In Ohio, Haitians Feel Shaken by Ankle Monitors and Increased ICE Presence

Before dawn on Wednesday, Jonas Julien waited in the darkness of his Springfield, Ohio, home for his ride to an Immigration and Customs Enforcement office about an hour away.

The 35-year-old Haitian immigrant had completed another grueling 12-hour shift at 3:30 a.m. After a quick bite and shower, he had stretched on the couch to avoid waking his wife and their 2-month-old daughter. But sleep never came.

“I don’t know what awaits me, and I am just exhausted from the worry,” Mr. Julien said after climbing into the back seat of a Toyota Corolla, clutching a folder of immigration do***ents that included an active asylum petition and a work permit valid until 2029.

By the time he returned to his wife and daughter about 10 hours later, a clunky black band with a blinking light would be clamped around his left ankle. He would have an order to report back to ICE in a few weeks. And he would be afraid for their future.

Mr. Julien is among hundreds of Haitians in Springfield who have been summoned to ICE offices, according to the Haitian Support Center, a local organization. The group estimates that more than 100 people have been fitted with ankle monitors.

A city of 60,000 between Dayton and Columbus, Springfield emerged in recent years as hub of Haitian immigration and its newcomers a target of attacks from President Trump.

Following the termination of a legal protection called Temporary Protected Status that allowed 330,000 Haitians to live and work in the United States, his administration has launched an aggressive electronic monitoring campaign centered on the small city.

Springfield, home to between 10,000 and 15,000 Haitians, has also seen a robust ICE presence and more than 20 arrests since last week.

Fitting ankle monitors on noncitizens without a criminal history who remain in compliance with their immigration cases has little precedent. The Department of Homeland Security has provided no official rationale for the electronic surveillance, which lawyers say the Trump administration had previously reserved mainly for immigrants released from detention.

The ankle monitors will make it far easier for federal authorities to locate the immigrants if full-scale deportations begin. In Springfield’s Haitian communities, there is widespread fear that the monitors are a precursor to detention and forced return to Haiti, where the economy is in ruins and returnees are prime targets for extortion and kidnapping by armed gangs.

For now, removal flights to Haiti have occurred only once a month this year. The first since T.P.S. ended last month landed on Thursday in the northern city of Cap-Haitien with 170 people, according to the Haitian Bridge Alliance, a national advocacy organization, and the plane carried some former T.P.S. recipients.

In Springfield, the sense of dread has intensified since last week, when federal agents began detaining Haitians during daily roving patrols. On Thursday morning, a Haitian pastor was arrested at a gas station with two other people, according to local leaders, who said they might not be aware of all the detentions. More were detained on Friday.

The spate of arrests has prompted many Haitians to stay home, and even those who still have valid employment authorization tied to asylum cases are missing work.

“People are in extreme mental distress,” said Rose Thamar-Joseph, operations chief at the Haitian Support Center. “We are going to need professional help, social workers.”

In response to questions about the ankle monitors and ICE presence in Springfield, a DHS statement said that the agency does not discuss ongoing or future operations.

“What we would say now is, it’s closing time, which means you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” the statement said.

During Mr. Julien’s ride to the ICE office, Benjamin Louis, the driver, told him that he had been ***ing Haitians to appointments in Cincinnati or Columbus since T.P.S. was rescinded.

Mr. Julien was likely to be presented with two options, Mr. Louis told him: Agree to a government payment of $2,600 per family member to voluntarily leave the United States, or wear an ankle monitor to track his movements. If he chose the monitor, he would be told that he must stay within a 75-mile radius of his home.

Mr. Julien replied that returning to Haiti was not an option.

He was the sole provider for his family in Springfield and relatives in his homeland, he said. His wife had left her job at an Amazon warehouse near the city to care for their newborn, and his uncle, who also lives in Springfield, had lost his job when T.P.S. was revoked.

After that exchange with Mr. Louis, Mr. Julien grew somber.

His face lit up only when asked if he had pictures of his little girl, which he proudly pulled up on his phone.

About 10:30 a.m., Mr. Julien and Mr. Louis entered a nondescript building, devoid of federal insignia, in an industrial park across from an blockisted-living facility in Blue Ash, outside Cincinnati.

About 90 minutes later, Mr. Julien emerged visibly shaken, a monitor hugging his left ankle and a plastic bag containing a charger and power cables in his hand. It was past noon, but he said he had no appetite for lunch.

On the way back to Springfield, Mr. Julien gazed out the window, pensive beneath his leather cap. He rested his head in his hands and tried to nod off, to no avail.

“It’s so humiliating,” he said softly. “I feel just awful.”

“I haven’t committed any crime,” he continued. “I have complied with the terms of my immigration case. I’ve worked hard.”

At a practical level, Mr. Julien worried whether the bulky device would fit into his work boots, mandatory on the job at a vehicle-parts manufacturer.

Once back in Springfield, Mr. Louis, a certified Haitian-Creole interpreter, drove directly to the Haitian Support Center, where he knew American volunteers were filling out requests for immigration judges to authorize the removal of ankle monitors from people with medical conditions and other issues.

“These things are huge,” said Betsy Director, a volunteer who was blockisting Mr. Julien. She described them as, “not bracelets, more like shackles.”

“It’s difficult for people to put on their work gear,” she said. “They’re slapping them on the elderly. Yesterday I saw a grandma.”

On the digital form, she typed that Mr. Julien had been an upstanding member of the Springfield community for three years and five months. He had a stable home, steady employment and a young family.

By the time he finally walked through the front door at home again, he had been awake for more than 24 hours.

He scooped up his baby girl and held her tight. A smile spread across his face. The aroma of beans and rice on the stove wafted from the kitchen.

For now, he could eat and rest.

His next ICE appointment is Sept. 18.