Read original article: https://haitiantimes.com/2025/02/13/pa-vann-tet-ou-immigration-defense/

A deportation information seminar in session at DoDor Services in Flatbush, Brooklyn, on Friday, February 7, 2025. Photo by Macollvie J. Neel

BROOKLYN — A part of life for us Haitians in America is knowing someone – a child, spouse, parent, godparent, cousin, friend, sister in Christ, or even ourselves, who is living here san papye, sou TPS or nan Biden – or without “papers,” on TPS or under Biden. Right now, we’re all thinking about the likelihood of that person being deported.

The thought is heavy. The feelings that come with it — hopelessness, fear, anxiety, uncertainty, worry, and loneliness – weigh us down. Altogether, they’re threatening to crush our community.

Fortunately, there are ways to lighten the load. One way is by doing what we’ve always done to survive – in Haiti, and throughout our history here: Pa vann tèt nou. Don’t give yourself away.

At a deportation information session last Friday in Flatbush, also known as Little Haiti, the folks at DoDor Services Inc. emphasized this message during a two-hour session in Creole. Despite attending many similar sessions over the past two months – online and in person – held across the country, this time, the message truly hit home for me.

Maybe it resonated because it’s simple, clear and familiar – especially for those of us who grew up with parents constantly warning us to keep quiet, fearing both state authorities and regular malfektè, evildoers, around. Or maybe it was the energy in the room, with lively presenters and attendees really discussing critical questions and sharing laughs to break up the seriousness of deportation risks.

Maybe it’s because sitting inside DoDor, a multi-service small business on Nostrand Avenue, took me to a different era – time between the 1980s and early 2000s, when businesses like this were everywhere. A time when they operated alongside storefront churches, hair salons, and Chinese takeouts on the busy strips of every Haitian neighborhood in any city. A time before we had larger nonprofits, Haitian American elected officials, Facebook and TikTok to turn to for guidance.

Back then, when our English was still rèk, green, these multi-services were our go-to places – for better or worse. Overall, they were legit businesses, but others were filled with scammers.

Though few remain now and may seem like relics of a bygone era, these small businesses and the entrepreneurs behind them remind me of how we’ve survived authoritarians in years past. Their efforts today point to one path we can take to withstand this relentlessly antagonistic administration.

Familiar terrain, but in new territory

Less than a month after Inauguration Day, many in our community now leave the house with more than just keys, a wallet, or a bag. They also check for proof of immigration status – just in case.

Gone are the days of running errands, going to school or work, and simply breathing without a second thought about immigration enforcement. With ICE and some local police eager to enforce the whims of billionaire bros pushing their white-led “masculine energy” agenda, why take the risk?

These days, thousands of people with TPS, Biden program entrants, and asylum seekers must walk around with copies of their papers. Permanent residents feel vulnerable too, wondering if run-of-the-mill interactions with law enforcement might come back to haunt them or if booking that trip abroad is worth the risk since reentry might be a hassle. Even U.S. citizens are considering storing pictures of their passports on their phones or getting passport cards – just in case.

Even if nothing comes of this, since the propaganda is often worse than the reality – the damage is already done. We’ve seen this happen too often in history not to take precautions.

How can we forget the 1937 Parsley Massacre, when authorities in the Dominican Republic forced anyone who “looked Haitian” to say perejil. In their zeal to “cleanse” the country of Black people, the enforcers slaughtered anyone who said the word with an accent. Similarly in the U.S. back then, “sundown towns” under Jim Crow required Black people to show a pass if they were caught in a white area after the sun went down. If they didn’t have the right papers, they could be lynched.

But perhaps the clearest parallel to what’s happening in America is Haiti’s own Duvalier regime. Putting aside the fact that some folks have begun to romanticize that era, let’s look at how his rise to power and Trump’s share eerie similarities.

Duvalier gained power through a then-legitimate election process – one he exploited during his campaign. He tapped into the masses’ misery, lying about what he would or wouldn’t do. He branded institutions and critics as enemies of the people who needed to be cast aside. He painted himself as the people’s savior, appointed by a higher power.

He turned to the military to enforce his increasingly extreme edicts, until he eventually declared himself president for life. All the while, he grifted and grew richer off the people’s backs.

Fleeing Duvalier and the socio-economic collapse his reign triggered, we arrived in America – only to face racism and xenophobia. In crude, nasty terms, they told us to go back home – see this Davie, Florida anti-Haitian march – while exploiting us for labor and trying to strip us of our humanity.

One answer: Pa vann tèt nou

To survive in both instances, we closed ranks. In Haiti and in America, we resisted repression and fought back, just as we did in 1791 to 1803. With that history in mind, sitting in DoDor brought back memories from 20 years ago. Back when you could see, hear and feel people taking care of business in quotidian settings, not just during festivals and bals.

Last Friday, DoDor buzzed with nonstop activity. At this small business, customers can get interpretation services, job placement assistance, ESL classes, immigration referrals, tax filing, and other services. Creole fills the air, spoken loudly and often. Owner Dolores Murat and Pascal Antoine, a long-time community fixture known for HaitiXchange, also have a digital media setup to share information via social platforms and over the radio.

It’s the kind of place that does a lot with little to no budget, and funded mostly by the owner. And when a new need arises, the mission is clear: help folks make it through. Their response is part business promotion and part community service, where one often feeds off the other. As the community stretches across the country, we see this model replicated everywhere – from Boston and Miami to Springfield and Indianapolis – in person and online.

Lately, so many such businesses have been sharing what to do if authorities come knocking at our homes, workplaces or elsewhere. Some host sessions virtually only, partly to keep people out of ICE’s reach and partly to reach a wider audience. However, that feel of community is often flattened.

At DoDor last Friday, that ‘we’re in this together’ vibe was strong. About a dozen people crammed into the front area, taken up with folding chairs, for the deportation seminar. Some wore face masks to avoid being easily identified. Before introducing the speakers, Murat urged the attendees to ask the guest attorneys all their questions.

As the hours passed, people threw out questions and then some. Over and over, the Creole-speaking lawyer and Murat reiterated, “Pa vann tet ou” in some variation. By that, they meant don’t give away information about you or people in your household that ICE could use to detain or deport you.

Me – I took this to also mean our community must not be cowed into throwing in the towel at the start of the fight. Though the fear, rhetoric and images feel like past eras when so many Haitians lived in the shadows, we need to stay sharp. If we all show up like DoDor is doing – combining our spaces, tactics, language and cultural fluency to step up – we won’t just survive this moment in America. We’ll emerge wiser and stronger, better equipped to navigate this land for generations to come.