Local church organization uplifts the Haitian migrant community during uncertain times

By Jack Burns and Sabrina Lam

Marie Bernanie Seguy stood in the second row of the choir, her presence unassuming. Surrounding her were a few dozen other members of the group, all gathered behind a bright blue and red flag that was stretched across the front of the stage. The center of the flag displayed the Royal Palm of Independence, proudly representing their home country of Haiti.

As they prepared to perform their second song in front of hundreds at the State House during the annual Immigrants’ Day celebration, Seguy was barely noticeable on stage. Her black hair fell just above her shoulders, brushing against a royal blue t-shirt with the letters “BMBCC” printed on the front. 

Throughout the beginning of the performance, Seguy seemed content to blend in with the rest of the choir. This changed when midway through their second song, she shed her shy demeanor, closed her eyes, and raised the microphone high.

As she sang in Kreyòl, her voice rang through the marble room. Once translated, the solemn lyrics recited a prayer for Haiti, a country in the grips of political turmoil, gang violence, and food insecurity. 

One year ago, a gang broke into Seguy’s home in the middle of the night and murdered her father. 

As she explained, she looked at the ground and shuffled her feet. Her voice cracked and tears welled up in her eyes. Seguy knew she could not stay and risk the same fate for her family. Shortly after, she fled Haiti with her 4-year-old daughter. 7 months ago, they arrived on U.S. soil.

Upon her arrival, she found a community of Haitian migrants who have experienced or are currently experiencing similar struggles. Through an English Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL) class, Seguy was introduced to the Boston Missionary Baptist Community Center (BMBCC) choir. She has been a part of the group ever since.

The nonprofit has become a sanctuary for many individuals like Seguy, providing a variety of support programs, including a food pantry and adult education. Many of the members of BMBCC recently entered the U.S. within the last year and are reliant on the church’s services for food and shelter.

Like the other choir members, Seguy’s struggles didn’t end when she escaped Haiti. She currently lacks a concrete path to citizenship and has limited opportunities in the U.S.

While Temporary Protected Status (TPS) has existed for Haitians since 2010, the legislation doesn’t apply to recent migrants. Only those who have demonstrated continuous residence in the U.S. before February 2023 are eligible for TPS.

Another significant obstacle for recent migrants is getting through a complicated, expensive, and backed-up work authorization process. 

Calling for TPS as a solution as its expiration nears

If TPS applied to recent Haitian migrants, they could claim TPS and instantly streamline their work authorization process. Instead, thousands of recent migrants like Seguy are stuck in limbo. Many wait for work authorization and sleep in emergency shelters, navigating life without a legal way to support themselves and their families.

Arthur Alameda, the executive director of BMBCC, called for an extension and redesignation of the TPS legislation for Haiti. 

“We have engineers, we have doctors, we have nurses and drivers that need TPS to start working,” he said. 

But even those with TPS face an uphill battle.

In August, TPS designation will end for Haiti, leaving Haitians with TPS vulnerable to deportation. This means that people who have lived in the U.S. for over 20 years, started families, went to college, and built businesses, are in danger of being sent home to a country rampant with gang violence.

U.S. Rep. Ayanna Pressley argued in a letter to President Joe Biden that “returning Haitians now present in the United States would expose them to extreme danger and life-threatening conditions.” 

According to Human Rights Watch, over 450 organizations recently signed a letter urging Biden to extend and re-designate TPS for Haiti, as well as adding a moratorium on deportations to Haiti. Pressley echoed this sentiment in her letter, which an additional 67 legislators signed. 

And yet, while this legislation is necessary, it is another example of the U.S. punting on this issue, opting for temporary solutions instead of broader reform. For over a decade, the U.S. has been perpetually kicking the can down the road, extending and re-designating TPS every 18 months since it was first introduced for Haitians.

As the U.S. delays action, the problem hasn’t gone away. Instead, it has only grown larger. 

The line is often out the door at the Immigrant Family Services Institute (IFSI) in Mattapan. Their one-stop center provides direct support, referrals, and application assistance for newly arrived immigrants. However, this process takes time and most individuals have to wait hours before it gets to their turn. 

On an average day, the waiting room is filled with families looking for help. Many of the chairs in the lobby are occupied by mothers cradling their crying babies.

Guerlince Semerzier, the director of workforce development at IFSI, said that 90 to 95% of the people in line are Haitian and that many of them are forced to wait three to six months for paperwork to be processed. 

Claire Bergeron, a former associate policy analyst with the U.S. Immigration Program, argues for multiple changes to the TPS legislation to avoid this “legal limbo” for migrants. 

These fixes include “permitting TPS holders who have resided in the United States for a certain number of years to adjust to lawful permanent resident (LPR) status,” and “easing the ability of TPS holders to take advantage of existing pathways to permanent residence.”

Until a permanent solution is found, people like Arthur Alameda are working hard to provide a safety net for Haitian migrants who are stuck in these precarious positions.

Alameda said he understands the difficulty of transitioning from Haiti to the U.S. Over 20 years ago, he left the country due to gang violence and food insecurity. 

Now, he spends his time traveling between several churches in Boston that act as safe havens for the Haitian community. One of these locations is Boston Missionary Baptist Church (BMBC), which provides home-cooked Haitian food to needy families every Friday from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.

Last Friday at 3 p.m. when schools were let out for the day, Alameda, a charismatic man with short hair and thick glasses, held the door open for several families that entered the church and greeted each one personally. 

He walked with a noticeable limp as he led the families downstairs to the Church’s basement, where volunteers had set up a buffet, complete with full plates of food, desserts, and drinks. 

Over 60 people packed into the make-shift dining hall, which was concealed behind a thick curtain. Families sat on plastic chairs and ate their food off of paper plates placed on foldable tables draped in bright red tablecloths.

In the back of the basement, a small playing area was arranged for the kids, where some of them constructed a fort out of the foam mats.

Alameda seemed to know everyone in the building, from pastors to volunteers to families and other migrants. He spent his time laughing, shaking hands, answering questions, and even helping with paperwork. 

The space, he said, is a huge resource for families looking for any support they can get. But the families can’t stay at the church all night. At 5 p.m., the bleak reality of the situation becomes evident again. 

They leave the church and go wherever they can.