Hate Disrupts Haitian Hope in Heartland
As a news reporter in Springfield, Ohio, I’ve witnessed a community in turmoil. The story of Haitian immigrants in this small Midwestern city has taken a dark turn, transforming from a tale of opportunity to fear and uncertainty.
Just three years ago, Springfield opened its arms to Haitian newcomers. The city’s revitalization efforts had created job openings in factories, warehouses, and service industries. For many Haitians fleeing violence and instability at home, Springfield seemed like a haven.
Sadrac Delva, a 43-year-old former accountant from Haiti, told me, “We were very comfortable here, thinking Springfield is our place.” Delva, his wife Gerda, and their three young daughters found a sense of belonging in this Ohio city after arriving in 2021.
The Delvas aren’t alone. Thousands of Haitians have made Springfield their home in recent years. Many, like the Delvas, are here legally under Temporary Protected Status due to the ongoing crisis in Haiti.
But the welcoming atmosphere has soured. Last month, baseless rumors about Haitians harming pets spread like wildfire, fanned by inflammatory comments from political figures. The effects were immediate and chilling.
Hate groups descended on Springfield, unfurling banners with slogans like “Haitians Have No Home Here” in both English and Haitian Creole. Ku Klux Klan flyers appeared around town. Neo-Nazis waved swastika flags outside the mayor’s house.
The hostility isn’t limited to organized groups. Haitians report being yelled at on the streets and in stores. Some say their car tires have been slashed. There are even reports of people meowing at Haitians in supermarkets – a cruel reference to the debunked pet rumors.
For the Delva family, life has changed dramatically. “Everybody is staying inside,” Sadrac Delva explained. Gone are trips to the park, outings to Chuck E. Cheese, or even playtime in their backyard. The family only ventures for essentials like work, school, and groceries.
“I can’t remember the last time we went to church,” Delva added. “I talk to many friends who are very scared, too.”
This fear is reshaping the Haitian community in Springfield. Some are looking to leave, abandoning plans to put down roots. A local real estate agent, Amanda Mullins, told me that Haitian clients who had saved up to $50,000 for a home down payments are now backing out of deals.
“Most everybody wants to wait,” Mullins said as we drove through northern Springfield, where she pointed out homes she had previously sold to Haitian buyers.
Leaving seems like the best option for those without children or deep ties to Springfield. Lamarre Joseph, 55, and Charly Colin, 41, share an apartment and work in a warehouse to support families back in Haiti. Both men are considering a move.
“We’ll find another city – Columbus, Boston, New York,” Joseph said. “We’ll go where there is opportunity.”
But the decision to leave isn’t so simple for families like the Delvas, who have invested in homes and enrolled children in local schools. Springfield has become home despite the current climate of fear.
The Delvas story highlights the complex reasons many Haitians have sought refuge in the United States. Back in Haiti, they were financially secure, owning a home and two cars. Gerda worked as a biomedical technician. They never planned to leave.
However, Sadrac’s job overseeing funds for a European charity put him in the crosshairs of corrupt politicians. The threats began when he refused to give them aid money to distribute. Eventually, armed men tried to kill Sadrac in his car.
By June 2020, the family had fled to Florida and applied for asylum. A friend’s recommendation led them to Springfield, where they found good jobs, affordable housing, and a sense of peace.
“We started to work and save,” Sandra recalled. He took an overnight shift at an Amazon warehouse. In 2022, the couple bought a $152,000 three-bedroom house with a new baby on the way.
“We felt blessed, really blessed,” Gerda said of their fresh start.
The family was thriving. Gerda began studying to become a licensed nurse practitioner, Sadrac earned his real estate license, and their 5-year-old daughter was excited to start kindergarten this fall.
Then, the pet rumors hit, and everything changed.
Sadrac says a Haitian friend was beaten while walking to Walgreens. Bomb threats disrupted the city. White supremacists marched through town.
“I told my wife not to go anywhere with the kids,” Sadrac said.
The family is torn. Friends are requesting job transfers to other cities. Some have already left. But the Delvas have put down roots in Springfield.
“I think twice about leaving, of course,” Sandra admitted. “I have three kids; I bought this house, and my wife is studying.”
When I asked his eldest daughter how she liked Springfield, she beamed, “Ten out of 10!”
Sadrac’s eyes welled up at her response. “You cannot find words to explain the situation to children,” he said softly.
Springfield’s story is not unique. Throughout American history, waves of newcomers have faced discrimination and hostility. In the early 1900s, poor white and Black southerners who came to work in Springfield’s factories encountered prejudice. In the 1990s, Hispanic immigrants faced similar challenges.
Jason Barlow, a local United Automobile Workers representative whose grandfather migrated to Springfield from Alabama in the 1940s, put the current situation in perspective: “Unfortunately, it’s not the first time we see this animosity.”
But Barlow, now 50, added, “I haven’t seen hate rise to this level in my lifetime.”
As Springfield grapples with this surge of hostility, the future remains uncertain for its Haitian community. Will the city find a way to recapture the welcoming spirit that first drew these immigrants? Or will fear and prejudice drive away the people who contributed to Springfield’s recent revitalization?
The answers to these questions will shape Springfield’s future and reflect on America’s ongoing struggle to live up to its ideals as a nation of immigrants.