July 31, 2026
Two years ago, during the height of the vitriol and violence directed toward the Haitian community in Springfield, I traveled there and met my colleague, Rabbi Karen Bodney-Halasz, Senior Rabbi of Temple Israel in Dayton, for lunch at a Haitian restaurant. You probably recall those days when the Haitian community there was afraid to leave their homes, not for fear of ICE, but out of fear of their neighbors, who were reacting to accusations that they were eating other people’s pets—a claim that had no modicum of truth and was levied only to create vitriol against this community. When Rabbi Bodney-Halasz and I were dining at the Haitian restaurant, the gratitude we felt was palpable. They were accustomed to members of the Haitian community dining in their restaurant, but the threats of violence kept people home. They understood that we were there because we cared about them and saw them as human beings.
Months later, an executive order would end Temporary Protected Status for the Haitian community in the United States. The court system put that executive order on hold until the Supreme Court ruled last month that the executive order was legal. Temporary Protected Status ended earlier this week, on July 27, which means thousands of Haitians no longer have the documentation to remain in the United States.
While solving the complexities of our nation’s immigration system seems out of reach for lawmakers, we are still drawn to the human stories as we reflect on how people are affected by our flawed immigration policies and practices. Meet Claudia Cilien Pierre, a 35-year-old woman originally from Haiti who now lives in the Indianapolis area with her husband, John Ptsensly, and their two children. Claudia and John came to the United States in 2016 on travelers’ visas. They traveled back and forth to their native Haiti before realizing that it was no longer safe for them. John was involved in political democracy movements and was an advocate for justice and democracy. Eventually, they made their way to Indianapolis and sought the assistance of an attorney to help them apply for asylum, fearing persecution at home. Claudia studied for her GED and became a nursing assistant. Now working in a nursing home, Claudia loves helping others. She recently started a program to become a registered nurse. She believes that if you really want something, you have to work hard to accomplish it. As I think about her mindset, I cannot help but see her as a living example of the American dream and the belief that, with hard work, you can create success.
The Jewish community also has a history of arriving here, working hard, and doing what we could to make it. Most Jewish stories told about these experiences took place several generations ago, but what I have learned is that, as history rolls on, we share the same stories as earlier generations. The stories are the same, but the nationalities and countries of origin may differ. What has not changed is that the drive to work hard still burns in the hearts of those who arrive in this country with dreams of a better tomorrow for themselves and their families. Those dreams and journeys are often met with resistance, fear, and hatred. Such sentiments have existed for generations as well.
We care about these individuals because they are our neighbors, because they care for our loved ones, or because, even if we do not know them, their stories speak to our souls. We care for them because we know what it is like to be a stranger; we know what it is like to be othered. While we may not be sure what we can do to help right now, these are the times when we turn to prayer. In these moments of uncertainty, the hashkiveinu speaks to me. Calling for a canopy of shalom to comfort those who suffer and embrace those who cower in fear, these words of prayer might help us give agency to the powerless. Shabbat’s vision of the world to come has me hoping for a day when all of us can go to sleep at night without fear of a knock on our door by a hateful hand.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Rick Kellner