If Omara, a U.S. citizen, decided tomorrow to take her two young American children to Haiti to see their father, the United States government would have a very clear message for her: Do not go.
Haiti remains under the U.S. State Department’s highest travel warning — Level 4: “Do Not Travel” — because of crime, kidnapping, terrorism, unrest, and limited healthcare.
They would be traveling to see Omara’s husband and their father, Pastor Molis Augustave. Why is he in Haiti now?
The United States government sent him there on September 24. Augustave was deported to Haiti, leaving his wife, children, congregation, and community behind in York, Pennsylvania.
His journey from York to Haiti began just 20 days earlier with something remarkably ordinary: a broken headlight. On September 4, West Manchester Township police stopped Augustave while he was driving. During the traffic stop, officers discovered an outstanding removal order. Officers then took him and handed him over to ICE.
To be clear, Augustave was not deported because of a broken headlight. He had an existing removal order after an earlier asylum case — but his immigration story did not end there.
Augustave had been allowed to remain in the United States under Temporary Protected Status (TPS) before that protection for Haitians ended this summer. His U.S. citizen wife had petitioned for him, and he was seeking lawful permanent residence. His attorneys were also pursuing a motion to reopen his removal proceedings.
Augustave was initially scheduled for deportation on September 17. He was reportedly already on the plane when he was pulled off at the last minute as his case received national attention and his pending green card application was reviewed.
That reprieve lasted only days. His application for permanent residence was denied within two days, and on September 24, Augustave was placed on another flight.
This time, the plane left. Now Omara has a husband in Haiti, two American children have their father in Haiti, and a York congregation has its pastor in Haiti. His 2-year-old son was too young to understand where his father had gone. Omara told WITF, an NPR and PBS member station in Central Pennsylvania, that while Augustave was detained, the little boy would wait by the door saying “Daddy.”
An important legal reality applies here: Marriage to a U.S. citizen does not automatically erase an existing removal order, and a pending immigration application does not necessarily prevent deportation. However, legality does not answer every question this case raises.
There is also the question of discretion, proportionality, family, and the human consequences of immigration enforcement.
While in detention, Augustave reportedly led Bible study, prayed with other detainees, and counseled a man who was contemplating suicide, but something else happened there. He began thinking about the immigrants whose names never make the news. Before his deportation, Augustave wrote about the 89 people who remained on the first deportation flight after he was removed.
“Who knows whether one of them was afraid?” he asked. “Who knows whether one left children behind?” Those questions are worth remembering because Augustave had something many immigrants facing deportation do not: People knew his name.
His wife fought for him. His community rallied around him. Clergy advocated for him. Attorneys challenged his removal. His story reached the media. Yet still, he was deported.
Imagine, then, the immigrant whose name nobody knows. Perhaps the most difficult contradiction in Augustave’s story lies not in an immigration court filing, but on the State Department’s own website.
The United States warns its citizens not to travel to Haiti because of kidnapping, terrorism, crime, unrest, and limited healthcare. Haiti remains under a national state of emergency. Even U.S. government employees face restrictions on nonessential travel because of security risks.
Yet, the same government continues deporting Haitian nationals there. Perhaps immigration law gave the government the authority to deport Molis Augustave, but authority does not erase consequences.
His wife now lives in Pennsylvania while her husband lives in Haiti. Two American children now have their father in a country their own government warns them not to visit.
The question I cannot shake is painfully simple: If Haiti is too dangerous for Molis Augustave’s American wife and children, why was it safe enough for their Haitian husband and father?
Felicia J. Persaud is the founder and publisher of NewsAmericasNow.com, the only daily syndicated newswire and digital platform dedicated exclusively to Caribbean Diaspora and Black immigrant news across the Americas.
