Overview:
As TPS for Haitians approaches expiration, Springfield, Ohio confronts the potential loss of thousands of Haitian workers whose labor has fueled the city’s fragile economic recovery. Families, employers and civic leaders warn of far-reaching consequences if deportations accelerate.
This reporting is supported by a grant from The McGraw Center for Business Journalism at the Craig Newmark School of Journalism at the City University of New York and in collaboration with Hub Springfield.
Learn more about the McGraw Center here.
SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — When Marleine* arrived in Springfield in 2023 under the Biden-era humanitarian parole program, with full authorization to work in a state where she had relatives, she was ecstatic to land a job in health care and send money home.
At the nursing home where she worked as a State Tested Nursing Assistant, a trained caregiver, she built a routine of long shifts helping patients out of bed, taking vital, assisting with meals and bathing and responding to call lights for help. The work, which pays about $31,000 annually, was physically exhausting, but the emotional connection with patients made it fulfilling. Being in her early 20s, Marleine started thinking about enrolling in college, buying a home and eventually starting a family — in a city that often felt anything but welcoming.
When hostility toward the town’s 20,000 Haitian immigrants heightened during the 2024 presidential election, with false and inflammatory rumors claiming that Haitians were eating pets, Marleine started feeling a real shift. Harassment became a regular part of her life in Springfield. Strangers stared. People yelled — at the grocery stores and on the streets. Terrified, she moved 45 minutes west to Columbus, hoping to find relief. She was part of a wave that fled Springfield to avoid being harassed further and the deportation Trump had promised. To keep her job, Marleine continued commuting to Springfield for work.
Major employers begin removing Haitian TPS workers as work permits end and programs are canceled, sparking fear and community strain.
In recent months, though, her fear has become a constant, private dread – one made heavier with the announcement of Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Haitians ending Feb. 3. The immigration designation, first granted after Haiti’s devastating 2010 earthquake that killed more than 200,000 people, has been renewed and extended to new groups of Haitians as the country has fallen deeper into crisis, bringing the number covered under TPS to an estimated 320,000. Trump’s administration announced they would end the program, which would render Haitians with that sole status open to deportation. So now, every report of ICE activity around the state on social media or alert by immigrant support organizations sends it spiking.
“Everywhere I go, it’s an issue,” said Marleine, while making fritay at her apartment on a recent Friday afternoon.
Her jaw tightened as she straightened and shrugged faintly, as if pushing the thought away.
“Living like this as a young adult makes it impossible to plan for the future. If they take me, I lose everything.”
So frustrating is her predicament that she sometimes wishes she had stayed in her small, relatively safe town in Haiti. At least there, she would not be so afraid all the time. But, Marleine says, too many people depend on her, both in Haiti and in Ohio, to stop going to work.
All she can do now is take it “one day at a time” — a saying that, for Haitians in Springfield, has become a strategy for survival.
In this image taken from video, participants hold a discussion in a breakout session during a training hosted by Undivided at Central Christian Church in Springfield, Ohio, aimed at teaching community and church leaders how to support and shelter immigrants facing deportation, Tuesday, July 29, 2025. (AP Photo/Obed Lamy)
For the past five years, Haitian workers like Marleine — whom The Haitian Times is identifying using a pseudonym because she fears immigration enforcement — have filled critical labor gaps in and around Springfield. They have stepped into manufacturing, food processing, health care, logistics and service jobs that employers struggled to staff long before Haitian families began settling here. Today, the Haitian population has grown to an estimated 12,000 to 20,000, roughly one-quarter to one-third of Springfield’s 60,000 residents. Some arrived there after living in places like Chile or Brazil for years, and making the trek via land through the Mexico border.
Others, including Marleine, arrived directly through a Biden-era humanitarian parole program that granted visas to Haitians who had a vetted sponsor living in the U.S. Marl mode of entry earned her the nickname “Ti Biden.” As that 2-year program ended, many of its recipients applied and received other immigration status, including TPS.
Despite moments of friction — such as the uproar caused when a Haitian driver crashed into a school bus, killing a child, and the false xenophobic claims that thrust them into the national spotlight in immigration debates — residents and officials alike stood up for the Haitian newcomers. In 2026, however, with the TPS deadline looming, a mix of fear, uncertainty and frustration has gripped Haitian families. This time, the city is at a loss to help. On its way back from decades of economic decline, some residents fear the immigration policy changes triggered by President Donald Trump’s mass deportation executive order could yank Springfield backward too if people like Marleine are removed.
“If we were suddenly forced to leave, it would be a devastating crisis,” Marleine said. “For the employer, yes but also for the people who depend on the care we provide. The workplace would never be the same without us.”
Local residents fear that if the administration targets Springfield with enforcement actions the way it has other cities, the economy could falter in the weeks after early February. The hum of factory floors, the steady rhythm of hospital shifts, the bustle inside warehouses and small businesses could all stall — if not shut down for good.
City Council member Lourdes Barroso de Padilla said ending TPS could be like removing a quarter of the population overnight.
“If you’re a Marvel fan, think of ‘the blip,’” Barroso de Padilla said during a recent panel about Haitian immigrants in Ohio. “People are just disappearing. Except this is real life.”
Widespread destabilization feared
Local employers say the impact would extend far beyond individual families.
“If that workforce goes away, we don’t just lose employees, we lose stability,” said one manufacturing company manager who employs about 50 Haitian workers. “Production slows, overtime costs go up, and suddenly expansion plans don’t make sense anymore.”
Small business owners echo the concern. A downtown Springfield business owner said Haitian workers helped stabilize staffing during a period when the city was finally seeing signs of momentum.
“More customers, more foot traffic, more consistency,” the owner said. “If hundreds or thousands of people leave, that momentum doesn’t pause. It goes backwards.”
Both the business owner and manufacturing company manager asked that their names and the names of their businesses not be used for fear of drawing attention from ICE.
Haitian residents are not only workers, but consumers supporting grocery stores, restaurants, landlords and neighborhood businesses. In the face of deportation threats, community leaders have said most Haitians are limiting their time outside their home, cutting spending to necessities and leaving Springfield — or the U.S. entirely. High profile news of ICE killings and detentions further adds to the fear.
Marleine, who earns $15 per hour, said fear is already curbing her spending as uncertainty reigns. She has sought guidance from city officials, but no formal safety net exists — leaving Haitians to rely on each other.
“People are only buying necessities now,” she said. “Nobody knows what’s coming.”
Throughout it all, the fear Marleine began feeling last year has become the background noise of her life. She learned the driving routes that felt safest, the stores where people stared less, the hours when she could move unnoticed. But the tighter she tried to manage her life, the more it seemed defined by forces she couldn’t control, deadlines, rumors, policies and posts online.
Some days, she said, “I feel so worn down, I think it might be easier to be sent back than to keep living in suspense.”
‘Holding each other up’
Sophia Pierrelus, an entrepreneur and local activist, said the scale of what is at stake is “staggering”. After all, an estimated 30,000 Haitians overall live in central Ohio, including those in Springfield, according to the Columbus Dispatch.
“If TPS work authorization expires, the consequences will be immediate,” Pierrelus said during a recent panel.
Titled “Columbus Metropolitan Club live forum on Haitian immigrants and the future of immigration” at the National Veterans Memorial and Museum recently, Pierrelus stressed that Haitians with TPS are not temporary outsiders, but Ohioans. People who have lived in the state for more than a decade, not just Springfield, who pay taxes, own homes, work in critical sectors and are raising U.S.-born children. Ending TPS, she warned, would ripple outward, destabilizing housing markets, schools, employers and municipal budgets.
Springfield leaders warn of rising risks for Haitian families as deportation fears turn into realities with the federal government’s official termination of Haitian TPS.
On Jan. 27, Gov. Mike DeWine echoed similar concerns during a press conference where he said he expected ICE enforcement to begin Feb. 3. He warned that the end of TPS could destabilize the region, creating a strain on children’s services if parents are detained, damage the local economy and put families at risk if they are forced to return to Haiti.
“I think it’s a mistake to tell these individuals you can no longer work and have to leave the country,” DeWine said.
Pierrelus reiterated in her panel that coming to the U.S. was the ultimate plan for many Haitians.
“I’ve spoken with families who ask, ‘Where am I supposed to go,’” Pierrelus said. “[They] were offered parole. They were given TPS. And now they’re being told it may all disappear.”
To cope while waiting for what’s next, Haitians in Springfield and their allies have built informal systems of protection: ICE watch networks, whistle alerts — three short whistles indicate ICE has been spotted, three long whistles signal a detention — food stockpiles, emergency housing and passport preparation help for the U.S.-born children of immigrants.
In December, desperate for information about her options, Marleine attended a City Hall meeting. The event highlighted how ill-equipped the town may be in the face of ICE enforcement at area schools or workplaces. Disappointed, Marleine turned to the channels that Haitians in Ohio rely on most: word-of-mouth updates from community leaders, posts in Haitian Facebook groups and advice passed through group chats — useful and comforting at times, but often incomplete.
And then she goes back to work anyway, because too many people are counting on her.
“We Haitians are dependable, fast learners, strong multitaskers and often multilingual,” Marleine says. “Everyone is on edge, but continue to hold each other up.”
Neighbors and allies of Haitians likely to be affected have also spoken out publicly via social media, rallies and community forums. On Jan. 10, about 150 protesters gathered outside Springfield City Hall for a midday demonstration organized by Indivisible Springfield, a local group of progressives. Between chants of ‘Abolish ICE’ and ‘No hate, no fear,’ demonstrators denounced ICE raids in neighborhoods, detentions and arrests, and family separations.
“These are our coworkers and neighbors,” said Nicole, a 36-year-old Springfield native who asked only to use her first name. “If they’re forced out, it affects all of us.”
Two days later, the atmosphere was quieter but no less heavy inside Central Christian Church, one of the most outspoken supporters of Haitians in Springfield. Music, dance and poetry filled the sanctuary during a Haitian Heritage and Independence Day celebration. Amid homages to Haitian resilience and history, uncertainty hung in the air.
Vilès Dorsainvil, executive director of the Haitian Support Center, served as the event’s master of ceremonies. He and the church’s leader, Pastor Carl Ruby, have said preparations include emergency food distribution, monitoring ICE activity, family separation planning and using the sanctuary as a place of refuge.
“This celebration is about dignity,” Dorsainvil said that day.
“But,” he noted, “people are also wondering whether they’ll still be here in a few weeks.”
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