SAN DIEGO — A slight breeze carried the scents of onion, cilantro and mint through the roadside garden.

At plot No. 17, Bob Ou picked up a well-worn can and watered rows of radishes and Asian lettuce. At plot No. 33, Bilali Muya crouched down to pull weeds from beds of carrots and sweet chard. He spotted a bright red tomato in a nearby plant, grabbed it and took a bite.

"Your tomatoes are so huge," Ou said, warning that he might steal one.

Muya laughed as he licked the juice off his fingers. "Don't touch my tomatoes, buddy!"

The two men, who have come from different war-torn corners of the world to this piece of land, call each other brothers. Strangers when the land was still just dirt, Ou and Muya grew close as they fought for permission to open the community garden and help turn the barren soil into a thriving farm. The New Roots Community Garden opened last year and has become a haven for more than 80 immigrant and refugee farmers who now have a source of food and a connection to their homelands, their new country and one another.

The story of the friendship between Ou and Muya is like the garden itself — slow to start, but once the seeds were planted, it was as if it had always been there.

The garden was borne out of conversations between a group of Somali Bantus and a refugee aid group, International Rescue Committee.

The refugees wanted to grow their own food, and the nonprofit staff, seeing high blood pressure and cholesterol among many refugees, wanted a way to encourage healthier eating and help clients set down roots in urban San Diego.

In 2006, the agency's staff identified a location for the garden — a 2.3-acre vacant lot in the City Heights neighborhood. The land was own- ed by the city, so a lease and permit had to be obtained, a process that would stretch out for more than two years.

During that time, Ou, from Cambodia, and Muya, from Somalia, raised funds, met with city officials and organized their communities. When they first saw each other at a meeting, Ou said he was curious about Muya but felt nervous about talking to him. Muya said he, too, was reluctant to get to know Ou but admired him for speaking up on behalf of his community.

Last spring, the nonprofit finally got access to the land. At the garden, Ou and Muya finally introduced themselves. Working side by side, the men helped build a fence and lay irrigation pipes.

And they began to talk: about the violence in their homelands and the poverty of refugee camps, about life in America and raising a family in a foreign place.

"Each day we talked we got a little closer," Ou said.

Muya added, "And the trust grew."

Ou, 43, escaped the Khmer Rouge in 1979 after his aunt and uncle were killed. He and his parents fled to Thailand, where they lived in a refugee camp, and in 1985, the family left for the Philippines and then the U.S.

"It was like surviving death," he said.

Soon after arriving in Louisiana, he joined the Navy and was transferred to San Diego. Ou fell in love with the area and stayed, getting a job as a machine shop operator. He began a family and now has two sons.

Muya, born without a birth certificate, does not know his age. As a member of the ethnic minority, he faced persecution from the dominant Somalis. Finally, he fled, walking for days before arriving in Kenya in 1992.

"I had to find somewhere with security, peace, food and shelter," he said. He spent time in refugee camps and on the streets in Nairobi before coming to the U.S. in 2003. He works part-time for the International Rescue Committee, is married and has four children.

In June, Ou and Muya both dug shovels into the ground, tilled the soil and planted their first seeds. Cooperation was critical. At the beginning, there were only two hoses. Muya said he was worried that there would be conflict among different ethnic groups. But with broken English, makeshift sign language and cooperation, the farmers made it work.

"Seeing these people integrating is amazing," said Mu- ya. "We all started to share like brothers and sisters."