Come Oct. 25, Kerby Hilaire isn’t sure what he’ll do.
Hilaire, 38, came to the United States from Haiti in October 2023 via humanitarian parole, a program that allowed people from countries in crisis to temporarily live and work in America. It allowed Haitians with sponsors who are U.S. citizens or permanent residents to come to this country.
In May, President Donald Trump’s Department of Homeland Security (DHS) announced it was ending humanitarian parole for people from Afghanistan, Cuba, Haiti and Venezuela. Hilaire received word that his parole status, and ability to legally work in the United States, will end in late October.
He is one of thousands of migrants in Minnesota and across the country who are weighing limited options as the Trump administration constricts immigration and encourages people whose legal status is expiring or nonexistent to head home.
Hilaire, who works at a medical supplies warehouse, could apply for asylum before October 25, which would allow him to stay in the United States and work while his application is processed. He could attempt to move to Canada, where he has relatives and pursue immigration there; or he could return to Haiti, where his wife still lives.
For Haitians, home is a place rife with lawlessness, civil unrest and violence.
“After the [U.S. presidential] election in November, I knew everything was over,” Hilaire said.
Many Haitians in the United States are living under humanitarian parole, which is usually awarded to people with sponsors on a case-by-case basis, or under temporary protected status (TPS), a broader designation for citizens of countries in crisis. Most have applied for asylum. Hilaire hasn’t. When he came to this country, he believed that his wife, Julianna Etienne, would be able to join him under the same program.
Hilaire was sponsored by a school friend living in the U.S., who also planned to sponsor Etienne, but had to support a relative instead. Then the program stopped accepting applications.
Those seeking asylum cannot leave the United States during the application process, which can take years. “You have to be willing to sacrifice everything,” he said.
Hilaire is unsure if he’s willing to do that. The couple has been separated for nearly two years. Hilaire misses Etienne dearly. He thought he was doing the right thing when he moved to the United States. The couple had lost two babies to miscarriages and hoped to find better medical support here to have a child.
“She’s a really resilient person,” he said of his wife. “It was really hard at the time for me to leave her behind.”
A dangerous situation
Back in Haiti, Hilaire was a supervisor at a bank, overseeing its credit card division. He’d been a banker for 15 years and had been told he was on the verge of a promotion.
But conditions in Haiti were bad. The country has been in a state of crisis since the 2021 assassination of President Jovenel Moise, with no formal leader and rival gangs warring over swaths of territory.
The State Department has warned American citizens not to visit Haiti and has pulled most staff from its embassy in Port-au-Prince. But DHS Secretary Kristi Noem claims conditions in Haiti have stabilized.
“The environmental situation in Haiti has improved enough that it is safe for Haitian citizens to return home,” DHS said in a June statement announcing the end of TPS that alludes to the country’s recovery from a devastating 2010 earthquake. It has said less about the ongoing crime problem and lack of security.
When he talks to Etienne on video calls, he hears evidence of the chaos back home. Her area is relatively safe, he said, but Haiti remains dangerous.
“Every day you can hear gunshots,” Hilaire said. “It’s really stressful for her.”
At Fort Snelling Immigration Court, signs on the wall encourage those whose status is expiring to self-deport. But getting back to Haiti isn’t easy. International flights have become rare and expensive, and people often need to land in the countryside, then take buses to their final destinations. Along the way, travelers are often shaken down at unofficial checkpoints, Hilaire said.
Willing to start over
Hilaire spent his initial time in the United States in Maryland, and moved to Minnesota in May 2024. He likes it here. Minnesotans are kind, he said, without being too intrusive.
“My experience here really changed my perspective of American people,” he said. “They don’t invade your personal space, but they ask, ‘How are you?’”
After years as a banker in Haiti, Hilaire found work in a much different setting — at a medical supplies warehouse in Champlin.
“I’m totally OK with it. I’m willing to start over,” he said.
He’s grateful that the warehouse is allowing him to work until his permit expires. Many Haitians in Minnesota were let go once their employers learned that DHS was ending humanitarian parole and TPS programs, according to David Policard, who leads a nonprofit called Vanse that assists the Haitian community.
About 4,000 Haitians live in Minnesota, but the number of people who have humanitarian parole, TPS, permanent residency or other visas is unclear. Hilaire lives in a neat duplex apartment in south Minneapolis with three other Haitians, whom he knew vaguely back home but who have since become good friends.
Most other Haitians he knows here have already applied for asylum, Hilaire said. Many have most of their family members in the United States and are less concerned about being stuck in the country without being able to see loved ones. But everyone’s situation is different.
“It’s kind of forbidden to talk about your status now,” he said.
He applied for TPS nearly a year ago, and hasn’t heard anything back from the government. The Trump administration announced it is ending TPS for Haitians in June and protections are set to expire for roughly 500,000 Haitians in February 2026.
Hilaire could still apply for asylum, though the government prefers people do that during their first year in the United States and has recently added an application fee. He’s thinking about it. He’s also considering moving to Canada, where some family members have settled in Ottawa and become Canadian citizens.
In 2024, the asylum acceptance rate for Haitians was 31%, according to the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse at New York’s Syracuse University, which tracks federal government data. There is currently a 2.25-million-person asylum case backlog, and it could be years before an application is processed, with fairly low chances of success.
Hilaire is concerned that if he does apply for asylum, it could simply delay his return home to the point where his life in Haiti is just a memory.
“By the time you get back to your country, all your connections are gone,” he said.
