Overview:
Following the Supreme Court’s decision allowing the Trump administration to move forward with ending Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Haitians, the Columbus, Ohio, community is already experiencing the effects.
COLUMBUS — One of the busiest gyms on the East Side, a gathering spot in this part of the city where Haitian newcomers live, has fallen unusually quiet.
At around 7 p.m. last Friday, the Haitian Creole conversations that typically echo between workout sets were absent. So were the T-shirts, hats and gym bags emblazoned with blue-and-red Haitian flag designs. No Haitian friends greeting one another across the weight room. Only a handful of machines were occupied.
“I’ve never seen it this quiet outside of snowstorms,” a gym employee said in passing.
A similar silence has settled across other corners of the community in Columbus.
Many Haitian churches, typically filled on Sunday mornings, saw lighter attendance this past weekend. At Daychee Tropical Restaurant and T-Co Islands Restaurant, where lines often stretch to the door as konpa music fills the dining room, tables now sit empty during what is usually the busiest time of day. Haitian-owned businesses along Morse Road, Cleveland Avenue, the Easton area, Whitehall, Northland and Sinclair Road have all reported fewer customers.
“It’s been slow, no customers have come in,” said a cashier at Renise Market Lakay, a Haitian-owned mom-and-pop. “Sales are down. People are in hiding.”
Barthelemy Louis François, a TPS holder, could be considered one of those ‘in hiding,’ so to speak.
“We’re avoiding unnecessary travel, postponing big purchases and waiting for answers that have yet to come,” said François, who ventured out Sunday to meet up with The Haitian Times.
A state years in the making
In the five days after the U.S. Supreme Court cleared the way for the Trump administration to end Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Haitians and Syrians, the state of limbo is already reshaping everyday life. The uncertainty behind the dip in daily movements is blanketing the Haitian community in Columbus and nearby cities like Springfield, Lima and Newark, where a concentration of newcomers relying on TPS have settled.
The fear and uncertainty did not begin with last week’s ruling, however. It has been building up for years.
First, came the false accusations targeting Haitians in Springfield in 2024. Waves of digital harassment, bullying and bomb hoaxes followed. Then, came President Trump’s mass deportation orders, ICE agents marching into cities, orders for Biden-era parolees to leave the U.S., and attempts to revoke TPS, which many asylum seekers rely on to live and work legally, contested detentions, scores of lawsuits and counter lawsuits — and increased misinformation heightened stress throughout it all.
Finally, comes the Supreme Court ruling that has cleared the way for Trump to end TPS.
Each time, people go quiet. The waiting game resumes.
Marijolie Augustin, a native of Haiti’s Artibonite region, says the uncertainty makes it nearly impossible to plan for the future.
“It wasn’t one ruling,” said Augustin. “It was everything leading up to it.”
Decisions that once felt routine, renewing a lease, accepting a new job or making a financial commitment, now come with questions about whether she will even be allowed to remain in the country.
Stevenson Charles, a warehouse worker with a TPS work permit, had just gotten laid off that weekend. Having gotten laid off before when TPS was in the balance earlier this year, he suspects this latest ruling triggered the employer’s decision.
“Things are hard, so I’m just going to stay low until we hear what they say,” said Charles, who lives with relatives. “There’s no way for me to get another job since employers aren’t really hiring.
“People who once gathered at restaurants, churches and community events are staying home,” he said.
David Maturin, a truck driver who moved to Columbus just two years ago, had only begun establishing himself before the legal uncertainty surrounding TPS upended those plans.
“I am stopping sending money to relatives in Haiti and instead save in case I lose my job or legal protections,” said Maturin.
Business brace for a dip
Fear changes spending habits long before it changes immigration status.
Only weeks ago, thousands in the community were celebrating Haitian Flag Day, Haitian Heritage Month and looking ahead to the excitement of Haiti making an appearance in the 2026 FIFA World Cup after 52 years.
Now, community gatherings have been canceled. Interviews are being declined. Restaurants are quieter.
Some employers have long said they worry about losing valued workers. Some have delayed either hiring or expansion plans until they better understand what comes next. Small business owners say appointments have been canceled.
Elected officials and immigrant advocates have also warned that losing thousands of legally employed Haitian workers would ripple through Ohio’s economy — affecting hospitals, manufacturing, logistics, food processing and the small businesses that depend on their labor. Entire neighborhoods that have grown alongside Haitian entrepreneurship could feel the impact.
Saturday afternoon, the warnings appeared to be giving way to reality. Parking lots that are usually full on Saturday afternoons were empty this past weekend. Phones that once rang with catering orders at area restaurants sit silent.
The emotional shift has been swift.
Community organizers say the conversations with clients have changed too. Instead of asking about cultural events or celebrations, people are asking legal questions.
‘Should I keep working?’
‘Should I renew my lease?’
‘What happens to my mortgage?’
‘Can I still travel?’
‘Should I keep sending money to my family in Haiti, or save every dollar here?’
These are no longer hypothetical questions. They are the conversations taking place around dinner tables, in church parking lots and during late-night phone calls. Employers are fielding anxious questions from workers.
Those questions are also reaching community organizations, which say requests for help have shifted from cultural programming to emergency planning.
“We’re encouraging families to prepare now, not because they want to leave, but because uncertainty requires a plan,” said Jacqueline Downey, an attorney in private practice.
“That means gathering birth certificates, school and medical records, reviewing housing leases, and, where appropriate, establishing a power of attorney so a trusted adult can care for children if a parent is unexpectedly detained.”
Downey’s preparedness guide has since been translated into Haitian Creole by Fequiere so it can be distributed more widely throughout the community. Fequiere said volunteers are distributing the preparedness guide alongside food and other emergency supplies.
“We’re encouraging families to organize important documents, identify emergency contacts and use Attorney Downey’s preparedness packet,” Fequiere said. “If parents may have to leave children behind, they need powers of attorney and other legal documents in place.”
Families are quietly updating important documents and discussing contingency plans they never imagined needing.
To reach as many families as possible, the Haitian Support Center is working with Columbus nonprofit Our Helpers to organize food deliveries while volunteers update contact information for more than 100 families the organization has previously assisted.
The organizations are building a roster of families so we can identify who needs assistance, Fequiere said. Then, Our Helpers will deliver food boxes and other essentials like diapers, toiletries and basic household items.
“We want everyone affected by TPS to know they can come to us,” he said. “Most importantly, we want people to know they are not alone. We’ll continue standing up for our community and making sure people know they have someone fighting alongside them.”
Community organizations are also raising money for transportation assistance, including gas cards and bus passes, while urging Haitians with permanent legal status or U.S. citizenship to volunteer.
“We may not have every answer,” he said, “but we can help point people in the right direction and connect them with resources.”
Life continues in Columbus. But beneath those familiar routines, something has shifted.
A restaurant owner wipes down tables that would normally still be occupied. A mother looks through the blinds before opening the front door. A community organizer scrolls through unanswered text messages from people who only weeks earlier were eager to share their stories.
Back inside the local gym on Sunday evening, the music continued to play. The treadmills kept moving. But where conversations in Haitian Creole once echoed across the room, long stretches of silence now fill the space.
For Augustin, that silence says everything.
“Fear is not always noisy,” she said. “You feel the hesitancy in places that were once filled with life. You can see it in what’s missing. We haven’t disappeared. We’re just pulling back. We’re still here, but we can’t live the same way as before.
“Now, we think twice before going out, before spending money, before making plans,” she added. “We haven’t lost our strength. We’re just carrying a very heavy load.”
How long the quiet will last this time, no one knows.
