THE upstairs room was ready.
Three teddy bears and a smiling cloth doll were propped on a neatly made bed. A bassinet was nearby.
On the dresser was a sanctuary of care: baby shampoo, lotion and talcum powder.
Night was falling in Springfield, Ohio, when the Haitian mother and her month-old baby arrived.
Lee, in her 70s, had never met the woman on her doorstep. Still, they embraced.
After cooing over the infant, Lee led her guests on a tour of the house, ending with the bedroom that would serve as their redoubt from a feared immigration sweep.
Across Springfield that evening, anxiety was mounting. Haitians and their American supporters are awaiting a federal court ruling about the fate of Temporary Protected Status (TPS) for Haiti, a programme that has allowed beneficiaries to live and work legally in the United States.
The Trump administration had moved to terminate TPS effectively. Without court intervention, thousands of Haitians in Springfield would become deportable overnight, and federal agents could descend on the city the next day.
And even after the court blocked the termination, that prospect remains.
The government has asked an appeals court to overrule the lower court decision, and in a lawsuit about Syrians, the government asked the Supreme Court to take emergency action that could give the administration far more power to limit or end TPS across the board.
More than 10,000 Haitians now call Springfield, a city of 58,000 between Dayton and Columbus, home. While some are US citizens, most have TPS, and in the months ahead of the court ruling, many Americans had mobilised to help the growing Haitian community.
In churches and community centres, they organised prayer services, marches and petition drives.
Volunteers ran practice drills. Others agreed to serve as legal guardians for children whose Haitian parents feared they could be detained.
Some did something more risky: they discreetly converted spare bedrooms and finished basements into places of refuge.
In the days before the anticipated expiration of TPS on Feb 3, many Haitian families began withdrawing from daily life.
“Teachers, employers, pastors, schools – we all witnessed the disappearance of members of our community,” said Anna Poteet, 39, who teaches English to immigrants each Sunday at a local centre.
On Feb 1, only five students came to her class, down from the usual 15. That same weekend, she visited a Haitian church that typically attracts about 100 worshippers. Just 20 were in the pews.
On Monday, her eight-year-old son came home asking why so many of his friends were absent from school.
The small, secret network that began sheltering Haitian families echoes an earlier chapter in the city’s history.
Springfield was once a stop on the Underground Railroad, the network of abolitionists who helped enslaved people flee to free states or to Canada.
US Route 68 passes near the former home of George and Sarah Gammon, who had themselves been enslaved and whose house, now a museum, was a way station for those fleeing bondage.
“In the 1850s, people here were taking in enslaved people seeking freedom,” said Marie, a local activist who has been vetting people who volunteered to host.
“Today, there are people offering safe harbour to Haitians who just want to live in peace and safety,” she said.
Because of the secrecy surrounding the initiative, which has not been previously made public, The New York Times agreed to identify people involved by only their middle names.
“I’m really mad at the way our government is treating newcomers,” said Lee, a retiree, as she cradled the infant.
“We are a country of immigrants,” she said. “My family came here from Ireland.”
Organising by ordinary people to shelter immigrants in private homes represents an emerging, invisible front of resistance.
These are not seasoned activists. They are neighbours, like Jean.
A woman in her 40s with no political or religious affiliations, Jean said she had felt compelled to step up after an unsettling incident at work.
An immigrant employee at the company, which is not in Springfield, was detained by immigration agents. Jean began thinking about the Haitian families in her own community.
While local groups were organising food deliveries and neighbourhood watch patrols in the event that federal agents showed up, Jean worried about a more fundamental risk, knowing that the Department of Homeland Security has the addresses of all Haitians who have TPS.
“I began asking, ‘Where do people flee to?’” Jean said.
“We need emergency housing.”
She contacted her friend Marie, who has contacts in the Haitian community.
Coincidentally, Marie was already receiving encrypted messages from local Americans, some from church, others total strangers, offering their homes.
Marie and Jean realised they could help, but they had to vet would-be hosts scrupulously. Some were long-time acquaintances. Others came recommended but still had to be vouched for by at least two people the friends trusted.
Once hosts were cleared, it came down to practical considerations. Do you have a bedroom with actual beds? Is the space suitable for children?
For security reasons, there was no spreadsheet or cloud-based list.
Jean kept the names and contact information of approved hosts handwritten in a small red booklet.
As the court deadline approached, fear tightened its grip on Springfield.
Many Haitian families limited outings to work and school. Others stocked up on food or temporarily left the city.
One family with young children called an American friend during a freeze to report that their furnace had stopped working. They were too frightened to trust a stranger to come repair it.
Americans like Lee began volunteering to host Haitians. The list of safe houses in the red booklet grew.
At around 7pm on Feb 2, a federal judge in Washington issued an order blocking the termination from taking effect, keeping TPS in place for Haitians while the lawsuit proceeds.
While the immigrants and their supporters in Springfield have exhaled since the court decision, they know it may be only a reprieve.
“Even though they have been given temporary relief,” said Poteet, the English teacher, “they still live day to day not knowing if tomorrow another decision will upend their lives.”
The prepared rooms and the names in the red booklet remain intact.
“Whatever happens, we are ready,” Marie said. — ©2026 The New York Times Company
This article originally appeared in The New York Times
