"Grounding"

Over the past couple of years, you have immersed yourself in the practice of making space by design — physical space — from residential homes and commercial buildings to public parks, urban landscapes, libraries, museums, and even cemeteries. You have learned how to use design thinking to make another kind of space for new programs, policies, and relations to take place. You have learned how to connect things — problems, interests, places, and publics — through design. You have become intimately involved in shaping the built environment, which profoundly influences our lived experiences, our relations with our surroundings, and our interactions with one another, for better and for worse. Today, I invite you to reflect on the very foundation of our designs: the ground beneath our feet.

Trembling Ground

In recent years, the ground beneath us has felt increasingly unstable — made to tremble, over and over again, by events that keep reshaping our lives and our world.We stand on ground that feels unsteady, shaken by the changing climate, by growing disparities, by global crises of democracy by the ongoing attack on academic freedom. Yet it is precisely in these moments of instability that we can discover the greatest opportunities for transformation and hope. The challenges we face — whether we fight for climate resilience, for gender equality, or against other injustices — remind us of our collective capacity to adapt, to rebuild, and to imagine a better future. In the past few years, we have witnessed this world in our palms, through a stream of raw, real-time images of such events. High-resolution, real-time footage collapses vast distances into the intimate space between our eyes and our mobile devices, domesticating the news with eerie proximity. We are reminded, in this new awareness of so many things happening at once, that we bear witness and we bear responsibility, and that we can act.

Yet we are at a distance, paralysed behind the screen. How, we might ask, can we move beyond this influx of information and into action? How can we influence change? As spatial planners that draw future projections, I wonder if our work — whether through architecture, landscape architecture, urban planning, or all of the additional engagement strategies with our complex world — can help transform despair into hope. We can visualise — with our drawings and practices — what environments rooted in justice, resilience, and compassion look like.

My work is situated at the intersection of spatial design and human rights, where we use architecture, urban planning, and participatory design processes to make visible matters of public concern and co-develop alternative visions by design. Our first projects, already decades ago, were done in Israel-Palestine, where I am from and where a violent war is ongoing. The distant footage we all see of this war is, for me, accompanied by daily personal stories of my family in Israel and my friends in Gaza who are all going through horrific times. This feeling of the trembling ground of Gaza, persists like grief — it comes and goes, catching you off guard — collapsing moments in time-space into each other, reminding you of all that has been and is being lost.

In Regarding the Pain of Others (Picador, 2003), the writer Susan Sontag pointed out that our biggest shortcoming is our lack of imagination and empathy. When we see the pain and suffering that others go through, we need to let it affect us in a meaningful way. Instead of becoming numb or indifferent, we should learn to let these experiences push us to act. The images we see of conflict and destruction are staggering, and yet within them we can see the extraordinary strength of the human spirit. I remember a conversation with my friend from Gaza telling me how infants who lost their parents in the war are being adopted and taken care of by other mothers — and being breast fed by them. Across history and across borders, oppressed and vulnerable peoples have shown relentless strength; an unyielding desire to rebuild and renew.

So today, with much at stake, I urge you to see the trembling ground beneath your feet — not as a sign of fragility, but as a foundation for hope. Use your talents, your voices, and your compassion to forge new paths. Because even in times of uncertainty, we hold both individual agency and collective power. The future is not written. It is ours to create.

Beginning: Of/f the Ground

Beneath the trembling ground, as the writer Franz Kafka taught us, lies the promise of new creation, a lesson about hope — and a lesson about love. Indeed, our connections to the ground run deeper than mere metaphor. In Hebrew, my mother tongue, the words for "ground", "human" and “blood” are pronounced as Adama, Adam and Dam. These three words — ground, human, and blood — are etymologically intertwined, suggesting that all human beings are literally of the earth, composed of the same elemental matter.

Human existence is considered as a union between two things: both the physical facts of inhabiting the earth — being human — and of existing as a spiritual being, with a consciousness that reflects on our connection to the planet and to other living beings. From an environmental and ecological perspective, "ground" refers to the Earth's surface where various ecological processes occur. It is the vital interface for interactions among organisms and their habitats. This ground includes soil — a dynamic and complex mixture of organic matter, minerals, microorganisms, and air that sustains plant life and facilitates essential functions such as nutrient cycling, water filtration, and carbon storing. The ground is not only a deposit of physical matter that serves as the foundation for life; it is also shaped by the narratives we create and the actions we take. Each layer of soil holds the stories of past generations, shaped by cultural histories and the continuous interactions with the land, whether through our agricultural and landscaping practices, urban development, environmental stewardship or even the lack thereof; we leave lasting imprints on the ground, altering its composition and the ecosystems it supports.

Grounding Knowledge

To engage in a meaningful way with this relationship, we must ground ourselves not just physically but intellectually and ethically. As students, educators, practitioners and as humans, we bear a vital responsibility: to do the work of grounding our explorations in knowledge — knowledge shaped by science, rooted in place, or drawn from indigenous epistemologies — and to approach this grounding with care and humility.

School is, indeed, a place of learning, but real growth does not end when you leave those doors. In fact, grounding your knowledge is a lifelong practice that continues throughout your journey. Every project, every decision, every interaction is an opportunity to deepen your grounding in what is true, what is just, and what is meaningful. As Donna Haraway teaches us in her extensive writings:the only way to make sense of the world is to ask where knowledge comes from, who it serves, and what its consequences are. This practice of questioning keeps us mindful of the relationships between the stories we tell and the worlds we create. It reminds us that the stories we choose to tell — and how we chose to tell them — can profoundly shape our reality. As Haraway puts it, “It matters which stories make worlds and which worlds make stories.”

Our stories do not just describe the world — they actively create its future. So, as you go forward, remember that grounding your knowledge is a continual act, one that will keep your work deeply rooted, your mind curious, and your heart open.

Ground Representation

This act of grounding also extends directly into the ways we represent space, relationships, and ideas through our daily practices as designers. Representation is at the heart of what we do — across architecture, urban design, urban planning, real estate, landscape architecture, design engineering — we draw. We draw lines, we draw relations, and we draw conclusions. In these drawings, the ground is often represented as a thin line: one abstract line that serves as both a literal and metaphorical foundation upon which we construct our understanding of the present and our visions for the future.

This line acts as the first layer in our designs, a ground zero. We take time to study where this line lands and we gradually add more lines, creating connections, placing elements on and around it: home, neighbourhood, road, park, library, museum, hospital, new city. We establish relationships between one component and another, exploring cross-sections and intersections between various programs and actors. We create webs of relationships that derive from older existing narratives or we envision new ones. We draw to represent the relationships we wish to cultivate — be they relationships based on time (past, present, future), in space (existing and imagined spaces), or in our social lives. The ground, unlike a simple thin line or a blank canvas, is a rich and ever-changing world filled with life, stories, cultures, and ecosystems.

Our drawings, designs, and ideas emerge from — and unfold within — this complex and vibrant reality, simultaneously shaping it and being shaped by it. Lines on a map or plan can represent a variety of features within a landscape. A single line might depict the ground level in an elevation drawing, and in a plan ,it can be the wall of a building, the edge of a property parcel, the division between residential and agricultural zones, the demarcation of a national border, or the perimeter of a restricted zone. These linear elements convey critical information about the organisation of society and our relationships with the land, with the ground. Yet it’s important to recognise that these lines are not neutral — they embody histories, conflicts, and stories about place. The lines we draw shape the narratives we live by, reflecting deeper tensions and meanings inherent in our shared spaces.

Contested Grounds

In her book The Faraway Nearby, the writer Rebecca Solnit reminds us that stories are all in the telling. “Stories are compasses and architecture,” she writes. “We navigate by them, we build our sanctuaries and our prisons out of them, to be without a story is to be lost in the vastness of a world that spreads in all directions like arctic tundra or sea ice. To love someone is to put yourself in their place, we say, which is to put yourself in their story, or figure out how to tell yourself their story." The ground on which we design is not a neutral canvas, but rather a contested land and territory — one with many stories of its own, superimposed on and over each other.

The ground carries histories, power dynamics, and claims of ownership and control. It carries memories, meaning, structure, direction. The lines we inscribe on this landscape both reflect and shape these underlying territorial disputes and social conflicts. Our design choices, whether explicit or implicit, can serve to reinforce or challenge the existing order of things. We decide which stories to embed within our choices, and which histories to invoke as we engage with the ground. As such, the act of drawing a line, whether on a map or a section, is often a political act. It demarcates and organises space in ways that can have significant implications for the lives and livelihoods of those who inhabit or stake a claim to that territory.

As designers, we need to remain attentive to these complex social and spatial relationships and consider the potential consequences — both intended and unintended — of the lines we choose to draw. In my personal experience, studying how we shape the built environment, made me realise how deeply space and politics are intertwined. During my architectural studies at the Technion in Haifa, I was asked to design on land rich with history and stories of belonging — lands shaped by ancient cultures, farming traditions, and vibrant communities that had been either preserved or erased by our designs. Architecture, landscape architecture, and urban design are powerful tools. They can reinforce broad societal ideas and transform people’s lives by shaping or dismantling their environments — all through the act of designing.

We can design a prison or a sanctuary — walls that close us off or gateways that welcome others into either hell or paradise. Sometimes, the same design serves both purposes: offering paradise to some and hell to others. This realisation weighed heavily on me, prompting deep ethical reflection. As a student, I decided to not fully follow the class assignments. Instead of designing a building, I began drawing maps that illustrated multiple layers of histories and overlapping narratives — often in tension or conflict with one another — that, taken together, represented what might be called a “contested” ground. I layered these maps, turning different layers on and off, adding and removing them sequentially, gradually becoming familiar with the extended history of my country. This was a story I was not taught in school or university, but one I explored through archival research, fieldwork and engagement with human rights organisations, among other sources.

This process wasn’t about opposing building or design itself, but about “grounding myself” and gaining a deeper understanding of the complex layers of history and meaning that shape the places in which we live — and the role we have within these intricate processes. To draw once again upon Haraway’s words, we must wonder where our knowledge begins, who it serves, and what it leaves behind. We must (also) seek to understand the purpose behind our designs — what they do, who they help, and how they ripple through all those affected by them. Only by acknowledging and understanding these deeply rooted forces can we start creating new kinds of spaces; spaces that liberate not only our imagination, but also the imagination of the publics we serve, helping all of us envision a future otherwise.

We need to remember that the ground beneath our feet is not merely a passive stage upon which these dramas unfold, but an active participant in the ongoing struggle for justice and ecological wellbeing. This complexity cannot be navigated alone; it requires collective action and for all of us to extend ourselves and engage in the act of creating a common ground.

Common Ground

In a world filled with division and uncertainty, the idea of common ground offers us a space to pause and reflect, providing a shared understanding that binds us all: humans, non-humans, and the future we shape together. It urges us to recognise our shared humanity, acknowledging that at our core, we all seek connection, safety, and meaning. To find this ground, we must listen to each other’s stories. When we put ourselves in the place of others, we build bridges of empathy. This act of seeing the world through someone else’s perspective is where we begin sowing our common ground with new meaning; it is where we recognize the values and hopes we all hold in common.

But common ground isn’t limited to relationships among humans. It also encompasses our relationship with the land itself — our home, the ground beneath our feet. The earth is not property to own or use at will; it is a living community to which we all belong. When we treat the land with love and respect — we recognise we are caretakers, not owners or occupiers. Our responsibilities stretch across generations, requiring us to think long-term, to repair what has been damaged and to nurture the land, so it can sustain life in all its forms.

This perspective encourages us to see ourselves as part of a greater whole; a web where human life is intertwined with soils, waters, plants and animals. We are called to act with care, understanding that what we do today echoes into the future. We are not separate from the planet; we are a part of it, and our well-being depends on its health. Building on this understanding, we need to cultivate spaces, both physical and social, that embody shared responsibility. These are spaces that invite diverse voices, where collaboration and respect are the guiding principles. Design and community effort become acts of care, sanctuaries for shared life — places where all lives can thrive.

Ground for Hope — Mending by Design

Recognising our interconnectedness also opens a pathway toward hope. The design of the built environment — whether buildings, landscapes, or the spaces in between — requires an interdisciplinary approach that is deeply grounded in place, community and the planet. As we move through a world that is increasingly complex, and fragmented, we begin to see that design can bring people and ideas together, bridge disciplinary divides, and mend what has been broken. This approach towards building “grounds for hope” — emphasises mending by design.

Mending, in this context, involves more than physical repair. It can help repair relationships between people, places and ecosystems, by revealing how seemingly isolated objects or spaces are in fact part of a larger, interconnected web. Through design, we can make visible these relationships, uncover blind spots and expand our collective imagination to envision what else is possible.

Indeed, we don't need to invent these connections anew. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I spent about a year living in a house in the middle of a forest, where I experienced my connection with nature differently and more intimately than I ever had in the city. This profound experience made clear to me that the ground beneath us is alive with energy and wisdom.

It continuously shows us the beauty of creation — like a seed that grows and blooms into a flower, that flower's ovules swelling into fruit. The ground gives rise to intricate shapes and forms, embodying the very act of creation itself. The ground pulses with life. It is our home and our teacher. My hope is that for you, this period of education and training serves as a kind of metaphorical ground. I hope it is a place where you constantly seek beauty, continuing to imagine new life within the forms you design.

Through the diverse projects you’ve undertaken and the ideas you’ve nurtured, I hope you have discovered the beauty of being an active part of this world. Above all, I hope that your time has provided you with a grounding that fosters deep and lasting engagement with design, beauty, knowledge, and justice, and a broader consciousness of your role — not just as brilliant designers, but as thoughtful human beings woven into this incredibly complex web of life. May the knowledge, awareness, and relationships you’ve cultivated here remain with you, much like the interconnectedness of the ground beneath us, forming an enduring bond as each of you moves confidently toward the future.

Bio

Malkit Shoshan is a designer, author, and educator. She is the founding director of the Foundation for Achieving Seamless Territory (FAST), which initiates and develops projects at the intersection of architecture, urban planning and human rights. In her work, she uses spatial design tools to make visible systemic violence, engage with various publics to co-design alternatives that centre social and environmental justice, and advocate for systemic change. Shoshan is a design critic in Urban Planning at Harvard University’s Graduate School of Design, and a visiting scholar at NYU’s Institute for Public Knowledge. Her work has been published and exhibited internationally. In 2021, she was awarded, together with FAST, the Silver Lion at the Venice Architecture Biennale for their collaborative presentation “Border Ecologies and the Gaza Strip.”