reducing fossil fuel consumption, increasing the use of renewable energy, and assigning an economic value to environmental damage are among the primary objectives of this system.

However, the fight against climate change is not limited to economic policies alone. The way urban areas are planned, the materials that are used, and decisions related to planting design are also important parts of this process. At this point, landscape architecture stands out as a discipline that can directly contribute to reducing carbon emissions and balancing existing carbon.

Why Is Landscape Architecture Important?

Landscape architecture is often seen as an aesthetic arrangement. Yet every design decision directly affects either the carbon production or the carbon storage capacity of a given area.

Through photosynthesis, plants absorb carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and store it within their structure. For this reason, a well-designed green space does not function as a passive arrangement, but rather as an active carbon management system.

How Can Landscape Architects Reduce Carbon Emissions?

The decisions landscape architects make during design, implementation, and maintenance can significantly alter the carbon footprint of projects. The main approaches that stand out at this point are as follows:

Increasing Carbon Sink Areas

Urban parks, urban forests, and green corridors are among the most effective spaces in terms of carbon storage. During planting design, choosing long-lived species with broad canopies and high biomass potential increases this capacity.

In coastal regions, ecosystems such as wetlands and seagrass meadows also have high carbon storage potential. Protecting and properly managing these areas plays an important role in maintaining carbon balance.

Using Low-Carbon Materials

Materials such as concrete, asphalt, and steel used in landscape projects cause high carbon emissions during production and transportation processes. For this reason, the use of local materials, recycled products, and permeable surfaces is of great importance.

Design Decisions That Improve Energy Efficiency

Landscape design can indirectly affect the energy consumption of buildings. Green roofs and vertical gardens can reduce energy demand by improving the thermal insulation of structures.

Likewise, properly positioned trees can lower cooling needs by providing shade in summer, while windbreak planting can reduce heat loss in winter.

Reducing Carbon During the Maintenance Process

The carbon impact of landscape is not limited to the design phase alone. The maintenance process is also an important factor.

Large turf areas require constant irrigation, mowing, and chemical use. This increases energy consumption and indirect carbon emissions. Instead, when xeriscape approaches and native plant species are preferred, maintenance needs decrease.

In addition, intensive soil cultivation activities can cause the carbon stored in the soil to be released back into the atmosphere. For this reason, intervention should be kept to a minimum.

The Future: Carbon-Oriented Landscape Design

Carbon emissions are no longer merely an environmental datum; they have become an economic criterion. As practices such as carbon taxation become more widespread, the environmental performance of projects will become more visible and measurable.

This shifts landscape architecture beyond being only an aesthetic discipline and turns it into an active part of carbon management. In the near future, the value of a landscape project may be assessed not only by its visual quality, but also by how much carbon it stores and how much emission it helps prevent.

Conclusion

The fight against climate change is a multidimensional process, and design decisions have a much greater impact than we often assume. When applied correctly, landscape architecture can create systems that reduce carbon emissions and store carbon.

In this respect, landscape design is not only an aesthetic arrangement, but also an important tool for environmental sustainability and carbon management.

References

1. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (2023). Climate Change 2023: Synthesis Report. Geneva: IPCC.
2. United Nations Environment Programme (2022). Emissions Gap Report 2022: The Closing Window. Nairobi: UNEP.
3. World Bank (2023). State and Trends of Carbon Pricing 2023. Washington DC: World Bank.
4. Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (2020). Global Forest Resources Assessment 2020. Rome: FAO.
5. American Society of Landscape Architects (2021). Climate Action Plan. Washington DC: ASLA.
6. United States Environmental Protection Agency (2022). Green Infrastructure and Climate Change Benefits. Washington DC: EPA.
7. European Environment Agency (2021). Nature-based Solutions in Europe: Policy, Knowledge and Practice for Climate Change Adaptation and Disaster Risk Reduction. Copenhagen: EEA.
8. International Federation of Landscape Architects (2022). Climate Positive Design and Landscape Architecture Report.
9. United Nations (2020). World Cities Report 2020: The Value of Sustainable Urbanization. Nairobi: UN-Habitat.
10. Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (2021). Effective Carbon Rates 2021: Pricing Carbon Emissions through Taxes and Emissions Trading. Paris: OECD.

Every day, you walk along the same route. You step on the same pavement and pass by the same trees.

But have you ever stopped to think?

Is the ground beneath your feet really just a standard path, or is it a space that contains many layers of design?

For most people, landscape means a few trees, a bit of lawn, perhaps a park. In reality, however, landscape involves a systematic infrastructure, a planned technical order, and a multi-layered design logic. In this article, I want to explain this through photographs I took from my own professional experience.

The path you walk on guides you without you realizing it. It draws your attention to certain points.

In fact, with details you often do not even notice, it manages water and prevents it from accumulating on the surface of the paths you walk on. That is why landscape does not only design space, but also human behavior. It slows you down, speeds you up, or makes you stop. Sometimes it makes you sit under a tree, sometimes it leaves you feeling alone in a wide open space, and sometimes it makes you lift your head and look around through striking elements.

Throughout the years I worked in the field, the clearest thing I observed was this:

In a well-designed landscape, people do not adapt themselves to the design. The design guides people naturally, within an intuitive flow. While people move forward without thinking about where they step, they are actually moving within a scenario drawn by design. The most successful projects are those in which people do not conflict with space; rather, the space intuitively reads human behavior and makes it easier.

How Do the Paths We Walk On Actually Work?

In daily life, when we look at a pedestrian path, we usually see only the surface:
A granite stone, a neat paving pattern, and clean joint lines… Yet this surface is only the visible part of a multi-layered system.

Take a granite-covered pedestrian path, for example. At first, we design the granite paving for that path. The stone covering we see on the surface provides aesthetics and durability. Yet the real elements that determine the performance of this surface are the layers underneath it.

A typical system can be constructed as follows; we can show it with an example sequence:

• Granite paving stone
• Bedding layer (sand or fine aggregate)
• Base course (stabilized material)
• Compacted subgrade

Water Management: The Invisible Design

In this system, one of the details that is often overlooked yet plays a critical role is water management. One of the tools we can mention in water management is the joint. The joint allows the surface to function, balances stress, and helps water move in a controlled way.

One of the most common problems encountered on site is the omission or faulty application of one of the layers. Most of the time, the problem appears on the surface; the stone becomes loose, breaks, or collapses. But the real problem is usually underneath.

The condition seen in the photograph occurs when the soil layer beneath the finished stone paving shifts due to the effect of water; this ground movement then causes the paving above to deteriorate as well.

Landscape elements are not only aesthetic objects, but also performance-based ones. The performance of a pedestrian path is measured by its load-bearing capacity, water permeability, resistance to freeze-thaw cycles, and deformation behavior over time.

Invisible Systems

Just as with hardscape, planting design is not limited to the visible surface. The health and sustainability of a green area are directly related not only to plant selection, but also to the system constructed beneath it. In planting applications, just as in hardscape systems, there is a layered structure.

One of the situations I most frequently observed on site is irregular plant growth occurring in different parts of the same project. At first glance, this may look like a design flaw, but in most cases the problem stems from drainage elevations, compacted soil, or faulty irrigation zoning. In other words, the problem lies not in aesthetics, but in the invisible layers of the system.

For a healthy planted area:

• Suitable soil mixture (a balance of organic and mineral content)
• Drainage layer (for the removal of excess water)
• Irrigation infrastructure
• Appropriate volume and depth for root development
• and many other technical criteria must be evaluated together.

Especially in tree applications, the root zone is a critical issue. A compacted ground that cannot breathe or has limited access to water directly affects plant development. For this reason, in a properly designed landscape, not only the visible upper form of the plant but also the invisible space necessary for root development is planned.

One of the common problems encountered on site is that this infrastructure is not adequately taken into account. Plants that initially appear healthy may fail to develop over time or begin to show signs of decline.

The structure of the soil, how much water it retains or how quickly it drains away, how far the roots are able to spread… all of these directly affect how the plant will appear above ground. That is why sometimes, in the same area, one patch of grass can look healthy while another beside it dries out. Or a newly planted tree may look fine at first but gradually weaken over time.

What Could Be the Possible Causes?

• Drainage problem: Water accumulating in some areas while remaining insufficient in others negatively affects root development. Patchy drying patterns like the ones seen in the photograph are usually signs of non-uniform drainage.

• Soil compaction: Especially in areas with heavy pedestrian traffic, the soil becomes compacted over time. This prevents the roots from receiving air and makes it harder for water to infiltrate the soil.

• Irregular irrigation system performance: Due to sprinkler placement or pressure differences, some areas may not receive enough water while others may receive too much.

• Sub-layer problems: An inadequate or poorly designed base layer prevents water from being distributed properly. This then appears on the surface as irregular drying or weak growth.

The same situation can also be observed in trees. The general drying seen in the tree in the photograph is usually caused not by a single factor, but by a combination of planting errors, root zone problems, and deficiencies in water management.

• Insufficient root zone volume or compacted soil: If roots cannot find enough space to develop, the tree quickly enters stress.

• Lack of drainage or water accumulation: If tree roots remain constantly in water, they become deprived of oxygen and begin to rot.

• Wrong species selection or adaptation problem: If the plant is not suitable for the climate and soil in which it is placed, its development is directly affected.

• Irrigation errors: Insufficient or irregular irrigation is a critical problem, especially for newly planted trees.

In many cases, this situation originates not from the plant itself, but from the system constructed beneath it.

That is why reading landscape only as the visible green surface or the hard ground is an incomplete approach. Beneath every step lies engineering, beneath every surface lies a system, and behind every plant lies an ecological balance.
The ground you step on is actually the result of a design you hardly notice.

So do not dismiss the places you step on as simply “landscape.” Because if there is a properly designed infrastructure beneath that surface, then the quality you see above is not a coincidence.

Have you ever noticed how playgrounds in cities are usually lively only in spring or on mild summer days, yet turn into abandoned spaces in winter or during extremely hot summer periods? With the climate crisis and accelerating urbanization, “play” one of our children’s most basic rights keeps getting blocked by weather conditions. So can children’s playgrounds truly be made usable in all four seasons?

In this article, by discussing season-responsive playground design and the idea of child-friendly cities, we will explore how parks can become living spaces 365 days a year.

Seasonality: Not Just a “Maintenance” Issue

The conventional perspective either treats the fact that playgrounds are not used in winter as something natural, or reduces it to a simple maintenance and cleaning issue. Yet studies suggest that climate data (wind, sun, precipitation) should be placed at the center of design when playgrounds are planned.

Based on observations, while park use can be 3–4 times a week in summer, this rate may drop to as little as once a week in winter. However, from the standpoint of urban resilience and children’s rights, the right to play cannot be suspended because of the weather; parks should remain accessible and safe throughout the year.

1. Safe play in scorching summer heat: UV protection and thermal comfort

Although summer means vacation and play for children, extreme heat carries serious risks. The lack of heat-resilient surfaces and adequate shading can make parks dangerous.

• Hot surface risk: Metal, rubber, and asphalt surfaces can reach hazardous temperatures under direct sun (over 60°C for metal, over 77°C for plastic), creating a risk of burns.

• Suggested Solutions:

  • UV-protected play area: Modular shade structures or canopy systems should be added above play equipment, especially slides and swings.

  • Natural shading: Deciduous trees should be used so that the area is shaded in summer while allowing sunlight to pass through in winter.

  • Light-colored materials: To reduce surface temperatures, light-colored ground materials that reflect sunlight should be preferred.

  • Thermal comfort for children: Children regulate body temperature more slowly than adults; therefore, clean drinking water fountains that allow frequent hydration should be integrated into the site.

2. Why do parks stay empty in winter?

In winter, parents often hesitate to take their children outside due to fear of illness. However, observations from cities with harsh continental climates such as Erzurum suggest that the issue is not only the cold, but also unsuitable design decisions.

• Windbreak Planting: By using dense plant barriers or panels that block northerly winds, the “perceived temperature” can be increased and the wind’s chilling effect can be reduced.

• Warm colors: Warm, vivid colors that contrast with winter’s gray-and-white atmosphere can create a psychological sense of warmth and invite children to play.

• Anti-icing measures: To prevent slips and falls, flexible surfaces that are resistant to freezing should be used, and regular snow clearing should be carried out.

• Lighting: With the shortening of days in winter, lighting levels should be increased to reduce growing safety concerns.

3. Spring and autumn: Rain, mud, and slippery surfaces

In transitional seasons, drainage problems are the biggest barrier in playgrounds. Snowmelt or spring rains can turn parks into mud baths.

• Drainage solutions: To prevent puddling, permeable surfaces should be used and subsurface drainage systems should be installed.

• Slip prevention: In autumn, fallen leaves combined with rain can turn surfaces into an ice rink. Textured surface finishes and regular cleaning reduce this risk.

• Mud management: In high-use areas, raised wooden walkways (boardwalks) can be used to limit contact with mud.

4. Climate-responsive landscape design and urban resilience

Four-season usable play space creation is not merely about selecting equipment; it is the art of crafting a microclimate. Urban planners should integrate macroclimate data (the region’s overall climate) with micro-scale data (the park’s wind direction, shaded areas).

Climate-sensitive landscape design; while protecting children’s health, offers a play experience that does not detach them from nature, but instead aligns with nature’s seasonal cycles. This approach not only enhances the quality of the play space, but also preserves the balance between urban climate and the right to play against the risks created by climate change.

Let’s Not Surrender Parks to the Seasons

Children’s playgrounds are an urban resilience issue as important as disaster preparedness. As municipalities, designers, and parents, we should stop seeing parks as spaces meant only for sunny days.

1. spaces that are shaded and cool in summer
2. sheltered from the wind and safe in winter
3. It is possible to create spaces that are mud-free and dry in spring. Let us not forget that play is not a luxury, but a children’s right that applies in every season.

This content was compiled from the book-chapter research titled “Designing Child-Friendly Urban Resilience: Seasonal Strategies for Public Playgrounds“, conducted by Mehmet Emin DAŞ and Prof. Dr. Mehmet Akif IRMAK, focusing on the climatic resilience and seasonal adaptation of children’s playgrounds within the book titled “Architectural Sciences and Sustainable Approaches: Urban Resilience“. For more detailed information on how this can be implemented, please read the original book chapter.

The shadow of the black pine carrying the night sits on my tent by the shore of Karagöl like a roof tile; as if to protect the sky from the fragile weight of the stars.. As the wind passes through the needle leaves, it trembles like a thin reed string, leaving rings on the lake surface that narrow and widen… With the first light of morning, the mist behaves like an architect: it fades the lines, softens the volumes, redefines the sense of scale. I line up the pages of this morning in my mind, but before I start writing, I lean my head against the trunk of the black pine. Silence is the first stage of creativity; the tree knows it well.

Space is often remembered not with the eye, but with the skin.

Juhani Pallasmaa

As I tie the rope of my tent to the soil, I can’t help thinking of the planning lines of cities in the tension of the rope. A good tie is not only a knot, it is the touch of the rhythms of two beings to each other. Human settlements are like this too: they live when they establish ties that heed the valley of the stream, the weight of the slope, the direction of the wind. McHarg’s call of “Design with Nature” does not fall idle here, in the shadow of the black pine; the path that goes where the water goes, the row of houses that does not cut the wind, the clusters of trees that multiply shade in the village square all follow the trace of the same morality: design is, first, listening.

As I walk slowly along the lakeside, the small sounds of the countryside form a harmony that rests the soul: the mechanical rhythm a woodpecker creates on the black pine with its beak, the wavy melody of a distant cowbell, the sound made by carp jumping with joyful excitement in the lake, a bird chirping with the cheer of morning, the crackle of the fire lit by a camper waking from sleep. These sounds do not tell the complexity of a city, but the steadiness of a landscape. Rural landscape is the place where the human hand knows its measure, where it invents the engineering of “just enough”. Here the idea of “big” is not an enchantment that hurts the soil; it is a rhythm suited to the patience of the soil. A farmer’s steps slowly rising on the slope are perhaps the most honest indicator of the word “sustainability”: adjusting your step to the language of the ground.

The sensitive sensors we establish with technology in the city are present here in the vibration of a needle leaf. Still, it crosses my mind: the energy, water, and security management promised by smart parks is meaningful when it can approach the economy of nature; the engineering of a tree that does not fit into a human lifetime shows us the real “data architecture”. Maybe what we seek in urban parks is, as much as wireless networks; the instinct of birds, butterflies to weave a network; as much as an LED line, the photon pact that dew drops establish with the morning light. The “smartness” of urban systems matures as it gets closer to rural wisdom.

A fish jumps on the lake; the rings multiply toward the shore like an acoustic diagram. At that very moment, I think of the ring-by-ring effects of design decisions: a small terrace wall resisting erosion, a currant at the field boundary, a riverside willow that shoulders the water during a flood. Each object added to the landscape without intervening in the natural structure is practical sentences of the alliance engineering builds with poetry. Aldo Leopold’s land ethic turns here from a theoretical text into a reality: the silent agreement of soil, water, birds, and people. The tip of a black pine root probes the soil as if it were the signing ink of this agreement; fungal networks work underground like a low-noise internet: they silently direct information, water, and glucose. Sustainability sometimes requires not only “high technology”, but “deep ecology”; sometimes it is not a sensor, but a root.

I open the zipper of the tent and sit facing the lake. In front of me, it is not the “emptiness” of water, but the spine of the landscape standing as a solid being. Water is the first line that establishes the city; the road often imitates the axis of water. On the lake shore, I see children skipping stones—childhood learns to make a plan on the surface of water; grasping the trace of the stone is the moment we first come close to drawing a line. Even these few meters of soil at the edge of the lake whisper the pedagogy of a well-constructed play street: micro-slopes that surprise, a shrub mass that allows hiding, a route that is not standard and imposed… The thing called play is actually a spatial curriculum. The hopscotch squares we draw in a schoolyard are, in fact, a trace of a city; in the countryside, the child writes their trace on the grass, in the city, on asphalt. For a child, play has no place and no time. I have been saying for years that play streets in our country need to be reconsidered: we need shade, material and spatial difference, a detail that breaks tempo, a void that allows free play. But not as it is now, of course. For this reason, I am also writing my doctoral thesis specifically on play streets.

Through the branches of the black pine I see the sky sliced into segments; this natural partition has no quarrel with geometry, because geometry is the interpretation of people at the macro scale. At the micro scale, everything in nature is geometry. When humankind applies geometry at the macro scale in urban architecture, everything feels artificial, everything feels far from naturalness.. In rural landscape, the method of collecting knowledge is not with a notebook, it is with the body; the body learns when it is close to the soil.

In this clearing where the black pines across rise shoulder to shoulder like a wall, as old wooden swings sway with the wind, children measure the rhythm of time with the tips of their feet; each forward motion is a sentence of childhood opened to the horizon, each return is like a comma placed in a safe nest. The bare honesty of rural landscape is on stage: the uneven texture of the grass, the fragile light of the sun, and the shadow forest piled on the horizon. This scene whispers how the simplest state of play—freedom and curiosity—turns a space into a field of education. The texture of the wood, the metallic tone the chain makes, and the flexibility of the soil; all together they teach children an environmental alphabet. And as a landscape architect, I remain alone with the big lesson of this small moment: a good play space is not only a ground that softens falling; it is also a sky that raises imagination and a shade that makes returning safe.

Just before I drift into a noon nap in the shadow of the black pine, I remember the water mill at the edge of the village: a technology that “borrows” the force of water. The first lesson of sustainable design should be not “stealing” from nature, but “borrowing” from it. This borrowing must be returnable: an economy that pays its debt to soil, water, air. While defending the reading of waste management with smart sensors in the city, if we do not see the non-wasteful logistics of an ant nest in the countryside, we lose our balance. The forest is the anonymous inventor of the zero-waste idea; every decay is the material of a new beginning. This is what I grasped, down to technique, when designing a wooden bench: the act of sitting is only the waiting moment of a carrying system; every recycled fiber kneads the dough of this waiting.

While defending the reading of waste management with smart sensors in the city, if we do not see the non-wasteful logistics of an ant nest in the countryside, we lose our balance. The forest is the anonymous inventor of the zero-waste idea; every decay is the material of a new beginning.

I often say that choosing trees to sit under their shade is a delicate professional job in terms of city climate. Shade is not only coolness, it is a protocol of life: the filtration of leaf texture, the pattern rhythm of branch shade, the negotiation of crown form with the wind, the intelligence of the root system that does not break the pavement… In our cities, we should choose trees not to be popular, but to join life. Shade is, more than an aesthetic gesture, an act of justice: to rest what the sun has tired, to lighten the burden of the heat island, to give breath to fragile bodies.

In the afternoon, while walking around the lake, suddenly a shoreline project repaired by human intervention comes to my mind: turning an area where trash was collected into an ecological park with a line stretching along the shore like a red ribbon… Proof of moments when design improves the world with a light move. The naturalness of Karagöl makes me think about that line again: every repair begins first with listening; not a red ribbon perhaps, but you pull a dark green silence to the shore of the water. Transforming a city sometimes passes not through a huge excavation (construction), but through an ethics of line: lines that do not break the existing syntax of the ecosystem, but rather make it visible.

We chat briefly with an old shepherd I meet on the lakeshore. He asks: “How old do you think that tree is?” I say I do not know the answer exactly, but I have a good intuition about the patience of pines. He smiles: “Then let’s say at least our three lives.” Rural wisdom fits into one sentence many things we search for in the pages of academia. Maybe this is what Heidegger calls “dwelling”: sheltering within the world, getting along well with things, not breaking the scale. In the mortar of a stone wall, there is the salt of neighborhood; in the weave of a fence, the courtesy of setting a boundary. The teaching of rural landscape is the engineering of relationships.

As the day turns to evening, the color of the lake darkens. The shadow of the black pine stretches along the shore like a long “footnote”—as if to correct everything I have written. I think: Architecture is sometimes a thesis; landscape is the footnotes dropped onto that thesis. The thesis speaks loudly; the footnote whispers to the ear. Being a designer in the countryside is learning to whisper. Small intuitions rather than big gestures; fine workmanship rather than thick emphasis. Raising a waterway by two fingers, lowering the slope of a path by one degree, lowering the sitting level of a bench by a span… All these small moves, together, work like a physiotherapy that heals the body of the city.

I brew my tea at the camp stove. The steam of the tea disperses among the needle leaves. As I take a sip, I can’t help thinking about the circular economy in the city, carbon, water. Nature takes all its energy from the stars; the biggest battery is the sky. The systems we establish should be only reflections of this great battery. We should borrow from the sun, the wind, the rain, and return the rest to nature.

Children’s laughter comes from behind the trees—maybe they are competing to find more frogs by the lakeshore, maybe they are playing hide-and-seek among the tents, or maybe they are playing a balance-walk game on cut tree stumps… There is no better public space test than children’s play. If a space calls children to play spontaneously, a correct balance has been established there. The Children’s Playgrounds found in the city owe to the existence of a child running barefoot on the shore of Karagöl: to the rhythm of shade, the texture of the surface, surprising turns. As designers, we only draw the measure lines in a musical notation; children compose the melody. This perspective points to the possibility that freedom, safety, and curiosity can be possible at the same time under the shadow of traditional games.

As evening falls, the sky between the branches of the black pine divides into mosaics; the stars embed like stones into a dark navy mortar. In that moment, it becomes easier to think about how we will light a park, which plants we will choose along the edge of a road, how we will calm the wind of a square. Because design questions often seem difficult because they are asked in the wrong place; the right place is where the answer has been waiting for years. At Karagöl I am standing by the shore of the right place: water, shade, and silence. Inside me a notebook opens; on every line it says: “Slow down. Listen. Adapt.”

In the deepest part of the night, I touch the trunk of the black pine. At my fingertips a coolness, as if a brief summary of the patience the tree has stored for years. In the city we often get carried away by the attraction of “big projects”; yet nature says that greatness is an aesthetic of zero showiness, high patience. Maybe the reason projects like Red Ribbon Park attract us is this: the promise of a big ethical transformation with a very small intervention. Karagöl whispers the opposite: what a very big being—the forest and water—asks of us is a reduced intervention; to pull back, to listen, to adapt.

Design questions often seem difficult because they are asked in the wrong place; the right place is where the answer has been waiting for years.

Toward dawn, as the shadow of the black pine shifts place again, I start packing up the tent together with my family. My belongings look quite light compared to a concrete structure, yet up to a point the function of both is the same.. I think that design could be this light as well: a drawing where lines exist only as much as necessary, materials stand only where they need to, no unnecessary barriers exist on the path of water. The concept called “smart growth” might be, perhaps, its smartest form, an imagination of a city that manages not to grow, but to reduce the load. The countryside has no utopia; it has everydayness. When our utopias, too, one day become as convincing as the countryside’s everydayness, our cities will learn to leave a trace.

As I set off, I look at the lake one last time. The lake is clear, as if it has read all the notes of the night and translated them into its own language. The black pine raises its hand behind me and gives a silent greeting. In my mind, I repeat perhaps the only truly correct manifesto of landscape architecture: “Learn the language of nature; whisper to design with it.” If every line I draw for the city carries sounds from this dignified alphabet of the countryside, one day when a child in the city runs to the shade, that shade will be not only coolness, but a kindness. When an old person stands up from a bench, not their back pain but the rhythm of their walk will be remembered. When a cyclist crosses a bridge, the load the wind leaves on their shoulders will lessen. And the shadow of the black pine will remain as a broken line in the water of Karagöl: a line that waits for patience to be read, and for the slowness of the body to be understood.

I put this line in my pocket and set off. The city is a notebook opening in front of me; I have a pen warmed in the bosom of the countryside. The ink of the sentences I will write is, today, a coolness filtered from the shadow of a black pine. A coolness that will be understood not when the writing ends, but when the words fall silent. And this coolness will, perhaps one day, fall onto the face of a child at the edge of a park—with free play, with a safe night, with a fair shade.

When you walk down the street, the ground beneath your feet is the quietest counterpart of the light drifting down from the sky. Sometimes it reminds you how a black T-shirt heats up under the summer sun, sometimes it recalls the calm coolness of a white shirt. In cities, the phenomenon we call the “urban heat island” is built on exactly these simple differences: surfaces either absorb light or send it back. What I have observed most often in the field is this: the color and texture of the ground is not merely an aesthetic choice; it can have a decisive influence on pedestrian comfort, energy consumption, children’s play experience, and even how the late-afternoon breeze is felt.

Why “Light-Colored”?

Let me start with an everyday analogy: in summer, if you park a black car in the shade and a white car in the sun, your willingness to place your hand on the hood changes. Pavements work the same way. Light-colored surfaces have higher reflectance (often referred to as “albedo”); by reflecting a larger portion of incoming solar radiation, they can limit excessive surface heating. This can help reduce the mean radiant temperature felt at pedestrian level and, when combined with shade, can visibly improve the walking experience.

Of course, the effect of light color is not only “heating up less.” Lower surface temperatures can reduce the thermal load a pavement releases back into its surroundings on hot days; this can help cooling start earlier in the evening, especially in densely built-up areas. Although the numbers may vary in the literature, in the field you can feel the difference in thermal behavior between dark asphalt and light-toned surfaces under the sun even by placing your hand on them. Thinking of that sensation accumulated at the scale of the city is enough to convey the magnitude of the picture.

The Aggregate Question: Limestone, Granite, or Basalt?

Aggregate is the name given to granular, inorganic materials with different mineral structures—such as sand, gravel, and crushed stone—used with cement and water in concrete, mortar, and similar mixes. Aggregates make up roughly 75% of the volume of cementitious systems. In cement-based construction, aggregates are relatively inexpensive materials. With this feature, they reduce overall mix costs. Aggregates also make important contributions to the technical performance of cementitious systems. (1)

Aggregate is the soul of a pavement. It determines the tone, the texture, and the relationship the surface builds with light.

• Limestone and light-colored granite derivatives generally provide higher reflectance. In chip-seal (surface dressing) details, using light-colored aggregate can quickly transform the visual and thermal character of ordinary black asphalt.
• Basalt and dark granite can be more durable and harder; however, they are expected to absorb more heat under the sun. While dark stone may support ice melt at a micro scale in winter, it can increase the heat load in summer. This is why a climate-informed balance is needed.

When selecting aggregate, not only color but also particle size, porosity, hardness, skid resistance, and freeze–thaw durability should be evaluated together. A light-toned stone that creates a glassy shine on the surface can pose a glare risk at high solar angles. For this reason, it can be wise not to keep the surface too smooth and to disperse reflections through micro-roughness.

Three concepts appear frequently in the technical literature: albedo (reflectance), emissivity (thermal emittance), and SRI—Solar Reflectance Index (an index that evaluates albedo and emissivity together and allows practical comparison). Albedo indicates how much solar radiation a surface reflects; emissivity indicates how effectively, once heated, the surface can re-radiate that heat. SRI translates these two parameters into a “comparison language,” weighing different materials on the same scale. The SRI value in a catalog should not be the sole decision-maker; but between two candidate materials, it can offer a functional shortcut to the question “which one tends to stay cooler under summer heat?”

The Nuances of Light Color in Cold Climates Like Erzurum

There is one truth years of walking the field in Erzurum teaches you: winter rewrites design. Although light-colored pavements look very attractive for summer, two effects should be considered in winter. The first is glare: on a snow-covered day, when the sun appears, bright surfaces can challenge visual comfort and dazzle the eyes. The second is snow-and-ice dynamics: darker surfaces can absorb more heat and slightly accelerate ice melt, while lighter surfaces may remain more “neutral.” This does not mean “light color is bad”; it simply reminds us that we must think together with the winter season. For example, when light color + a well-textured surface + the right salting/cleaning routine are combined, both summer coolness and winter safety can be achieved.

In children’s play areas, I tend to use the following approach: the play core and the circulation belt can be handled with different color and texture strategies. A combination of fall-protective surfaces (e.g., colored EPDM or light-toned mineral infills) and light-to-mid-tone, high-friction surfaces in surrounding circulation zones can keep the ground cooler in summer and safer in winter. When it merges with tree shade, the effect becomes more pronounced.

“Color Alone” Is Not Enough: A Three-Way Alliance with Shade, Wind, and Water

Against the urban heat island, color is a powerful but, on its own, a limited tool. Light-colored pavements need to be supported by active shading (trees, pergolas), airflow (wind corridors), and water cycles (permeable surfaces, rain gardens, evaporative cooling). When a light surface “marries” shade, pedestrian comfort can increase in a way you immediately feel. A plaza with very high albedo but no shade can still feel “bright yet hot” in midsummer; whereas even a small amount of semi-permeable shade can change the sensation dramatically.

Pavement Systems: Thin-Coat Paint or an Integrated Solution?

Solutions marketed as “cooling paint/coating” and the “cool pavements” approach—where colored aggregate is integrally bonded within the system—are different. Thin-film coatings may deliver high albedo at the beginning; however, performance can decline over time due to soiling, abrasion, and UV. When the aggregate itself is light-colored, the tone comes from the body of the material, so the service life can remain more consistent. Even small steps in the maintenance plan—such as annual cleaning or periodic pressure washing—can help keep performance alive.

We do not have to imagine light color as “pure white.” The human eye is usually less disturbed by matte, natural stone tones. That is why the off-white, beige, and light gray family is often more balanced in terms of both thermal performance and visual comfort. Shaping surface texture with micro-roughness that scatters the sun’s angle; avoiding glossy, glassy reflections is a good principle. In children’s play areas, colored patterns (play cues, ground graphics) can be solved with calm, low-glare contrast palettes rather than excessive brightness.

Light-colored pavements are sometimes chosen with an expectation of a “smooth look,” but safety comes before aesthetics. Slip resistance in rain and ice (micro/macro roughness) and compatibility with wheeled mobility such as strollers and wheelchairs must be tested. Aggregate size and binder ratio influence both friction and vibration comfort. For that reason, in children’s spaces I often suggest different particle sizes and different binder ratios between the “play surface” and “parent circulation.” A small distinction can create a large comfort difference.

In fighting the urban heat island, looking at the price tag alone can be misleading. It should be approached through a life-cycle lens: initial construction cost + maintenance + renewal period. A permanent tone that comes from light-colored aggregate can be more stable over time than the first brightness achieved by paint. Adding a periodic light cleaning program for surface soiling and oil stains helps spread performance over the years. Writing this plan from the start reduces surprises.

Choosing light-colored aggregate and pavements may look like a small detail at first glance in the fight against the urban heat island, yet it can build a bridge between daytime coolness and the evening breath of a city. I like to design that bridge by placing color next to shade, texture next to safety, and surface choices next to a discipline of maintenance. Perhaps the point is not to make the ground “snow white,” but to create a matte calmness—at peace with the summer sun, measured with winter snow, gentle for children’s knees yet firm underfoot. Remembering that the coolness we seek in the heart of cities is often right beneath our feet is sometimes enough.

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?

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.