Overview:
When a federal judge extended Temporary Protected Status for Haitians, panic eased in Springfield and Columbus. But the months of uncertainty had already altered daily life. Though deportation fears subsided, economic instability and social caution remain. This story examines how legal limbo reshaped autonomy, identity and community strategy and why time is not the same as security.
SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — Over a plate of griyo (deep fried pork) and rice at a local Haitian restaurant, J.P., who has lived in Springfield for four years, spoke about a close friend, N.P.C. Once steadily employed, he said, she now cooks meals from her home to make ends meet because her immigration status remains in flux. She no longer feels safe taking on work with a company, worried that any misstep or scrutiny there could jeopardize her stability.
“She used to dream bigger,” said J.P., while sitting at Rose Goute Creole Restaurant. “Now she just wants to stay under the radar.”
Jasmine Canty, a volunteer at a local church, said attendance at community meetings has dropped sharply in recent months, with many families avoiding public gatherings. Parents hesitated to enroll in programs. Even after a federal judge paused the termination of Temporary Protected Status (TPS), those cautious habits persisted.
“It’s like people learned to make themselves smaller,” Canty, who is African American, said.
D.S., a 27-year-old truck driver in Columbus, said he wanted to accept a promotion at the major national distribution company where he works. But the process required additional immigration documentation and greater visibility. So he declined.
“I didn’t want attention,” D.S., a Columbus resident, admitted. “Even good attention felt risky.”
Similar stories are unfolding among Haitian families across central Ohio, not just in Springfield, as many describe a more constrained way of life over the past year. The Haitian Times is withholding the names of those interviewed, as well as details about their jobs and community affiliations, to reduce the risk of retribution as the Department of Homeland Security expands immigrant detention efforts nationwide.
Despite the legal relief that came for Haitians with TPS holders earlier this month, Haitians in Springfield and Columbus describe a quiet shift that could be mistaken for calm. However, legal uncertainty, cultural misrepresentations and physical threats have reshaped the Haitian community’s daily life. In Springfield, which became a flashpoint in the national immigration debate as President Donald Trump returned to the White House, anxiety over TPS has pushed many families to recalibrate how they navigate daily life.
While church parking lots are emptier, conversations in community spaces more cautious and cultural celebrations muted, the shift has also underscored a growing need for Haitians to organize and advocate for themselves. That work ranges from pursuing legal challenges and advocating for local driving policies to assisting asylum seekers with applications and helping families struggling to meet basic needs such as food and shelter.
In the week after a federal judge paused the termination of TPS, interactions with the community brought to light the many ways prolonged anxiety reshaped everyday life for Haitian immigrants.
Such subtle shifts reflect more than temporary disruption; they signal emerging collective strategies for navigating life under a banner of uncertainty.
Adapting anew, with dignity intact
Yet the Haitian community remains dynamic. Adaptation itself has become a survival strategy.
Across both cities, residents are building informal support systems:
- Carpool networks and rides coordinated through churches help once-independent drivers get around.
- Churches are transforming celebration spaces into behind-the-scenes support hubs.
- Legal workshops and renewal clinics have become sites of empowerment, not just remediation.
Daniel, a 50-year-old automotive production worker who declined to share his last name after being targeted, has witnessed this shift firsthand. In between long shifts stocking parts for trucks and machinery, he makes calls, shares information and encourages fellow Haitians in Springfield to stay connected.
Though his own job remains steady, he describes the emotional toll on others, anxiety, hesitation, and spiritual fatigue, especially among friends whose permanent residency cases have stalled alongside the TPS pause. His response is not withdrawal but encouragement. Church, for him, has become less a place of celebration and more a space for coordination and reassurance.
“We are all in this together,” he said, urging community members to remain informed and supportive.
“The judge’s order provided time. Time, however, is not the same as security.”
Such support is how M.S., a Haitian mother in Springfield, was able to get help when their school called her to come pick up her two children after a bomb threat was reported. At that moment, immigration status, work schedules, even legal victories felt irrelevant. With a driver’s license recently invalidated because of her temporary status, she turned to a neighbor for a ride to the school.
“I had to get to my kids,” she said, describing how fear overtook everything else.
She expressed gratitude to her neighbors for helping her reunite with them and thanked the support center for bringing her food during such a frightening time.
“But my neighbors showed up. They didn’t ask questions; they just helped,” she said. “It felt like a sign that people are looking out for us.”
Mutual aid up, political stakes next?
These coping mechanisms resemble informal organizing structures. By fielding calls for help and coordinating responses, community members are quietly strengthening resilience — and potentially laying the foundation for collective civic action.
The recalculations may very well be seeds of a deeper agenda. As Charles Tilly and Sidney Tarrow explain in their study of contentious politics, episodes of open confrontation are often followed by phases of demobilization and organizational consolidation, then re-emerge in new forms.
Haitian Support Center staff and volunteers prepare to deliver food to Haitian families around Springfield on Sunday, February 15, 2026. The local non-profit also provides free rides to those unable to drive because their licenses have gone invalid due to their immigration status. Photo by Wedly Cazy for The Haitian Times
One example of that shift is the community’s donations to the Haitian Support Center. Thanks to contributions from local residents, businesses and community partners, the nonprofit distributed groceries to 200 families in just two days after the hoax bomb threats.
During one of the delivery runs, which The Haitian Times accompanied, Vilès Dorsainvil, the center’s co-founder and executive director, said demand remains high. He said the center has spent between $5,000 and $7,000 to purchase additional food to supplement donated items so families aren’t left hungry. The nonprofit also relies on volunteers to sort, pack, and distribute bags of groceries filled with staples such as pasta, instant mashed potatoes, cereal, oatmeal and rice, as well as pantry basics like cooking oil, sugar and flour.
Other operational expenses, such as truck rental or fuel, storage costs, staff time, stipends and packing materials, all add to the overall financial impact of the effort. Still, to the center’s leaders, the community’s overall response in terms of financial and food donations is telling.
“This kind of response shows how much our community cares,” said Rose-Thamar Joseph, co-founder and operations director of the center. “We’re committed to continuing as long as families need us. We just hope the support continues so we can keep our doors open and our shelves stocked.”
Views of patrons waiting in line or dining-in after church inside Rose Goute Creole Restaurant in Springfield, Ohio on Sunday, February 15, 2026. While fear of being immigration detention has gripped many in the Haitian community, some say they take the risk of being out and about with faith in God as their guide. Photo by Andy Grimm for The Haitian Times
Another sign of change is a renewed sense of pride, despite the attacks on Haitian dignity. In the middle of Black History Month, Mariam, a Haitian student at a Columbus City high school, said she noticed that Haiti was missing from the decorations, activities and historical displays.
“I felt that my history was not being acknowledged or advocated for,” Mariam said, “especially at a time when Haitians living in the United States are facing heightened challenges under the current administration.”
She said some Haitian students have begun avoiding identifying themselves as Haitian or even denying their heritage out of fear of bullying, discrimination, or being treated differently. In places like Springfield, Haitians have faced false accusations and harmful stereotypes, including being labeled as “illegals” or targeted with degrading rumors. Those experiences have left many students feeling unsafe and unseen.
Advocating for Haiti’s inclusion was about more than representation; it was about awareness and dignity.
After several conversations and meetings with school leadership, the students secured Haiti’s inclusion in the school’s Black History Month recognition and celebrations.
“I wanted others to understand Haiti’s history, a nation that fought for its freedom and paid a significant price for it,” Mariam said.
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