Unhoused, Unheard: When Immigrants Seeking Safety Are Forced Back Into the Shadows
At a time when housing instability is reaching crisis levels across New Hampshire, one quiet story from Union Street in Peterborough underscores a painful truth: unhousing immigrants who work, pay taxes, and enrich our communities will only deepen the homelessness crisis.
This is the story of a Haitian family seeking safety, doing everything right—and still being forced to flee.
A Family’s Search for Safety Begins in Peterborough
It started on a bright October afternoon when a woman named Daphne arrived to see an apartment for rent. But when the door opened, it wasn’t just Daphne—it was her entire family: a shy little girl with curious, sparkling eyes, her inquisitive nine-year-old brother, and two quiet, hopeful parents. They spoke Haitian Creole. The children, fluent in English, translated.
The apartment was small—too small, perhaps, for a family of four—but it was too late. Their warmth and sincerity filled the space, and a bond was instantly formed. It was clear: they had already decided this would be their new home. And so had I.
A Fragile Foundation Built on Hope and Hard Work
In those early weeks, I realized they had little to furnish their new life. No beds, no tables—just resilience and gratitude. I offered what I could. Together, we enrolled the children in school, and I watched as the family settled into our community. The parents worked alternating shifts at Market Basket so one could always care for the kids. They never missed a rent payment, never asked for help beyond the occasional bill explanation or school form. They simply worked—hard.
They came to the U.S. under Humanitarian Parole, a legal status granted to those fleeing extreme danger—in this case, the violent collapse of Haiti, where gang violence, political instability, and poverty have displaced more than 700,000 people. They had lived in nearby Winchendon before moving to Peterborough for a better school system. Their lives were simple but full—school, work, family, and a shared sense of purpose.
Then Everything Changed—Without Warning
In mid-March, Lovelie stood on my doorstep holding a letter from the Department of Homeland Security. Her hands trembled. Their work visas had been revoked. They were no longer allowed to work—but were still permitted to remain in the country.
The crushing irony of “Humanitarian Aid” became clear. This wasn’t charity. It was a fragile contract—one that could be broken, seemingly without cause. Their only offense? Believing they had finally found peace. Believing they were safe.
Without the legal right to work, they faced a familiar choice: risk eviction and homelessness, or flee once more. They chose to leave, finding refuge with a sister in Canada. On the night before they left, Lovelie’s son confided, “I’m scared.” This was a boy who had already seen too much—displacement, violence, uncertainty. And once again, his future dissolved in the face of forces far beyond his control.
When We Deny Stability, We Fuel Homelessness
This family was doing everything right. They:
Entered legally under humanitarian protection
Worked full-time jobs
Paid rent consistently
Enrolled their children in school
Paid taxes and built relationships in our community
They were not a burden. They were neighbors, contributors, and survivors. But one bureaucratic decision sent them back into a state of fear and displacement.
This is how homelessness grows.
Not just from poverty, addiction, or eviction—but from policy decisions that unravel lives built on hope and effort.
The “Hidden Homeless” Among Us
Peterborough, like many rural communities in New Hampshire, faces a growing crisis of hidden homelessness. These are the stories you don’t see on street corners—families sleeping in cars, couch surfing, living in constant fear of eviction, or disappearing across borders because it feels safer than staying.
Immigrant families like Lovelie’s often face even greater vulnerability, due to language barriers, fear of deportation, limited legal aid, and the inability to access housing assistance or employment protections. When we deny them the right to work, we deny them the chance to stay housed. We push them out—and we lose part of our community in the process.
What This Family Leaves Behind—and What We Must Carry Forward
After they left, I cleaned the apartment. I found signs of quiet fear—door locks they installed on their bedrooms, signs they never felt fully secure. Still, they stayed hopeful. They dreamed of a better life for their children. And for a moment, they had it—right here in our town.
This story isn’t about politics. It’s about people.
A three-year-old girl who made herself at home with giggles and hugs.
A nine-year-old boy who learned to love school.
Two parents who worked tirelessly to give their children peace.
And a neighbor who witnessed both the joy—and the heartbreak—of watching them be forced to leave.
How You Can Help
MATS (Monadnock Area Transitional Shelter) exists to help all people facing housing insecurity—immigrants, families, single mothers, and working individuals. We believe in dignity, inclusion, and stability for everyone, no matter where they’re from.
You can help by:
Donating to support our transitional shelter services
Volunteering to assist families with housing needs, resume building, or language support
Advocating for inclusive, humane immigration and housing policies
Attending events and staying informed about rural homelessness in New Hampshire
We Must Choose Compassion Over Bureaucracy
Let’s not be the country that offers hope and then retracts it. Let’s be the community that welcomes families fleeing violence with real protection—and the tools to build a new life. Because no one should be unhoused for the crime of seeking peace.
Support dignity. Defend stability. Stand with families like Lovelie’s before they disappear again into silence.
