SAN DIEGO — Emanuel Lexius’ market in El Cajon is typically bustling.

Not this week.

Lexius is Haitian, and so are most of the shoppers at Miche Caribbean Market. They come to stock up on familiar Haitian staples — Ti Malice vegetable oil spread, long-grain heirloom rice, Cola Couronne soda.

“People don’t want to be out,” he said, and “no one wants to be exposed.”

A wave of fear swept Haitian American communities in San Diego County and nationwide this week after the Trump administration revoked protections for Haitian immigrants living in the U.S. under temporary protected status, or TPS. The program has allowed roughly 350,000 Haitians — including thousands in San Diego — to live and work in the U.S. because their home country is unsafe.

A federal district judge temporarily blocked the action for nearly five months before the Supreme Court upheld the Trump order in June. The Department of Homeland Security officially moved to remove the protections on Monday.

That has left Haitians in San Diego in a state of anxiety over whether and when they could be deported. Community leaders say the repercussions could be widespread, with people now scared to leave their homes or go to work — or at risk of losing their jobs because they no longer have work authorization.

“People who applied for a program that the U.S. government laid in place … they came to the U.S. in search of safety and protection, only for that to be pulled from under them without any support,” said Guerline Jozef, the executive director of Haitian Bridge Alliance, a local nonprofit that provides legal and social services to Haitians and other immigrant groups.

Along with Haiti, the Trump administration has moved to roll back temporary protected status for people from 13 countries, all of them majority Black or brown.

“Temporary Protected Status is exactly that — temporary,” said a Department of Homeland Security spokesperson. “For too long, TPS has been allowed to function as a de facto amnesty program despite Congress never intending it to be permanent.”

TPS was established for Haiti in 2010, after a catastrophic earthquake killed more than 200,000 people and destabilized the country. The protection was extended in 2021 after Haiti’s president was assassinated and again in 2024 due to ongoing safety concerns. Today, armed gangs control sections of the country, presidential elections haven’t been held in a decade and millions of people struggle with daily needs, per a recent United Nations report.

Today, the Trump administration says conditions in Haiti have improved enough for Haitians to return. But Haiti remains under a “Do not travel” advisory from the U.S. State Department, and the country has been under a state of emergency since March 2024.

Since their deportation protections ended on Monday, Haitians in San Diego say they can’t go back to Haiti, pointing to safety concerns for themselves and their families.

“I had no choice but to leave Haiti,” said Galencha, a Haitian TPS holder who works in City Heights. The San Diego Union-Tribune is identifying him by only his first name due to his fears he could be deported.

The 42-year-old, who is married with two young daughters, has lived in San Diego for seven years. He said his mother and uncle were killed in Haiti; his older brother was shot. His father is still there, but his sisters and close friends have left.

A DHS spokesperson declined to comment on plans for any enforcement operations targeting Haitians in San Diego but said enforcement actions are happening every day.

“Whenever we go out, it makes me feel bad,” said a 43-year-old Haitian man who lives near El Cajon. He too just lost his temporary protected status.

He arrived in the U.S. two years ago, alone, leaving behind his family. He typically waits in a Home Depot parking lot with the hope of getting picked up for a job, but it hasn’t been easy to find steady work.

Now, he and other local Haitians say they have been keeping their head on a swivel for immigration enforcement.

Even with temporary protected status, immigrants face a host of challenges to find work in the first place, said Maria Chavez, immigration legal director at the Partnership for the Advancement of New Americans. The process to qualify for a work permit and a reauthorization can take over a year with delays, she noted.

Most Haitians who have settled in San Diego since 2010 have found work in the hospitality, healthcare and construction industries — though many arrive with an entrepreneurial mindset forged in their home country, explained Jozef, from the Haitian Bridge Alliance.

“Due to the lack of a formal job market, the majority of the people have to find ways to create small businesses in Haiti,” she said. “So they come with that mindset of creating businesses.”

Right now, Haitian Bridge Alliance is focused on helping former TPS holders create a family plan — including getting their financial documents in order and creating contingency plans in case they’re deported. It’s also helping get basic needs like food to Haitians who are scared to leave home and connecting them with legal representation.

Since going back to Haiti is not an option for many Haitians in the region, now is the time for former TPS holders to pursue alternatives such as asylum or seeing if they qualify to stay in the U.S. through marriage, Chavez said.

“None of these are fast options,” she conceded.

PANA and Haitian Bridge Alliance are currently fighting in court against the Trump administration’s termination of temporary protected status for Somalia. But Chavez says that fighting the termination for Haiti is largely off the table, since the Supreme Court has already upheld that order.

In the meantime, the end of Haitians’ temporary protections has created heartbreak throughout San Diego’s community.

Husband and wife Martha and Feret Milliem own Caribbean Pleasure, a Point Loma restaurant serving Haitian cuisine in a dining room hung with Haitian flags.

The couple has lived in San Diego for nearly half a century and aren’t personally affected by the end of TPS protections — but it’s been painful to watch their community grow fearful and lose their grip on the American lives they’ve worked to build.

The impact extends to families back in Haiti, too, they add, if relatives in the U.S. who suddenly lose their legal jobs are unable to send money back to them.

“Right now, the Haitians are living under hell,” Martha said.

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