This piece is part of a series on hemispheric approaches to anti-Haitianism.
The Haitian community in Springfield, Ohio, was already grappling with considerable challenges—exhausting 12-hour workdays, linguistic barriers, and frequent road traffic accidents—when false accusations of them “eating people’s pets” surfaced on social media. These baseless and malicious claims, amplified when former President Donald Trump repeated them on national television during the September 10 presidential debate, have exacerbated an already precarious situation. An atmosphere of fear has since prevailed in the city, with devastating consequences for both the local economy and the social fabric of the Haitian community.
Culturally, Haitians are known for their outdoor gatherings. Whether it’s sharing meals, attending parties, or simply walking down the street with grocery bags, their presence in public spaces has become a part of the local atmosphere in Springfield. That visibility has all but disappeared. "It's a little bit similar to the situation of Haitians in the Dominican Republic. We live in fear,” said Ronald Toussaint, a Haitian man who has been in Springfield for three months after spending a year and a half in Indiana. “We're afraid to go out late. To do certain activities, thinking someone might hurt you."
Limestone Street, one of the city’s primary thoroughfares, lined with businesses and restaurants and home to a large number of Haitian residents, now feels deserted. Community leaders have urged Haitians to avoid large gatherings and limit their time outdoors. During closed-door meetings on October 1, state officials advised the community to develop their own safety strategies.
The largest Haitian church in Springfield, the Première Église Évangélique Haïtienne de Springfield (PEESAH), saw a significant number of empty seats on Sunday, October 6. Approximately 450 congregants typically attend the service. While there was some rain that morning, pastor Reginald Silencieux, the church's founder, would not blame lousy weather. “I strongly doubt that the events happening today aren't the reason people aren't coming to church,” he told me in an interview after the service.
Haitian-owned businesses, which thrived over the past two years, are also suffering. On Thursday afternoon, I visited Ketly Moise at her restaurant Keket Bon Gout which she opened six months ago. The space was almost entirely empty, with two or three people coming in to order takeout and four white Americans dining in. She confirmed what seemed obvious: "These days I'm just making about $700, sometimes $600, or maybe $800 at the most." Previously, her daily sales reached up to $2,000. Moise spoke candidly about the harassment she deals with almost daily from individuals who call her restaurant, asking if she serves cats or dogs. This kind of hostility, coupled with the downturn in business, is emblematic of the broader stigmatization this Haitian community faces.
The national news coverage of the Haitian community is also part of the issue. Too often, mainstream media portray Haitians through a narrow lens, centered on stories of young men who fled a collapsing homeland to search for a better life working in factories or warehouses in the United States. While these narratives underscore the hard work and determination of Haitian immigrants, they perpetuate a problematic trope: that of the "good immigrant" who can only earn respect through relentless labor.
Yet many in the Haitian community have done that precisely—work hard, buy homes, pay taxes, and integrate into life in the United States—only to be resented for their success. Some Haitians in Springfield I spoke to told me they are criticized for driving “expensive” cars and wearing nice clothes, as there is a perception among U.S. residents that immigrants are enjoying undeserved government benefits. Yet, several members of the Haitian community in Springfield have already been established in the United States for decades, like Gary Philistin, who left a six-figure job and sold his house in New Jersey to relocate with his family to Springfield.
Mainstream media narratives also frequently strip Haitians of their agency, depicting them as mere victims and failing to recognize the numerous efforts within the community for self-organized and collective action. But during my time in Springfield since September 10, I’ve gotten to know several of these Haitian leaders working on the ground to respond to this new reality.
There is Jacob Payen, whose small Vodou shop has become an informal immigration and counseling center where Haitians seek help with job applications or legal advice for immigration issues. When news broke last week that the Biden administration would not renew the 2022 Humanitarian Parole program, which has allowed 214,000 Haitians, through financial sponsors, to live and work legally in the United States for two years, many people nervously came to Payen's door, asking for clarification. On any given day, you might also see Payen getting out of his car on the road, acting as a translator for a non-English-speaking fellow Haitian pulled over by the police for a possible traffic violation.
As a cofounder and spokesperson of the Haitian Community Alliance (HCA), a newly established group focused on providing resources and advocacy for the Haitian population, Payen has been involved in several meetings with city and state officials, voicing the concerns of the community and negotiating solutions. Among other things, the HCA developed a driving education program in Haitian Kreyòl aimed at helping Haitians learn traffic rules to reduce traffic violations and enhance road safety. These initiatives show the Haitian community's determination to have a seat at the decision-making table and influence both their own future and that of Springfield. Yet stories like this are rarely reported in mainstream media.
What I have also observed on the ground in Springfield is a wave of solidarity from U.S. citizens with the Haitian community. At the October 8 Springfield City Commission meeting, I saw a woman named Amanda Richardson stand up and confront those who have made discriminatory comments about the Haitians in previous meetings. “If you’re mad about being called racists, stop saying racist things,” she stated firmly. The four women dining at Keket Bon Gout told me they drove nearly three hours from Kentucky to Cincinnati and then to Springfield just to support Haitian businesses. "We saw the damage done by their [Trump and Vance] malicious comments. So we thought we had to come up here, enjoy some great food, and let the Haitian community know that we’ve got their back," Nancy Roach shared with me.
Haitian immigrants are not a monolithic group, and the 12,000 to 15,000 Haitians living in Springfield reflect a microcosm of Haitian society with a range of religious beliefs, economic statuses, and political affiliations. At the watch party Jacob Payen hosted on the night of the vice-presidential debate on October 4, you'd be surprised to hear some Haitians expressing support for Trump’s policies, even on immigration.
Payen says he is a registered Democrat—plans to vote for Kamala Harris—but is open to supporting Republicans in local and state elections, particularly after seeing how the governor of Ohio and the mayor of Springfield, both Republicans, have publicly called out Trump’s statements and defended the Haitian community. His mantra: “Vote for ideology, not for party.” Gary Philistin, a newly naturalized citizen, is voting for the first time. When I asked him how he is considering his decision, he told me that while he, as a Christian, aligns with some Republican values, particularly on abortion and LGBTQ+ issues, he cannot bring himself to cast a vote for Trump due to his verbal attacks on the Haitian community.
Uncertainty looms as the Haitian community strives to carve out a future in Springfield. Many are anxiously awaiting the outcome of the next presidential election, fearing that another Trump presidency would embolden racist rhetoric and increase the risk of violence. It’s worth noting that white nationalists paraded through Springfield on August 10, brandishing swastikas on their signs. In late September, a group of men dressed in black staged a demonstration outside the city hall with banners that read “Haitians Have No Home Here.”
I think of Dieffson Lebon, a young Haitian man asking me for suggestions for more “welcoming cities” to which he should consider moving. Guivener Dimard, whom I met outside the public library where he spends his afternoons reading, told me he is concerned about the possibility of a “civil war” if Trump does not win. As for Gisnel Jean Michel, a man in his 50s, leaving Springfield is not an option. “I want Haitians to keep showing solidarity, to stand together, and to take up space in Springfield. I swear in the next few days and years, I will establish a big store in Springfield,” he told me resolutely as he exited a small Haitian store where he had been shopping.
Regardless of the election outcome and whether a significant portion of the Haitian community decides to leave or remain in Springfield, their contributions to the city are undeniable. The long-term struggle of Haitians in Springfield will help preserve their legacy and collective memory, ensuring it is not erased. It is historically evident that prosperous Black communities have been violently erased from both the land and the record, as seen with the destruction of Greenwood’s once-thriving African American business district during the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre.
This is why my role as an on-the-ground Haitian journalist and documentary filmmaker is crucial: documenting the daily lives of Haitians in Springfield helps create an archive of this time and place from a Haitian lens. This moment is not so much about who is “eating dogs and cats” in a small town in the middle of nowhere in America—it’s a battle over controlling the narratives that shape how this community is seen and will be remembered. It is history being written. As the Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot wisely observed, “Naiveté is often an excuse for those in power. For those subjected to that power, naiveté is always a mistake.”
Obed Lamy is a video journalist and documentary filmmaker. He won a 2021 Student Emmy from the Mid-America Emmy Foundations for Once Forgotten, a short documentary about racial terror lynching in Arkansas. A Fulbright scholar, Lamy holds an MFA in Documentary Media from Northwestern University and an MA in journalism from the University of Arkansas.
