The Department of Homeland Security just slammed the brakes on a Biden-era immigration policy that’s been a lightning rod for controversy.
The CHNV parole program, which granted temporary entry to nationals from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Venezuela for up to two years, has been terminated, with participants now receiving notices that their parole and work permits are revoked, WBOC reported.
Launched in 2023 by the Biden administration, the CHNV program was pitched as a humanitarian lifeline for folks from troubled nations. But let’s be real—it’s been a bureaucratic mess from the get-go, opening the door to hundreds of thousands without, some say, enough vetting.
Now, DHS is hitting send on emails that are anything but friendly, informing participants that their legal stay and work rights are kaput. If they haven’t secured another lawful status, they’re expected to pack up and leave the U.S. pronto.
“Ending the CHNV parole programs will be a necessary return to common-sense policies,” declared Tricia McLaughlin, DHS Assistant Secretary for Public Affairs. Well, that’s one way to put it—common sense to some, a cold shoulder to others who see this as abandoning vulnerable people.
McLaughlin also didn’t hold back, stating the Biden team “lied to America” about the program’s impact. Her words sting, but they echo a frustration many feel about unchecked policies that seem to prioritize optics over outcomes for American workers.
Zoom in on Wicomico County, Maryland, home to what’s believed to be the state’s largest Haitian community. Reverend Roosevelt Toussaint, head of the Haitian Development Center of Delmarva, estimates 3,000 to 4,000 Haitians live there, though how many entered via CHNV remains unclear.
Toussaint paints a grim picture, saying, “They’re going to go back to hell.” It’s a gut-punch of a statement, and while the emotion is raw, it’s hard to ignore the chaos in places like Haiti that drove folks here in the first place.
He added that Haiti’s government can’t protect its people, with many “running for their lives.” Hyperbole or not, it’s a reminder that deportation isn’t just paperwork—it’s a ticket to uncertainty for some.
Local voices like Nerla Despinasse, a U.S. citizen and owner of Papayo Market in Salisbury, aren’t buying the blanket approach to termination. “If a criminal is there, they need to put the criminal out,” she argues, urging focus on individuals over mass action. Her point lands—why punish the peaceful for the sins of a few?
Despinasse also highlights the slow grind of gaining legal status, noting, “We need something.” It’s a fair jab at a system that often feels like it’s designed to stall rather than solve.
She’s proud of her community’s contributions, saying they “work with the community” and “pay taxes.” That’s the kind of immigrant story conservatives should champion—folks pulling their weight, not gaming the system.
Both Toussaint and Despinasse worry that if CHNV participants stay, ICE agents could swarm Wicomico County. It’s a chilling thought for a tight-knit area, though DHS stayed mum on enforcement in their press release.
Salisbury Mayor Randy Taylor confirmed last week that city officials haven’t been looped in on any ICE plans. That silence from the feds isn’t exactly reassuring—it’s more like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For now, the termination of CHNV is a done deal, and while it’s a win for those pushing an America First agenda, it’s a bitter pill for communities caught in the crossfire. The debate over immigration isn’t ending here; it’s just getting a new, thornier chapter.