Trump Admin Asks SCOTUS to Allow Deportation of 350,000 Haitians
The U.S. Department of Justice asked the Supreme Court of the United States on Wednesday to allow the administration to move forward with ending temporary deportation protections for more than 350,000 Haitian immigrants.
The request for emergency relief is the latest development in legal disputes stemming from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’s efforts to terminate Temporary Protected Status for several countries. Ending the designation would make affected immigrants eligible for deportation.
The Supreme Court has previously allowed the administration to roll back similar protections for Venezuelan migrants, while a separate request involving Syrian immigrants remains pending before the court.
Haiti was first granted Temporary Protected Status in 2010 after a devastating earthquake killed more than 300,000 people and caused widespread destruction across the country.
During his first administration, President Donald Trump moved to rescind Haiti’s TPS designation. However, the decision became tied up in litigation and was not implemented before he left office.
After returning to the presidency for a second term, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem announced steps to end Haiti’s TPS designation, with the change scheduled to take effect Feb. 3.
In announcing the decision, Noem said ending the protections reflected “a necessary and strategic vote of confidence in the new chapter Haiti is turning” and aligned with the administration’s broader foreign policy approach toward a “secure, sovereign and self-reliant Haiti.” She acknowledged that some conditions in the country remained concerning but said certain areas were suitable for return.
In December, five Haitian nationals filed a lawsuit challenging the termination of TPS and sought to block the move. A federal district court granted their request last month, concluding in part that the decision to end the designation was likely motivated by racial animus, without providing any evidence to justify that determination.
“Kristi Noem has a First Amendment right to call immigrants killers, leeches, entitlement junkies, and any other inapt name she wants,” U.S. District Judge Ana Reyes, a Biden appointee and first LGBTQ federal judge, wrote.
“Secretary Noem, however, is constrained by both our Constitution and the [Administrative Procedure Act] to apply faithfully the facts to the law in implementing the TPS program. The record to-date shows she has yet to do that,” she added.
Noem has since been replaced as head of the Department of Homeland Security by Oklahoma Sen. Markwayne Mullen. She is now serving as special envoy for the Shield of the Americas.
The DOJ appealed the ruling, but a divided three-judge panel of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit declined to block the lower court’s decision.
In its filing asking the Supreme Court of the United States to intervene, Solicitor General D. John Sauer argued that the legal reasoning adopted by the lower court could undermine a wide range of immigration policies implemented by the administration,
Sauer wrote that the theory relied upon in the ruling could potentially invalidate “virtually every immigration policy of the current administration.”
Federal courts, he said, “are again attempting to block major executive-branch policy initiatives in ways that inflict specific harms to the national interest and foreign relations, while crediting harms to respondents that inhere in the temporary nature of TPS.”
Temporary Protected Status was established by Congress in 1990 to provide temporary protections for individuals from countries experiencing armed conflict, natural disasters or other “extraordinary and temporary” conditions that make returning unsafe.
Individuals from countries designated for TPS generally cannot be deported while the designation remains in place and are eligible to obtain work authorization. The protections are typically granted for periods of up to 18 months and can be renewed if conditions in the designated country persist.
As part of his immigration policy agenda, President Donald Trump has moved to terminate TPS designations for immigrants from multiple countries. Those include Afghanistan, Haiti, Nicaragua, Somalia and Yemen, among others, CBS News noted.
One Word in the Rain
One Word in the Rain
The cemetery closed at five.
Everyone who worked at Maplewood Memorial knew this, and the sign at the front gate made it plain, and Gerald Finch — security, eleven years, keys on his belt and rules in his blood — enforced it without apology. Five o’clock. Not five-oh-one. Not five-fifteen because someone needed just a little more time. Five.
The rain had started around four-thirty, and by five it was coming down hard enough to turn the gravel paths into shallow rivers and fill the stone-lined gutters with fast brown water. Most visitors had already left. Most visitors had umbrellas and cars and warm places to be.
The old man did not.
He had arrived sometime in the early afternoon — Gerald had clocked him coming through the gate around two, a small, bent figure in a coat that had been decent once, maybe fifteen years ago, carrying a bundle of wildflowers wrapped in wet newspaper. He had gone to the same grave he always went to, in the east quadrant under the oak that had lost two major branches in last winter’s ice storm. Gerald knew the grave. Marie Elspeth Holloway, 1952–2019. Beloved. The old man came every week. Sometimes twice.
Gerald had never learned his name.
At five-oh-two, Gerald made his round.
The old man was still there — kneeling in the wet grass, head bowed, the wildflowers laid against the base of the headstone. Beside him, pressed against his arm, was a small girl. Six, maybe seven, in a yellow raincoat that was the brightest thing in the entire cemetery. She had her grandfather’s white hair in miniature, and she was watching his face the way children watch the faces of people they love when those people are sad — with total concentration, helpless and devoted.
Gerald cleared his throat.
The old man looked up.
“Visiting hours are over,” Gerald said. He kept his voice flat. Flat was professional.
“Just another few minutes,” the old man said. “Please. We came a long way.”
“Sir, I’ve told you before—”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
Gerald reached down — he didn’t think about it, didn’t decide to do it the way you decide things, it was just the motion his hand made, trained by a decade of enforcement — and he took the wildflowers from the base of the headstone and dropped them into the nearest puddle.
“Visiting hours,” he said again, “are over.”
The old man stared at the flowers floating away in the brown water. The newspaper wrapping came apart. The stems separated. Yellow and white petals spread across the surface of the puddle and drifted toward the drainage gutter.
He had carried those flowers a long way.
His face did something that old faces do when the last small thing is taken — it didn’t collapse dramatically, it just came undone, quietly, from the inside out. His chin dropped. His shoulders curved inward. And he began to cry in the way old men cry, which is worse than any other kind of crying, because there’s no performance left in it, no hope that tears will change anything. Just grief, released.
The little girl pressed herself against him. Her small arms went around as much of him as they could reach.
“Grandpa, don’t cry,” she said. “We can bring more flowers next time. We can bring the purple ones she liked.”
“She liked all of them,” the old man managed. “She always said — she said it wasn’t the flower that mattered.”
“I know. You told me.” The girl tightened her arms. “It’s that someone brought them.”
Gerald took a step back.
He didn’t know why.
Something about the girl’s voice — the matter-of-fact tenderness of it, the complete absence of self-consciousness — had gotten into a gap in his professionalism and lodged there. He took a step back and looked at his own hands and the puddle and the floating flowers, and he felt the specific, nauseating discomfort of someone who has just understood that they’ve done something wrong.
He was still standing there, recalibrating, when he heard the sound behind him.
Heels on gravel. The particular cadence of expensive shoes moving fast.
He turned.
The woman was in her mid-forties, dark coat, silk scarf, umbrella she’d forgotten to open gripped in one hand. She had come from the parking area — Gerald had seen her car, a silver sedan, sitting at the far end of the lot for the better part of an hour. He had assumed she was on a phone call. He had assumed she couldn’t decide whether to come in.
She had been watching.
She was walking toward them now with the focused, unsteady movement of someone whose legs are working on instinct because the rest of them is somewhere else entirely. Her eyes were fixed on the old man, who still had his face turned down toward the puddle, toward the scattered flowers.
She stopped six feet away.
She looked at the white hair. At the bent shoulders. At the threadbare coat. At the small girl in the yellow raincoat looking back at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Grandpa,” the girl said quietly, “that lady is staring at us.”
The old man raised his head.
For three full seconds, neither of them moved.
Twenty-two years. Gerald didn’t know that — couldn’t know it — but it was written in the space between them, in the way the woman’s umbrella slipped from her fingers and hit the gravel and neither of them reacted to the sound.
Twenty-two years since a door slammed in a house on Calloway Street. Twenty-two years since words were said that both of them had spent decades deciding could never be unsaid. Twenty-two years of a silence so long it had become its own kind of relationship — the relationship of two people who had chosen absence over the risk of trying again.
The girl looked between them.
“Do you know that lady?” she asked her grandfather.
The old man’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The woman took one step forward. Then another. The rain hit her face and darkened her coat and she did not seem to feel any of it.
Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a word at all.
It was the word you say before you’ve decided to say anything. The word that lives so deep it bypasses the part of you that protects itself.
“Dad?”
The old man closed his eyes.
The girl looked up at the woman.
The woman looked down at the girl — really looked, for the first time — and something new moved across her face now, something that existed alongside the shock and the grief and the twenty-two years. Something that looked, cautiously and terribly, like the first movement of a question she hadn’t known she needed to ask.
“Who is she?” the woman whispered. “Who is this little girl?”
The old man opened his eyes.
The rain fell between them.
He said her name — the woman’s name, his daughter’s name, the name he had not spoken aloud in longer than he could honestly remember — and the sound of it hit her like a hand against the chest, stopping her breath, stopping her feet, stopping everything.
“There’s so much,” he said, “that I have to tell you.”
