Was Mexico City’s Little Haiti meant to last?

MEXICO CITY — As Pedro Vargas drove past Bosque de Tláhuac in Mexico City, an area dubbed “La Pequeña Haití,” or Little Haiti, he barely recognized it. The avenue once filled with Haitian migrants braiding hair, cooking chicken and living in tents had thinned to a few scattered vendors. The encampments were gone, and so were the thousands of Haitians who had made the area their temporary home.

“It was like a little city — a Haitian neighborhood,” Vargas told The Haitian Times.

At the height of Haitian migration into Mexico in 2023, Tláhuac— a municipality of Mexico City— transformed into a hub for asylum-seekers and humanitarian refugees hoping to reach the United States or start over in Mexico. That year, city officials opened a temporary migrant shelter at Bosque de Tláhuac. The shelter, situated along Heberto Castillo Avenue, drew thousands of Haitian migrants seeking appointments for U.S. entry through the CBP One app.

But the local government wasn’t prepared for the influx.

According to then-Mexico City Mayor Claudia Sheinbaum, now president of Mexico, the temporary shelter, intended for 200 people, received as many as 3,000 at a time. After just six weeks, officials closed the site amid pressure from local residents and concerns over overcrowding. Mexico City’s Social Welfare and Inclusion transparency unit confirmed for The Haitian Times that the shelter reopened briefly with limited capacity (400 people) before shutting down permanently in November 2024.

According to official reports, 11,500 migrants stayed at the shelter, nearly 8,000 of them Haitians. As makeshift tents spread across parks and sidewalks, the nickname “La Pequeña Haití,” or “Little Haiti,” took hold. 

But unlike older Haitian enclaves like Flatbush in Brooklyn, New York, or North Miami in Florida, where culture is deeply rooted in generations of immigration, Tláhuac’s Little Haiti was ephemeral, defined more by urgent migration than by permanence.

From boom to fade

Despite its vibrant energy, Little Haiti was never meant to last.

Many Haitian migrants viewed Mexico as a waypoint rather than a final destination. According to a 2024 report by the International Organization for Migration (IOM), 75% of migrants in Mexico intended to reach the United States. That same report indicates that approximately 66 percent of Haitians there had lived in another country for at least a year before transiting to Mexico, and among Haitian children younger than five years old, two-thirds were born in Chile and Brazil. 

When the Trump administration shut down the CBP One app and canceled all appointments in January— a policy shift from the Biden administration—many Haitians recalibrated. Some moved north to cities closer to the U.S. border like Tijuana or Monterrey. Others remained in Mexico City to apply for asylum.

Today, the population in Tláhuac has dwindled. The exact numbers are unclear, but community members say only a fraction remains.

Still, for people like Ketia Joseph, 30, Tláhuac is home. Like many other women, she sells beauty products on the half-mile stretch of Heberto Castillo Avenue, which borders the west of Bosque Tláhuac.

“No one has bought anything yet today,” Joseph sighed from her sidewalk stall, where she sells hair extensions and creams. The once-busy stretch is nearly deserted.

Joseph came from Chile with her husband and son nearly a year ago, joining her sister-in-law who had already settled here. They hoped to get a CBP One appointment to present their cases at the southern border and secure legal entry into the U.S. When that failed, they applied for asylum in Mexico. Now, her son attends kindergarten at a local elementary school and speaks fluent Spanish. 

A Haitian man living in Brazil sends products to Joseph, from which she earns a fraction of the sale. For instance, a $20 hair extension yields her about $2. She also sells creams and soaps purchased over an hour away downtown. 

“The work here pays little, but is demanding. And you don’t even have health insurance.”

Ronel Tiben Sinsmyr, Cap-Haïtien native and Tláhuac resident

On a good day, she used to earn about $12, but that was in December, when many more Haitians lived nearby and supported their compatriots’ businesses. On the afternoon of March 13, when The Haitian Times visited the area, the street was practically empty. A pair of vendors nearby complained aloud that they had yet to make a sale, and it was already 3 p.m. “We’re hungry,” they added.

Nonetheless, Joseph and her family, including her sister-in-law who lives in the same building, do not plan to leave Tláhuac.  “I like it here overall,” she said, her glitter lip gloss catching the sun. “There’s not too many problems here…but we’ll see how it goes over time.

New roots, old dreams

Across the neighborhood, Haitians still carve out space for community. A few blocks away, Luxène Agustin wears a neon vest and waves traffic into a hospital parking lot—an informal job shared with a Mexican friend. Like many migrants, he learned about Tláhuac through word-of-mouth.              

Like many other Haitians in Mexico City, Augustin identifies himself as Christian. He is among a group of others attending a church in Benito Juárez. 

Further north, a tight-knit crew gathers at Arsène Jean Gilles’ sidewalk canopy, where $3 Haitian chicken sandwiches and street haircuts draw a loyal line of men. Among them is Kerlensky Daniel, 25, on the verge of securing Mexican residency. Once approved, he plans to move to Monterrey—not just for work but also for love.

“I met a Mexican girl,” Daniel, who used to work at a factory in Mexico City, said with a grin.

Daniel’s journey mirrors that of many: years of mobility, temporary jobs, dashed dreams and unexpected detours. He used to work in a factory until an appendicitis put him in the hospital for an appendectomy. While he healed, his father in the U.S. supported him.

Bonds that linger and endure

Alongside Haitian migrants are unlikely allies. María de la Luz Estrella Hernández, 64, affectionately called “Estrella,” is a Mexican volunteer who began helping the Haitian community during the peak of the encampment.

“They love me,” she said proudly, scrolling through WhatsApp photos with Haitian friends. “And they speak great Spanish.”

Still, not every interaction is positive. Daniel recalled being stabbed by a local man in what he described as a racist attack. “Nothing happened after I reported it,” he said.

“Haitians have dispersed, but many are still here, like me. I’m used to it here.”

Vladimyr Roba, Haitian immigrant and phone repairman in Tláhuac, Mexico

But on Saturdays, the Haitian community still finds a way to gather without fear of being disturbed by locals.

That’s when Roba Vladimyr, a former human rights professor from Les Cayes, the main city of Haiti’s Southern Department about 120 miles from Por-au-Prince, and Léonard Alcinord, a Haitian content creator, show up. Vladimyr now repairs cell phones and resells SIM cards. His clients travel from across the city.

“Haitians have dispersed, but many are still here, like me. I’m used to it here,” he said.

Meanwhile, Gilles, who also sells all sorts of merchandise, including clothes, shoes and handbags under his canopy, taciturnly lifts a bottle of kremas he made and offers Vladimyr a shot, which he accepts gratefully. 

Vladimyr used to teach human rights at Université Publique du Sud in Les Cayes. His salt-and-pepper beard punctuates his scholarly demeanor. He lived in Brazil for five years and learned Portuguese, but now, Vladimyr has shifted to cell phone repair in Mexico. He also resells phone accessories and data cards, which he usually purchases downtown. 

The business is profitable because Vladimyr is one of the few Haitians doing this work in Tláhuac. To see him, some customers come from neighboring areas like Xochimilco or Valle de Chalco, over an hour away. Vladimyr estimates he makes $50 a day and has saved enough to rent a small stand space on Avenida la Turba, five minutes away. While talking, Vladimyr pulled out of his pocket a phone that a client had brought him. It was blocked, but he quickly unlocked it for $15. 

A few blocks over, Johnny Jean fires up his sidewalk stove at Restoran Bon Gou, Creole for “Good Taste Restaurant.” He’s known for feeding hungry workers and his loyal Mexican friend, Jesús Hernández, who visits every few weeks from Morelos, a neighboring south central state.

“I know how they feel because I felt that in the United States,” said Hernández, who once lived as an undocumented worker in Florida. “It’s not the exact same, but  somehow similar.”

“I know how they feel because I felt that in the United States. It’s not the exact same, but similar.”

Jesús Hernández,  a Mexican native and friend of Haitians in Tláhuac.

On the same bench, Ronel Tiben Sinsmyr, 40, reflects on his path. After fleeing a robbery at his successful dance club in Limonade, a northern Haiti city, he moved to Chile in 2016, then to Mexico. He recently quit his back-breaking job delivering water jugs for $12 a day.

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” he said. Now, he rents a small room with no bathroom for about $100 monthly on Calle Don Giovani.

Sinsmyr wants a nicer apartment and “to live like a human,” he said. Returning to Chile is still tempting, as the Mexican asylum process takes longer than the expected 45 to 90-day timeline due to backlog. But he’s already here. He said that not applying for asylum within the 30 days required causes his case to take longer. 

Like his best friend Sinsmyr, Jean also debates returning to Chile, where they first bonded, citing the decreased foot traffic in Little Haiti. However, his restaurant business is still growing throughout Mexico, including in Tapachula and Tijuana. 

Still, Sinsmyr said he has plans for a stronger Haitian community in Tláhuac and beyond.

“A friend and I are thinking of creating an organization,” he said. “We can make that organization whatever we want.”

Despite the odds and Little Haiti’s shrinking footprint, the few Haitians in Tláhuac remain rooted — building community wherever they can while still dreaming of home. As the Creole saying goes, “Lakay se lakay,” or “no place like home.”

The post Was Mexico City’s Little Haiti meant to last? appeared first on The Haitian Times.

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Was Mexico City’s Little Haiti meant to last? was first posted on April 8, 2025 at 5:00 am.