A letter to four Haitian asylum seekers I met on this side of the Rio Grande

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Two weeks ago, I traveled to Del Rio, a small town in southwest Texas on the border with the Rio Grande and Mexico, for fieldwork for my thesis. I have investigated Haitian migration through South and Central America towards the United States since 2015, when I started. I went to Texas to examine, through a racial lens, the response to the existence of more than 15,000 Haitian asylum seekers under a bridge suspended by time and geographical oblivion. One of my findings is that the disgusting debate about entitlement to seek refuge that dominates political agendas and social spaces continues to ignore the intersection of anti-black sentiment and immigration policy—and this deeply worries me.

Haitians cross the Rio Grande from Ciudad Acuna, Mexico, to Del Rio, Texas, September 2021. | Luis ChaparroLuisKuryaki

The arrival of large numbers of Haitians at the US border is not a new or isolated phenomenon. Since the 7.0 magnitude earthquake in 2010, which killed more than 200,000 people in their country, Haitians have migrated in large numbers to Brazil and other South American countries. With increasing political instability, economic crises, anti-immigrant sentiment, and hate crimes in these countries, Haitians and other immigrants have crossed Central and South America to reach the US-Mexico border and seek asylum. The assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moise last July, another devastating earthquake in August, and the prolonged and destructive intervention of foreign nations in Haiti – particularly the United States – have heightened Haitians’ need for asylum.

There was no home to go back to, however, so “giving them back” is what many Americans wanted and what the Department of Homeland Security did. There are no Haitian immigrants left in Del Rio. The majority were expelled from the United States or forced to return to Mexico to await their fate along with thousands of homeless Haitians. Some 7,000 of these asylum seekers were allowed into the country under “humanitarian parole” – meaning the government could expel them at any moment. The multiple forms of violence we’ve seen – those harrowing images of Border Patrol agents on horseback using their whip handles, the intimidation of black men, women and children – revealed violence but likely won’t influence the judgment on their asylum claims. After all, this was just another reenactment of the colonial era, which doesn’t seem to bother many of us.

On my way back to Santa Barbara, I crossed tracks with four young Haitians at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. They were among the 15,000 asylum seekers under the bridge in Del Rio. We chatted about the grief of immigrants, Haitian food, immigration policies and racism. Our time was short, and I ended up leaving without telling them how much I, as an immigrant, was moved by their determination to demand autonomy and dignity despite the racial violence that the people of Haiti have historically been subjected to. I am writing this open letter to the four asylum seekers I met on this side of the Rio Grande.

Amanda Pinheiro Dear Augustin, Joseph, Jean and Meguist,

I hope you are finally reunited with your family here in the US, I’m back in college, telling my law and immigration students about you, your stories of resilience, and your dreams. They were touched and angry, too – which is the correct response. Anger pushes us forward and forces us to act.

It’s been about a month, but I’m still processing those horrified looks we got while chatting at the Dulles airport. We “of color” are often a threat to American “racial purity.” These racial assaults no longer make me feel bad. Now I am facing them and the aggressors. However, I must say that racism and xenophobia will be part of your experience as black immigrants in this country. Stay strong, stay strong! Oh, and don’t forget to remind the white supremacists you’ll encounter that “we’re here because they were there.” Most people won’t understand it, but the point is to educate them about the fact that most immigration into this country results from US interventions in the immigrants’ countries of origin.

I am so glad you got this far on your immigration journey, and I wish you were more optimistic about what you should expect in the next chapter of your life. But I am not, for several reasons.

Haitian immigrants have long known of the state violence they experienced while holding asylum. You may be too young to remember the news, but some history books and some members of your family can tell you about other times when the US government imprisoned Haitian men, women, and children in inhumane conditions. You will learn about the confinement of Haitian asylum seekers arriving in Florida in boats in the early 1990s, for example. They were intercepted and sent to the US detention camp in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, to be treated without any respect or dignity. And if you suspect history is repeating itself, here’s some more pessimistic news: A few weeks ago, it made headlines that the current administration was looking for a new contract to operate this immigration detention facility—provided that the guards spoke Haitian Creole.

It arrived in the United States when anti-immigrant and anti-black sentiment became palpable. Blacks, Asians, and Latinos are killed because of the color of their skin, the shape of their eyes, and their accent—that is, because they are not white. The racist process of selecting immigrants in this country is a valuable political currency and will certainly influence the judgment of your asylum claims. But I also want you to know that there is a growing grassroots movement, inspired by the power of people like you, that is calling for a change in the immigration system that separates families, locks up children and kills immigrants on the basis of race. A powerful network across borders tirelessly fights for the rights of migrants in cities large and small, on land or remotely, with or without political support. When governments bring in new forms of oppression, we bring in new forms of resistance. day after day.

I hope you can find a job soon and be paid enough to make a living here and put food on the table for your loved ones in Haiti. Your history of resistance and revolution continues to prove that when people try to subjugate us, we resist. When employers try to take advantage of us, we resist. When governments threaten our rights, we resist. You belong to the world’s first black republic, where resistance is not an option but the only way to restore humanity and independence. Thank you for teaching us here in the land of the free and home of the brave that freedom is more than just a name.

Amanda Pinheiro is a doctoral student in global studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Her research examines the migration of Haitians to Brazil, Mexico, and the United States, and how globalized racism against blacks has shaped Haitians’ experiences of crossing borders. Pinheiro is an immigrant from Brazil, and her passion for immigration and racial justice studies comes from her struggles as an immigrant in the United States.

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