Where are the Haitians?’ Tensions surface amid organizing efforts in Springfield | Analysis

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio — In community building, gatherings can often feel both powerful and unsettling. A recent roundtable of local faith leaders and advocates held on March 24 at the Greater Grace Temple, titled “Just Mercy. Just Mission,” fit right into the mold — but this time, with Haitian needs.

Between a prayer-filled session steeped in messages of emulating Christian love, two prominent leaders went back and forth in Haitian Creole, with voices slightly raised, over unproven rumors circulating about the misuse of financial donations and criticism by some community members that their views were being ignored. The moment lingered, quietly signaling that beneath the evening’s structure, deeper tensions were beginning to surface.

“This isn’t just speculation, people in the community are asking real questions about where the money is going,” said Viles Dorsainvil, co-founder and executive director of the Haitian Support Center, his tone firm.

Mia Perez, founder of Voices of Immigrants, responded quickly, pushing back. 

“Repeating unverified claims only creates more harm,” Perez said. “We’re supposed to be building trust, not tearing each other down over rumors.”

Dorsainvil shook his head.

“Ignoring those concerns doesn’t build trust either,” he shot back. “Some voices are being left out of this conversation entirely.”

Perez replied, her voice tightening, “No one is being ignored, but we have to be responsible about what we amplify. Accountability matters, but so does accuracy.”

The exchange, though brief, underscored some strain between leaders who otherwise share a common mission: To protect and stand with Haitian immigrants in Springfield under attack. The exchange and criticisms — about everything from trust to representation to white saviorism — hinted at unresolved disagreements beneath the forum’s message of unity.

By the end of the night, what the 30 participants expressed onstage and off, in a space that could have easily held 500 people, reflected layers of nuance often unseen from the podiums and panels advocates usually occupy.

Leading with love 

The church itself — a long nave of wooden pews leading the eye toward an elevated altar, arranged with candles and religious symbols — is traditional and reverent. High ceilings and soft light create a quiet, reflective atmosphere. Along the walls, cultural flags, including Haiti’s, signal recognition of a broader identity and community.

Opened with prayer in two languages, followed by scripture in Creole and then English, the evening itself seemed to be a deliberate act of inclusion in a city whose Haitian immigrants continue to be targeted. Faith leaders, attorneys and community members joined a panel to confront what some of them described as “a defining moment” for Springfield’s Haitian community. 

From the beginning, the message was clear: Love must lead.

“Speaking truth to power and showing love for the downtrodden,” Tokunbo Adelekan said, pausing before adding, “seeing the world through the eyes of the vulnerable.” 

He called for suffering not to be hidden, but witnessed  “so that the power of love may overcome evil.”

The message of love, presence and responsibility echoed from the panelists throughout the evening. 

“You cannot truly advocate,” attorney Katie Kersh, managing attorney for Advocates for Basic Legal Equality, Inc (ABLE), told the audience, “if you’re not willing to be in a relationship with the people affected.” 

Kersh described Springfield as both uniquely intense and uniquely unified. What stood out to her was not just the organized response, but the relationships forming underneath it. 

“If we’re not doing that,” she said of proximity, “we have to ask ourselves why.”

The concept of relationship-building — not charity, but rather shared life — surfaced again and again.

“Haitians didn’t just come to my church for me to teach them,” Jason Channels, a pastor, said of his Haitian neighbors. “I’ve learned so much from them.” 

What began as outreach, he explained, became something deeper—sitting together, eating together, and learning each other’s lives. “That’s how you move from charity to community.”

Still, the stories shared were real and personal, not just general ideas.

Pastor Carl Ruby, while describing parents forced to consider whether to leave their children behind if deported, spoke with a tight voice about families now facing more uncertainty. 

“Be present. Be courageous. And above all, show up,” he said to supporters serving Haitians, during his turn to speak.

Others spoke in more personal ways.

Kacey Rollins, executive director and board president of St. Vincent de Paul, said her organization tries to protect families facing deportation. But what the community has gained is something else: Family.

“We know each other now.”

For Bishop Ronald Logan, a local church leader in Springfield, Ohio, best known for his long-standing role at Greater Grace Temple, the answer is rooted in something even simpler.

“Love,” Logan said, “is the most powerful force in the universe.”

Dorsainvil spoke to the emotional weight many immigrants carry when they arrive at the gap between expectation and reality. 

“You can see the disappointment in their faces,” he said. But he also pointed to something else: A moment when fear spread through the Haitian community, and others showed up anyway. 

“They came with flowers, candy… just to say, ‘We are with you.’”

That presence mattered, he said, especially the small things, like trying to speak Creole. 

“It meant everything.”

‘Where are the Haitians?’

Yet, despite the love and hope expressed, awkward topics arose that divided different segments, especially since so many had jumped to Springfield’s aid

As the night moved forward, another conversation began to surface, from the room itself.

For months, a recurring murmur at some events was that Haitian voices—both speakers and attendees—were fewer than expected. Members of the Haitian community and African American attendees have criticized these gatherings, noting that the same figures often dominate public conversations—typically white pastors, white-led institutions, or a small group of recurring advocates. Their voices are centered, while Haitians are often limited or absent from the conversation.

Lately, some Haitian residents and Black community leaders have spoken on the sentiment.

“Where are the Haitians?” attorney Jacqueline Downey said, with a sense of puzzlement, after the event.

“There aren’t any at events and gatherings like these,” she explained. “It starts to feel like one voice is being used to represent all of them.” 

Part of the answer may be that many Haitian families are living in fear of ICE detention operations, are unable to drive to events with their uncertain TPS status or have left town. However, hundreds do still attend church regularly or large events like the Feb. 2 evening, where they awaited a judge’s decision on ending TPS.

Another answer may be that direct outreach to the community is still a work in progress, as some have said.

Bernadette Dor-Dominique, a minister at Champion City Church, a Haitian sanctuary, who was invited to speak on the panel the same day as the event, expressed frustration with the lack of a Haitian crowd at the gathering. She noted that despite the roundtable being planned weeks in advance, she only learned about it that day.”

“I could have invited more Haitians and encouraged them to come, but the notice came too late,” Dor-Dominique said in Creole, explaining that she had to attend immediately after work.

The last-minute invitation left Dor-Dominique feeling like an afterthought, as just “ Haitian presence” added to the stage for what she called reprezantasyon — representation akin to tokenism. She also questioned why she was chosen, noting that English is not her strongest language, and wishing it were her first so she could more clearly express her thoughts. 

Who decides what’s said or prioritized? 

Another related concern, Downey said, is whether the “true needs” of the Haitian community are fully understood, as many of its members are not consistently heard. Addressing high-demand needs—such as stable legal status, accessible immigration services, translation support, ESL education, mental health care and protection from discrimination and safety concerns—requires far more Haitian leaders than those currently in the spotlight.

Many Springfield Haitian members are familiar with local leaders such as Rev. Madet Merove, Dady Fanfan, Margery Koveleski, Magdala, Mia Perez, Jacob Payne, Rev. Reginald Silencieux, Philomene Philostin, James Fleurijean through local podcasts, churches, businesses and other community spaces. However, these voices are not equally amplified, as public attention, particularly in media coverage, news, and events related to Haitians in Springfield—tends to center on a single, recurring figure, Dorsainvil.

Others have gone further in critiquing certain church leaders — including G92, Central Christian Church, St. John Missionary Baptist Church, Springfield’s St. Vincent de Paul — as dynamic, but awkward. James Rashad, attendee and Springfield resident, described their activism as a form of “white saviorism.”

Similarly, Amy Willmann, executive director of the Nehemiah Foundation, emphasized during the “Faith, Justice & Community Impact” session that those seeking to support the Haitian community must resist a ‘savior’ mindset. She said they instead should act as allies, offering resources and standing alongside the community when needed.

Beyond that, Rashad had other concerns as well. He suggested that Dorsainvil, who has become one of the most prominent Haitian voices in the city and beyond, comes across as overly rehearsed, almost as though it is shaped by institutional expectations.

“He’s just repeating similar talking points across different panels and media appearances,” Rashad said. “Everything he says are things I’ve heard from him before.”

In response, Dorsainvil said everyone is free to express how they feel, and he’s been doing his part to advocate for the community — just like everyone else in different positions are playing their particular role. For example, he said, Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine often repeats the same message — that Haitians in Springfield contribute positively to the economy. Guerline Joseph and many leaders in Springfield often advocate for extending TPS because they are all focused on protection for Haitian TPS holders.

“I would encourage him [Rashad] to share what other messages he thinks should be communicated and to discuss his ideas with me directly,” Dorsainvil said.

A study in solidarity: messy, but real

Critics say the concern is that what is framed as support can become substitution — intentionally or not — as various groups or personalities take on self-appointed roles, make decisions or speak for the Haitian community instead of allowing it to lead.

Ongoing conversations often feature whispers about whether resources are being handled transparently or even used to elevate certain people’s public image.

“People are watching,” said Lynn Smith, a community member in attendance. “They’re paying attention to who benefits from this.”

As the evening progressed, and the various topics of concern became harder to ignore, the unity presented on stage remained. But it no longer felt uncontested.

Perhaps, that is where Springfield is now holding two truths at once.

There is real solidarity here. People showing up. Building relationships. Standing with Haitian families in moments of fear and uncertainty.

There is also tension. About voice. About leadership. About who tells the story and who is heard when they do.

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