Americans are hiding illegal immigrants in their basements and spare bedrooms to save them from ICE.
In Springfield, Ohio, some Americans have converted their basements and spare bedrooms into shelters for immigrant families targeted by immigration enforcement, says The New York Times.
Three teddy bears and a smiling rag doll lay on a neatly made bed. A baby crib stood nearby. A grooming kit, including baby shampoo, lotion, and talc, sat on the dresser.
It was already evening in Springfield when a Haitian woman with a month-old baby arrived at the house. Lee, the elderly owner, had never met the woman standing at the door before. Nevertheless, they embraced. Lee showed her guests around the house, concluding the tour with the bedroom that was to be their refuge from the immigration raid.
On the subject: Memphis residents are delivering food and medicine to migrants afraid to leave their homes because of ICE raids.
That evening, tensions were rising throughout Springfield. Haitians and their American supporters awaited a federal court ruling, expected by midnight on February 2nd. The outcome of Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Haiti, a program that allows individuals to legally live and work in the United States, would be decided.
The Trump administration had been seeking to end this status since February 3. Without court intervention, thousands of Haitians in Springfield risked being deported overnight, and federal agents could arrive in the city as early as the next day.
And even after the court blocked the program's termination, the threat remains.
The government asked an appeals court to overturn a lower court's decision, and in a separate case involving Syrians, it last week asked the U.S. Supreme Court for emergency relief that could give the administration much greater authority to restrict or end TPS altogether.
More than 10,000 Haitians now call Springfield, a city of 58,000 between Dayton and Columbus, home. While some are U.S. citizens, most have TPS. In the months leading up to the ruling, many Americans mobilized to help the growing Haitian community.
They organized prayer services, marches, and signature drives in churches and community centers. Volunteers conducted training exercises. Some agreed to become legal guardians of children whose Haitian parents feared detention.
There were also those who decided on a more risky step: they secretly converted spare rooms and equipped basements into shelters.
In the days leading up to February 3, when the TPS was set to expire, many Haitian families went into hiding.
"Teachers, employers, pastors—we've all seen members of our community disappear," said Anna Poteet, 39, who teaches English to immigrants every Sunday at a local center.
Only five people showed up for her class on February 1st instead of the usual 15. That same weekend, she visited a Haitian church that usually hosts about 100 parishioners. Only 20 people sat in the pews. On Monday, her eight-year-old son came home and asked why so many of his friends weren't at school.
Springfield was once a hub for the so-called Underground Railroad—a network of abolitionists who helped slaves escape to free states or Canada. U.S. Route 68 passes by the home of George and Sarah Gammon, who were themselves enslaved; their home, now a museum, served as a refuge for fugitives.
"In the 1850s, people escaping slavery were taken in here," explained Marie, a local activist who vets applicants. "Today, there are those offering refuge to Haitians who simply want to live in peace and safety."
For security reasons, The New York Times agreed to refer to the initiative's participants only by their middle names.
"I'm really angry at the way our government treats newcomers," Lee admitted, holding her baby. "We're a country of immigrants. My family came here from Ireland."
Federal law makes it a crime to "conceal, shelter, or obstruct the detection" of an illegal immigrant. This is a serious offense, punishable by up to five years in prison. Previously, such prosecutions primarily targeted smugglers and sometimes employers, but not ordinary citizens.
Churches and religious communities have a long tradition of providing refuge to undocumented immigrants. Their status as religious institutions has traditionally protected them from immigration enforcement. Some communities have said they will continue to provide refuge even after the Trump administration lifted restrictions on inspections of churches and other "sensitive" locations, such as schools and hospitals, last year.
The organization of shelters in private homes by ordinary people represents a new direction of resistance.
All this is being done not by experienced activists, but by ordinary people, neighbors. People like Jin, for example.
A woman in her 40s, unaffiliated with politics or religion, felt compelled to take action after a disturbing incident at work. An immigrant working for their company was detained by immigration agents. Jean began thinking about the Haitian families in her community.
While local groups organized food deliveries and neighborhood patrols in case federal agents showed up, Jean worried about a more fundamental risk. She knew that the Department of Homeland Security had the addresses of all Haitians with TPS.
"I started wondering: Where are people going to go? We need emergency shelter," Jean decided then.
She contacted her friend Marie, who had contacts in the Haitian community.
By then, Marie had already been receiving encrypted messages from local Americans offering to rent out their homes. Among them were church members, as well as complete strangers.
Around the same time, clashes intensified in Minnesota, where a massive deployment of federal agents led to the arrests of many immigrants, including refugees, who were in the country legally.
"The situation in Minnesota was escalating, and people thought Springfield might be next," Marie recalled of those days. "They wanted to protect our Haitians."
Marie and Jean realized they could help, but they had to thoroughly vet the candidates. Some were longtime acquaintances. Others were recommended, but they needed at least two trusted vouchers to back them up.
If anyone raised doubts, Marie politely refused.
After approval, practical questions remained: is there a bedroom with real beds, is the room suitable for children.
For security reasons, there were no electronic lists. Jean wrote down the names and contact information of approved hosts by hand in a small red notebook with a golden bird on the cover.
She understood the potential legal risks.
Asked to comment on the situation of Americans harboring immigrants who fear detention and deportation, a Department of Homeland Security spokesperson said those deprived of TPS must use self-deportation proceedings to receive a free one-way ticket and $2600 in financial assistance to help them settle in another country.
Haitian asylum seekers came to Springfield to work and helped revitalize the city, Jean noted, adding that she feels a responsibility to them. Her sentiment is shared by other participants in the initiative.
In 2014, city officials unveiled an ambitious plan to revive the industrial center, attracting new companies and investing millions of dollars. However, with the opening of factories and warehouses, employers faced a labor shortage.
Haitian migrants began arriving gradually, then their numbers increased sharply, especially in 2020, during the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic, when information about jobs and affordable housing in Springfield became known.
Following the assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse in 2021 and the ensuing violence, the Biden administration expanded the TPS program for Haitians.
They worked, went to church, built a life, and understood that returning to their homeland was impossible in the near future, and their status, although temporary, allowed them to legally remain in the United States.
In 2024, President Donald Trump and Vice President J.D. Vance undermined that sense of stability by repeatedly spreading the unsubstantiated claim that Haitians in Springfield were stealing and eating their neighbors' pets, plunging the city into a heated debate over immigration.
Hours after his inauguration, Trump ordered the Department of Homeland Security to review all temporary protective orders.
A month later, then-Secretary of State Kristi Noem rescinded the Biden administration's TPS extension for Haiti, declaring that the Trump administration was "returning the program to its original temporary nature." The end date was ultimately set at February 3, affecting approximately 350,000 Haitians across the country.
Lawyers representing five Haitians, including a nurse from Springfield, have filed a lawsuit seeking to block the program's termination, arguing it is illegal and discriminatory.
As the court date approached, fear in Springfield grew. Many Haitian families limited their time outside to work and school. Others stocked up on food or temporarily left the city. One family with small children called an American friend during freezing temperatures to report that their furnace had stopped working but they were too afraid to let in a repairman they didn't know.
Americans like Lee began offering housing to Haitians.
The list of shelters in the red notebook grew.
In a message dated January 30, a Haitian man wrote to an American woman: "My wife is very scared." The couple considered searching for accommodation in a nearby town through Airbnb, but that would have meant revealing their identities.
She talked him out of it.
"We need a safe place to stop," he noted.
On the evening of February 2, a Haitian couple with two children, aged 6 and 11, brought supplies for about 30 days into the basement of an American woman and her partner.
The couple told their children that their family was going on vacation, so they would miss school and be able to play on the new PlayStation 5, and their parents would not have to go to work.
That evening, around 19:00 p.m., a federal judge in Washington issued an order blocking the program's termination, meaning it kept TPS in effect while the lawsuit was heard.
The hostess learned of the court's decision and informed her guests. They were relieved but decided to stay at least one night.
"I don't know how to thank you enough—words of gratitude are not enough for your generosity and for opening your home to our family," said the head of the Haitian family.
The mother and baby, who spent the night with Lee, returned home six days later.
In total, according to Jean, about two dozen immigrant families found refuge through this network. Marie added that some Haitian families were able to find shelter with American friends outside of this network.
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Lee, like other local residents, said she was willing to accommodate as many people as needed.
"If necessary, I'll lay out sleeping bags on the floor," she assured.
But while immigrants and their supporters in Springfield breathed a sigh of relief after the court's decision, they understand it may only be a reprieve.
"Even with temporary protection, they live day after day, not knowing whether a new decision will change their lives tomorrow," concluded Anna Potit.
The prepared rooms and names in the red notebook are still there.
“Whatever happens, we are ready,” Marie concluded.
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