These in-their-own-words pieces are told to Patricia Lane and co-edited with input from the interviewee for the purpose of brevity.

Melina Ghasem-Asad helps her fellow immigrant students get their hands in Canadian soil so they can explore the relationship their ancestors had to the land. She is a Starfish Canada 2026 Climate75 Fellow.

Tell us about your projects.

I worked at York University’s Maloca Community Gardens, which centres Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge to teach sustainable regenerative organic farming. As president of the student club Many Green Hands, I drew students in with workshops and seminars. I also designed and facilitated a six-week certificate program for urban farmers. I ran programs aimed at encouraging racialized and queer people to explore how a relationship to the soil might increase their own resilience. Now, I continue to work in the garden as part of my masters thesis research exploring racialized, diasporic relationships to the land as practices of memory, resistance and belonging. 

The Indigenous knowledge keepers at the garden shared their teachings and encouraged us to explore our own cultures’ ancient connection to the land. For example, they would offer us tea made from native plants like hyssop and corn silk, while supporting us to be curious about teas from our homelands. I asked my mother and grandmother and learned about the importance of teas made with roses and saffron in my own culture. 

When the Indigenous teacher opened the spring gardening season with the Thanksgiving address, it took a long time because they named everything in the ecosystem from microbes to insects and birds in the skyworld. I was spellbound. Their stories helped me experience how everything is connected. I realized the way we germinate or plant each seed and how we care for the soil has a direct impact on the health of the land. If we care for the land, it can care for us. How did my own ancestors relate to their soil and water and the beings that thrived there? How did they adapt to changes in the environment and the climate? How did they make amends for human error and apply those lessons?

I was inspired to talk with my family about the ways they welcomed the new growing season. I am beginning to understand the symbolism behind the objects we revere at our spring festival Nowruz, like garlic and eggs. I am becoming a knowledge keeper of my own culture. 

Students from all over the world come to the garden. My experience is not unusual. We are on Indigenous land and occupy settler identities. Our parents and grandparents had a relationship to the land which sustained them, but is not valued by the dominant colonial culture. We are in danger of losing those stories and, therefore, much of our capacity for resilience. We must be our culture’s knowledge keepers.

How did you get into this work?

I started university in business school, but it felt empty. Once I found the garden, it showed me all our decisions have an impact and we are called as a species to take responsibility for them. I knew I needed a different path.

There is a lot to unlearn. We have absorbed messages like soil is dirty, bugs are scary, fruit needs to be perfectly shaped, monocultures offer food security. If we are to build resilient communities in the face of climate change, we have to learn these are unhelpful myths. 

It is a challenge to engage my generation. We are busy trying to make rent, get to work on time or find a job and make our parents happy. 

What keeps you awake at night?

The world needs our ancestors’ wisdom. We have so little time to learn it and pass it on. 

Racialized, diasporic communities everywhere are already resilient. We can find people to tell our stories. It is still possible for me to learn why it is important to put saffron in my tea. 

What would you like to say to other young people?

Climate change is a heavy burden. You will grow stronger if you start by learning the stories of how your own ancestors’ connection to the land helped them survive change. If your parents or grandparents tell you their tales are not important, persuade them to the contrary. They will like knowing you want to respect your heritage, and you will draw closer to them. What did they wear and why? What did their dances communicate? How did they mark their holidays and festivals? Embody them yourself. Find your own saffron, and put it in your tea. 

What about older readers?

Tell your stories. Tell the ones that are traumatic, the ones that are tiny, the random lines of wisdom from a poem you remember. Even if the young people in your life disparage them, the seed will be planted. One day, it will help them be more resilient.

© National Observer