Hello friends🤗.Fence of offence can be read in many ways. On the surface it suggests a barrier built not to keep something out, but to keep something in—an aggressive line that warns others not to trink. In politics it can describe a defensive posture that quickly turns hostile; in personal relationships it may refer to the walls we erect to protect ourselves, only to find that they also keep love at arm’s length. The idea is simple yet rich: a fence, usually a neutral structure, becomes a weapon when it is meant to offend, to intimidate, or to assert dominance.
When I feel threatened—whether by physical danger, social rejection, or an abstract fear of loss— I often raise metaphorical fences. These fences can be habits (silence, sarcasm), rituals (avoiding certain topics), or even physical spaces (a locked door). The “offence” part appears when the fence is not just a shield but a signal: “Do not cross, or you will be hurt.”
By appearing offensive, I hope to deter potential attacks before they happen. The downside is that the fence also blocks positive interaction. The very act of building a wall can create the very hostility it was meant to prevent, becaus I react to perceived aggression with my own defenses.
Fences in the Public Sphere In the political arena, a “fence of offence” often takes the shape of inflammatory rhetoric, sanctions, or military posturing. A nation may erect trade barriers or deploy troops along a border, not only to protect its interests but also to send a message that any incursion will be met with force. The short‑term gain is deterrence; the long‑term cost is increased tension and the risk of escalation.
A single provocative tweet can become a digital fence, dividing followers into camps and making dialogue almost impossible. The original intent may have been to highlight an injustice, yet the fence quickly becomes a barrier that prevents constructive conversation. When the Fence Break.
About fences of offence .A breach can lead to reconciliation, but it can also unleash the very violence the fence was meant to contain. Understanding this duality helps us see why the metaphor resonates across cultures: we all build fences, and we all yearn for a gate that opens.
In the low hills of a small farming village, an old stone wall ran along the edge of the fields. The wall had been built generations ago to keep the wandering goats from eating the crops. Over time, the villagers added thorny bushes along the top, turning the simple barrier into a prickly hedge. They called it the Fence of Offence because anyone who tried to climb it would be met with sharp thorns and angry shouts from the watchmen.
For years the hedge served its purpose. The crops flourished, and the villagers slept soundly, believing they were safe from the raids that occasionally plagued neighboring settlements. Yet, the hedge also kept the village isolated. Traders hesitated to approach, fearing injury, and the younger generation grew up never seeing beyond the thorns.
One summer, a drought withered the fields, and the villagers found themselves facing starvation. The council, desperate, decided to send a small delegation to the distant market town to barter for grain. They chose Mara, a young woman known for her calm demeanor and her skill with herbs, to lead the group. Before they left, the elders warned her, “Do not cross the Fence of Offence. The thorns are not just plants; they are the pride of our people.”
Mara nodded, but as she approached the hedge, she noticed something unusual: a narrow gap where a rabbit had burrowed beneath the roots. The opening was just wide enough for a child to slip through, but too small for an adult. She remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell—how the hedge was originally a simple stone wall, built to protect, not to punish.
She called the group together and said, “We have built this fence to keep danger out, but it also keeps hope in. If we cannot pass, we will never receive the help we need.” With careful hands, she and the others widened the gap, removing a few thorny branches and laying down flat stones to create a modest gate.
When they finally reached the market town, the traders were startled to see the villagers arrive with a humble gate rather than a threatening barrier. Instead of demanding grain, Mara offered the town’s healers a bundle of rare herbs she had collected from the hills. The traders, moved by the village’s humility, shared not only grain but also seeds for drought‑resistant crops.
The villagers returned to a changed landscape. The Fence of Offence was no longer a wall of thorns but a low stone wall with an open gate—a symbol that protection does not have to be hostile. Over the following seasons, the village prospered, and the hedge grew back, but this time the thorns were trimmed, and the gate remained open for anyone who came in peace.
The story of the village illustrates the core truth behind the “fence of offence”: a barrier built out of fear may provide temporary safety, but it also erects walls that isolate and limit growth. When the community chose to lower the fence, they invited risk, but they also opened the door to collaboration and renewal.
In my own life whether I am navigating personal relationships, workplace dynamics, or global politics, the lesson is the same. Recognizing when a fence has become a weapon rather than a shield allows me to create gates—spaces of dialogue, empathy, and mutual benefit. The challenge lies in having the courage to step through those gaps, just as Mara did, and to tend the garden on the other side.
Thanks for reading through my blog🤗😘🙏🏼