Giacomo Sini
Mohamed Ayash, a Palestinian migrant from Gaza who lives in Mytilini, fixes a wire in the garden house at the community garden.
Editor’s note: the full names of multiple migrant workers and asylum seekers who spoke to The Progressive for this story have been withheld due to safety and privacy concerns related to their immigration status.
The yellow zucchini flowers sprout here and there among the green leaves, like hands reaching out towards the sun. One more loop of string, then a tight knot. “The tomatoes are almost ripe; we need to make the structure more stable,” explains Mohamed Ayash, a twenty-eight-year-old Palestinian man from the town of Az Zawaida in Gaza, as he ties together the stakes supporting his tomato plants.
We are at the Paréa Community Center on the island of Lesbos in Greece. The center is run by the nonprofit Europe Cares as a hub for collaboration between various organizations and projects. Among these is a community garden, for which Mohamed serves as coordinator. This patch of greenery—nestled within a landscape dotted with olive trees on the surrounding hills—is not only an oasis of coolness in the summer heat, but also an experiment in solidarity in one of the most violent locations along Europe’s borders.
Giacomo Sini
Mohamed Ayash, a Palestinian migrant from Gaza who lives in Mytilini, walks toward the community garden he manages at Paréa, a community center for migrants on the island of Lesbos, Greece.
From here, you can see the sea being patrolled every night by the Greek coastguard as they hunt down migrants from Turkey attempting to reach Europe’s shores without valid documents. These illegal pushbacks and interceptions carried out by the Greek coast guard have reduced arrivals to the North Aegean islands, shifting most of the routes from Turkey toward Crete. Between the sea and the road frequently used by Frontex vehicles stands a Closed Control Access Centre (CCAC), where asylum seekers live while awaiting the outcome of their applications. The camp is a sprawl of white tents and prefabricated units, enclosed by a high fence topped with barbed wire.
Giacomo Sini
Graffiti on the seaside road connecting Kara Tepe/ Mavrovouni—where the only existing Closed Access Controlled Center (CCAC) for asylum seekers operates—to the city of Mytilini.
Under the olive trees, all you can hear is the song of the cicadas and the whistling of the wind, which never stops blowing on the island. Mohamed is so tall he has to lower his head to sit under the branches of the trees. “I arrived here on July 17, 2023,” he says. “I came to Paréa and saw the community garden. I was interested because back home with my father, we used to grow things too—we had olive trees.”
He recalls seeing workers in the garden attending to the land differently than he was accustomed to. “Some things seemed wrong to me,” he admits with a smile. “So I asked if I could lend a hand. They were happy to have me, so we started trimming the olive trees.” After being granted asylum in October 2023, Mohamed went to live in Athens, where he worked in construction. But he decided to return to the island in 2025. “I grew up in a village; that city was too much for me,” he says. “And besides, the sea’s too far away! They offered me the chance to run the community garden, and I accepted.”
Giacomo Sini
Mohamed tends to the tomato plants in the garden.
Bent over in the sun, a man in his forties is picking purslane amongst the cucumbers as Mohamed adjusts the drip irrigation system. “Yussef, what do you call it in Syria?” Mohamed asks, referring to the purslane.
“Bakleh! It’s good for salads,” replies Yussef as he shows Mohamed what he has picked. “Why? What do you call it in Palestine?”
“Rijla!” Mohamed replies. Then he points to the tomato bed with a smile. “Come! There’s some here too.”
“The vegetable garden looks almost empty now,” explains Mohamed as he carries on working. “There are just over 200 people at the CCAC. When there were thousands of people here, many would come to help out, pick some vegetables, or just relax.” Some, he says, would come for a shared breakfast, bringing boiled eggs to go with the tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden, while others would ask for a plant to transplant at the CCAC. “I often used to arrange flower displays for events hosted by other organizations, or organize workshops,” he says.
There’s no shortage of people wanting to lend a hand, Mohamed points out: “Regardless of which country they come from, you always find someone with some experience of growing crops.”
Giacomo Sini
Rosa, a Paréa’s volunteer, joins Mohamed in taking care of the community garden.
With a weeding hoe, Ali is removing the weeds growing around the zucchini plants. “I arrived two months ago,” he says. “Back home in Syria, I used to work in a vegetable garden, planting tomatoes and other crops, just like here.” He left the CCAC in June 2026, and has since gone to live in nearby Mytilene.
Ali says the CCAC is full of cockroaches and rats. “Those aren’t the sort of conditions people should have to live in,” he says, “but this [is] the only way to get asylum.” He still visits the garden almost every day. “It’s a lovely place, especially for learning and sharing experiences on how to look after plants.”
In recent months, asylum seekers and NGOs that support them have faced a great deal of uncertainty as the European Union’s new Pact on Migration and Asylum, which has imposed significant new rules and restrictions on those seeking asylum, has come into force. In June 2026, Greece’s Ministry of Migration and Asylum completed a new CCAC camp in Vastria in northeastern Lesbos after years of anticipation by the Greek government. But Joakim O’Ryan, communications coordinator at Paréa, says the new CCAC cannot open yet because it lacks a water connection and paved access road.
Giacomo Sini
Rosa, a volunteer at Paréa, with a young resident of the Kara Tepe Center on the island of Lesbos.
This new facility, O’Ryan says, would be “completely isolated in the center of the island,” roughly a forty-five minute drive from the city, and face increased wildfire risk as a result of being in the middle of a forest. Such a remote location would also effectively make the Paréa Community Center, as well as many other solidarity projects based on the island, inaccessible to people on the move.
According to a statement issued last April and signed by Europe Cares and other NGOs and lawyers’s associations, the opening of Vastria would be “a direct threat to fundamental human rights” and fall short of the procedures set by the EU Pact on Migration and Asylum. It is not yet clear how procedures will change in practice under the agreement, which outlines strict new surveillance and screening mandates. In any case, “this is a set of rules that will intensify repression against migrants and solidarity initiatives in a political context in which the European Union is shifting further and further to the right,” explains Tatiana Svorou, advocacy and communication coordinator of Lesbos Solidarity, an organization that has been active in solidarity work on the island for years.
Giacomo Sini
Mohamed plays basketball with a young visitor at Paréa.
At the far end of the garden is a small, colorful greenhouse made from reclaimed wood. Inside, it’s a whole world of its own: tools neatly arranged along the wall, a workbench, stacks of pots for seedbeds, and containers full of seeds, plants, and potting soil. The walls are covered with paintings by those who have come to the island seeking refuge. Mohamed says Paréa runs workshops with Terra Psy, an organization that provides psychological support to displaced individuals and communities. “Even simple activities like planting a seed, watching it sprout, looking after the plant and transplanting it into the ground can help heal the pain,” he says. “There are people who have now been granted asylum, live far away, and write to me to find out if the plants have grown and if they’re bearing fruits.”
“This space plays an important role in our work,” explains Thomas, a coordinator at Terra Psy, an organization that has been active on the island since 2023 to make psychosocial support accessible to everyone. “People who arrive feel a mixture of excitement, anxiety, and distress . . . . We help to stabilize the people who come here and who have so little scope to focus and seek help.”
The collaboration with the community garden began just over a year ago. Some programs have been particularly successful. “We supported a young girl who was in a very complex situation, suffering from depression, and had stopped going to school,” Thomas says. “It was difficult for her to engage in any kind of activity.” Terra Psy brought her in the garden, showed her the space, and helped her to get involved in gardening. “She wasn’t very keen at first, but then she came along,” he says. “It was March, at the start of the season. And together with a volunteer, they planted various things.”
Dario Antonelli
Community members gather at the World Refugee Day party at Paréa.
Little by little, the girl began to ask questions and see the progress she was making. “Mohamed was really patient with her too, showing her how to do it,” he says. “She really enjoyed it, and every time she came back, we’d water the plants.”
Today, June 20, is a special day: At Paréa, World Refugee Day is celebrated with workshops, games, music, and dancing. A child has a serious look on her face as she plays the flute, sounding the same note over and over to the beat of the percussion. Around her, a guitar, followed by bongos, a darbuka, and a shekere, all join in an improvised jam session; people begin clapping their hands and dancing.
Giacomo Sini
The music party during The World Refugee Day party at Paréa.
After a communal lunch, the microphone is brought out and everyone gathers in the shade to listen to the speeches. A young volunteer living at the CCAC steps forward to speak. “As refugees, we did not tear ourselves away from our roots by choice,” says Omar, who is in his early twenties and came from Yemen. “We were thrown into this fate against our will. Amid the raging waves, I found myself face to face with death,” he continues. “I was paralyzed by terror, completely helpless, drowning in utter fear.”
Silence has fallen over Paréa’s main courtyard, and all attention is focused on Omar and his words. His message is clear: “We are not asking for pity; we are asking this world to listen to us . . . to look beyond the word ‘refugee.’ Look at our humanity, our grand dreams shattered on the rocks, and the heavy, weary hearts we carry within us.”
Still, he remains hopeful for the future. “Our presence here today with this community shows that, amid all this suffering and pain, there is a hope that refuses to die,” Omar says. “Our togetherness and bond are what heal our wounds, and we are here to tell the whole world that we may be broken and oppressed by pain, but our courage and will to live can never, ever be broken.”