Fear is spreading under Trump, but so is Haitian determination.

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio —  Everything seemed normal, yet somehow tense. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Families went to church. Lyft drivers picked up passengers. Professionals seeking certifications studied quietly in the library. Newcomers seeking jobs found English speakers to help them complete applications online. Community advocates promoted “Know Your Rights” seminars, warning people not to fall for immigration enforcement officials’ tricks. 

Beneath the daily routines, a mix of emotions coursed through the community over inauguration weekend this past January. Then, just after 12:30 p.m. on that Monday, the show dropped. President Donald Trump announced he’d begin mass deportations, sending many Haitians in Springfield and across the United States into a panic. 

Trump’s political comeback is stirring more than just policy concerns, however. It’s reigniting a sense of determination, even defiance at times, familiar to Haitians, who see this latest political storm not as a new threat but as yet another chapter in Haitians’ long history of facing xenophobia, racism and psychological trauma. 

Rather than succumbing to panic, some Haitians are finding creative ways to adapt — leaning on history, their networks, and an unshakable determination to keep moving forward.

“It’s all just politics playing out,” said Nicaisse Debras, a Lyft driver and Springfield resident since 2018. “People speak well of us here. I’ve personally never had any issues here. “If someone leaves, that’s their choice. But I can tell you that there’s nowhere you can go that they [immigration] won’t find you if they really want to.”

Day-to-day survival kicks in, again

Fear and anxiety, ebbing and flowing while maintaining determination and resignation, is an emotional balancing act familiar to many Haitian immigrants. For generations, survival has meant being alert but not necessarily mobilizing, with the dominant emotion of reziye w—or “go with it”—prevailing to get through each day.

For some, that might come across as keeping their heads down to work and survive. Others are vocal, invoking past triumphs and legendary scenarios we lived through.

“A lot of Haitian people tend to ground their trauma in history,” said Dr. Evan Auguste, a clinical psychologist who specializes in Black liberation psychology. “[You hear] that in the narrative… That it’s not the first time, it’s not going to be the last time, that we still endure. That feeling of agency, that we can’t be crushed, is what allows people to maintain their day-to-day life.

“The problem with that [attitude],” he explains, “where it becomes risky sometimes, is when the agency leads people to either dissociate or to black out, what’s going on around them and why it’s happening to them. That leads people to, at times, reproduce some harmful behaviors within the community.” 

In recent weeks, chatter of risky survival strategies has grown in some circles, including, marrying for papers, fleeing to Canada or returning to Brazil. Tales of a few returning to Haiti have also surfaced, though the actual numbers, voluntary or forced, remain unclear. 

Thousands of people now see uncertainty where there was once a semi-clear road from humanitarian parole and Temporary Protected Status (TPS) toward permanent residency and U.S. citizenship. Now, even green card holders feel menaced by the threats of deportation. Many newcomer Haitians — understanding that their legal status may be revoked— are looking at options since Haiti is no one’s top choice.

Pitimi san gadò, an unprotected people 

In 2023, Haiti had more killings than Ukraine had civilian deaths while at war. This year, Haiti’s capital is facing imminent collapse. Violence in Port-au-Prince has intensified as gangs seize control of the city, neighborhood by neighborhood, with areas once considered “safe” falling as the crisis deepens. 

“The sense [that] the city is on the edge of totally falling into the hands of the gangs is really strong,” said William O’Neill, a UN human-rights expert who visited Port-au-Prince earlier this month, in an interview with The Guardian. “This is really dramatic. I can’t overstate it. It’s incredibly urgent and frightening…pretty much the last safe areas in the capital [are areas around Pétionville].”

Meanwhile, the Trump administration has been running ads telling people to “self-deport.” The directive raises questions about where exactly Haitians rendered undocumented would even go. Some have vowed to wait for the administration to expel them by force.

Back in Springfield on Jan. 20, a local man who only gave one name, Balthazar, said he would actually enjoy being back in Haiti if he were to be deported. But criminal groups running unchecked might maim or kill returning diaspora like him.

“We’d find a way to survive, no matter what,” he said, while chatting with pals at a local business, Creation Market. “We would figure out a way to defend ourselves against the bandits.

“All we ask for is a little security,” he added.

A ‘little security’ is a huge ask. One that now entails the shaky, United Nations-approved Kenya-led mission that has yet to deliver protection against the criminal groups in control of the capital, the seat of government. The gangs’ dominance now presents a conundrum for too many Haitians abroad: Being in a place that doesn’t want them, while being unable to return home. 

Lament over this lack of protection and advocacy for Haitians — in Haiti, in the U.S. and places in between — is all too common. ‘Nou tankou pitimi san gadò’ is a Creole saying heard in many places whenever anti-Haitian or anti-immigrant policy comes up — in group conversations at restaurants, academic forums, radio shows. It basically means, ‘No one has our back.’ 

Some describe it as a sense of statelessness, where they’re made to feel like they don’t belong in either country. Others see it in a technical, political sense, with no government or state apparatus watching over us or protecting our interests.

To that, Auguste shares a personal view circulating in many pockets of the community since Trump’s election.

“We’re really reaching a point, for a particular generation of Haitian people, where we have to be clear,” Auguste said. “The ideas of uplift, representation, of achieving excellence, allowing for Haitian people to be better treated – it’s not grounded in a political reality.”

Creativity in force

What then is or should Haitian immigrants’ protection and preservation be grounded in? The view that it’s up to Haitians to save Haitians – whether in America or Haiti — resonates often. The how isn’t articulated nearly as much. There are clues pointing to potential paths in the undeniable expressions of Haitians living their lives, regardless of the threats looming.

Throughout the disinformation-fueled turmoil, a parallel, consistent thread is the flood of content filling up spaces — online and in physical interactions.

On TikTok, for example, creators, everyday people and experts from all professions are blowing up #haitiantok. They’re sharing information and entertaining each other through music, dance, cooking and sharing history. For better or worse, lawyers and multi-service providers are counseling those who are panicking, Vodou priestesses are lighting candles on live streams. Joudalis, Haitian news content creators, are having a field day with the likes of Michel Martelly — ridiculing him and other similar politicians for allegedly choosing to line their pockets over making progress for all Haiti. 

In brick-and-mortar communities like Springfield, that creativity comes through in the many tableaux, film documentaries, visual essays, and art exhibits underway by Haitians and non-Haitians alike. It comes through in the Haitian Independence Day celebration that non-Haitians were still raving about weeks later, in the basketball pickup games between Haitian, African American, and white residents to foster understanding. 

The hastily-formed Haitian Community Alliance, a consortium of business and church leaders mostly, launched a website, a glossy magazine and a simulated driving program, with government support, and a Creole hotline— all within a few months of the pet-eating lies. The Haitian Support Center, a go-to local service provider, was in the midst of renovations during the winter months even as its own director faced questions about his status. And, a Columbus-based multi-service was planning to open a location in Springfield, hoping to serve Haitians there during tax season.

During that inauguration weekend back in Columbus, a birthday party went into full swing in a shack behind a popular Haitian eatery that Saturday. A hype blend of rabòday hits and disco lights inside the tin roof worked just fine to take people’s minds off the frigid Midwestern night. 

Outside of Ohio, the stream of Haitians showing our determined, creative sides is even stronger. Haitian-led groups are fighting back against the administration with lawsuits, civic convenings, and, critically, cultural expressions through the arts and literature. 

How far these efforts go or how long they last is anyone’s guess under this administration. Whether short or long term though, none of this says, ‘we’re falling back.’ Rather, they seem to be saying ‘we’re here and we ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

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