Hostile Hedgerows: The Subtle Politics of Planting

The insistent buzz of a cicada, almost deafening in the humid Pathum Thani afternoon, momentarily drowned out the distant drone of traffic along the Rangsit Canal. I was on a site visit for a new community park, a green lung intended to serve a rapidly growing suburban development just north of Bangkok. The masterplan looked promising on paper – winding pathways, shady trees, a small pond. Yet, as I walked the perimeter, a creeping unease began to settle in. It wasn't what was there that bothered me, but what wasn't, and what subtle messages the existing landscape seemed to be sending.

We're all familiar with the more overt forms of "hostile architecture" that have become increasingly prevalent in our cities – the benches with strategically placed dividers to prevent the homeless from sleeping, the anti-skateboarding studs on ledges, the loud, high-pitched noises designed to deter loitering teenagers. These are blunt instruments of social control, physical manifestations of exclusion.

But on this seemingly benign park perimeter, I began to recognize a more insidious, a more green, form of exclusion at play. It wasn't the hardscape that was unwelcoming; it was the deliberate choreography of the softscape – the "hostile hedgerow."

Running along the boundary between the park and the adjacent private housing estate was a thick, almost impenetrable wall of Bougainvillea spectabilis. Its vibrant magenta flowers were undeniably beautiful, a riot of tropical color. But upon closer inspection, the beauty came with a price – a dense tangle of thorny vines, aggressively reaching outwards, forming an effective, if visually appealing, barrier.

Now, Bougainvillea is a common sight in Thailand, a hardy plant that thrives in the climate. Its use here, at first glance, seemed innocuous, even aesthetically pleasing. But as I considered its placement, its density, its inherent prickliness, a different narrative began to emerge. This wasn't just a natural boundary; it was a clear demarcation, a silent message to those outside the housing estate: "Stay out."

This realization opened my eyes to the subtler politics embedded within landscape design. How often do we, as architects and landscape architects, consciously or unconsciously, employ planting schemes that serve not just ecological or aesthetic purposes, but also as tools of social sorting?

Think about the ubiquitous use of dense, low-lying shrubs around private gardens or gated communities. They offer a visual buffer, creating a sense of privacy. But they also act as a physical barrier, discouraging casual interaction and reinforcing a sense of separation. The perfectly manicured lawn, while seemingly inviting, often carries an implicit "keep off the grass" message, subtly policing behavior.

Consider the layout of pathways in public spaces. Are they gently curving and accessible to all, including those using wheelchairs or mobility aids? Or are they winding, maze-like configurations that might be aesthetically pleasing but create unnecessary obstacles for some? Are there clear sightlines, fostering a sense of safety and openness, or are there hidden corners and overgrown areas that can feel unsafe and exclusionary, particularly at night?

Even the maintenance schedule can be a form of subtle control. Areas that are frequently and meticulously maintained often feel more "official" and implicitly discourage activities deemed outside the norm. Conversely, areas left to grow wild, while potentially beneficial for biodiversity, can also feel neglected and unwelcoming, particularly to vulnerable populations.

The key question, as my gaze lingered on the thorny embrace of the Bougainvillea, became: How can a beautiful plant become a tool of exclusion, and what is our ethical responsibility as designers in this subtle form of social engineering?

The answer, I believe, lies in a shift in perspective, a move away from designing solely for aesthetics or perceived security and towards a more inclusive and community-centered approach – what I’ve been thinking of as "positive planting."

What would "positive planting" look like in practice?

• Prioritizing non-toxic, non-invasive, and non-barbed species in public spaces: Choosing plants that are safe and welcoming to all, rather than those that create physical or psychological barriers.

• Designing for accessibility and permeability: Ensuring clear, well-maintained pathways that are easily navigable for people of all abilities. Thinking about "desire lines" – the informal paths people naturally create – and incorporating them into the formal design.

• Creating "soft edges" and transitional zones: Instead of abrupt boundaries, designing gradual transitions between different spaces, encouraging interaction and a sense of welcome. Think of layered planting with varying heights and textures that invite exploration rather than deterring it.

• Incorporating community input in plant selection and placement: Engaging with the people who will actually use the space, understanding their needs and preferences, and empowering them to have a say in shaping their environment. This could involve community gardening plots or collaborative planting days.

• Focusing on plants that enhance sensory experiences and well-being: Choosing fragrant plants, those that attract pollinators, and those that create dappled shade, fostering a sense of peace and connection with nature for everyone.

As I finally left the site, the image of the vibrant yet hostile hedgerow stayed with me. It served as a potent reminder that design, even in its seemingly gentlest form – the arrangement of plants – carries inherent power and can have profound social implications.

Our challenge as architects and landscape architects in places like Bang Khayaeng and beyond is to move beyond the superficial beauty and the easy solutions. We need to cultivate a deeper understanding of the subtle politics of planting and consciously choose to use our skills to create landscapes that are not just visually appealing, but truly inclusive, welcoming, and conducive to building strong, connected communities. It's time to move beyond hostile hedgerows and cultivate gardens of belonging.

Have you noticed examples of "hostile planting" in your own neighborhoods? What kind of green spaces make you feel most welcome and included? Share your experiences and ideas in the comments below.