SALISBURY, Md. - These are difficult times for the Word of Life Center, a church that has served as an active center for the Haitian community in Maryland's Eastern Shore area for many years.

A wedding shower and outdoor sale barbecue were called off. English classes were also halted. The lead pastor of the independent congregation in Salisbury, Roosevelt Toussaint, noted that turnout for Sunday worship fell by over half. Usually more than 500 attendees would listen to his message, called "What to do in a time of crisis."

The cause of the sparse attendance, Toussaint explained, stems from many residents staying indoors due to worries about detention and removal after the Trump administration ended Temporary Protected Status for over 1 million individuals from various nations. This includes around 350,000 Haitians who have lived and worked legally in the U.S. for years.

In Salisbury, the largest city on the Eastern Shore, roughly 10% of the 33,000 residents are Haitian, with many holding TPS roles in farming, caregiving, and poultry facilities that form the local economic core.

Like others losing TPS, they now confront a painful decision: remain in the U.S. for unofficial jobs while fearing capture by Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers. Or go back to a country plagued by gang violence and hardship, where some view removal as a potential death sentence.

Toussaint, who has led the Word of Life Center since 1995, shared a direct appeal to President Donald Trump.

"We hope you will show mercy toward our community. They have committed no offenses," Toussaint said. "They arrived in this nation only to labor and support our economy. ... There is no safety back home. Sending us there truly means sending us to perish."

During Sunday worship, the first after TPS protections lapsed, Toussaint urged his group to stay strong.

"I pray today that God renders you unseen to those who oppose you," Toussaint told them in Haitian Creole. "They have instilled much dread in your hearts. But God says: 'Do not fear!'"

Some attendees who hold U.S. citizenship came to support those affected by the TPS change. One was Marjorie Estimé, who had a Haitian flag around her shoulders.

"I urge the president of the United States to halt the ICE efforts so people can work without being targeted or harmed, allowing us to return to normal," Estimé said regarding the administration's immigration policies.

Yet ICE continues its actions, per supporters and lawyers who report the agency is summoning Haitians for monitoring devices and restricting travel beyond 75 miles from their residence.

"Rather than large operations in neighborhoods, they use methods to draw people to their facilities for possible detention ... and warn that failure to leave voluntarily will lead to another summons within a month," said Guerline Jozef, president of the Haitian Bridge Alliance.

The TPS end for Haitians faced court challenges. On June 25, the U.S. Supreme Court backed the government, permitting the TPS program to conclude and causing weeks of uncertainty over enforcement timing.

On July 27, work permits expired without extension, heightening alarm in Haitian areas - not just from job losses but also from deportation risks.

"It feels like a Category 5 hurricane - that severe," said Samson Orneus, a church member. He assists the pastor with the local Haitian Development Center of Delmarva and operates WOLC Immigration Services in Salisbury.

Over the past week, social media spread reports of immigration arrests near gas stations and supermarkets.

"We had residents living lawfully, raising families, paying expenses, and the TPS decision left them uncertain," said Marie D. Fouché, founder of Safe Harbor Circles. The group aids immigrant populations on the Eastern Shore and noted over a dozen recent detentions, some involving TPS holders.

"They left their children at home," she said. "They went shopping at stores like Walmart to buy food for their families. But arrests happened in the lots, and they will not return."

When asked about ICE activities in Salisbury, the Department of Homeland Security stated via email that DHS "does not comment on current or upcoming operations."

"Temporary Protected Status is meant to be short-term," the email noted. "For too long, TPS has acted like a permanent amnesty even though Congress did not design it that way."

At a quiet barber shop in Salisbury, a Haitian TPS recipient stopped for a trim. Like others, he requested anonymity due to removal fears.

"They are not focusing on those breaking laws," said the 39-year-old, employed as a caregiver since arriving in Salisbury in 2020. "When I step outside, I feel scared."

The U.S. first granted TPS to Haitians after the 2010 earthquake and renewed it multiple times.

The Trump administration sought to terminate it, claiming improved conditions in Haiti. However, nearly 1.5 million people remain displaced by gang activity, and most Haitians require aid.

"This administration's actions cause me great pain because they lack humanity," said Leila Borrero Krouse, an immigration expert at CATA, a group helping Eastern Shore farmworkers.

"In all my time assisting immigrants, I have never encountered a criminal or abuser," she said. "Most take roles others avoid. It is painful to witness their distress."

The enforcement shift has disrupted the routine of Patricia Grace Louis-Jacques, a nursing student at Salisbury University with relatives and friends impacted by the TPS end. Last week, her closest friend requested she care for her baby if detained.

"From that point, I realized the situation had worsened," Louis-Jacques said at a mostly empty Caribbean Creole Café beneath a portrait of Toussaint L'Ouverture. "Their existence has shifted dramatically."

Near the church by a Perdue Farms poultry site, a Honduran woman spoke from the house she has seldom left since the Trump administration ended TPS for nearly 80,000 Hondurans and Nicaraguans a year ago.

She had worked at Perdue Farms for over two decades, cutting chickens on a rapid line, before losing her position after her TPS lapsed.

Her 25-year-old U.S.-born son fears her detention. He often phones to advise keeping curtains drawn and ignoring knocks. At times, she said, she locks herself in a bathroom with a Bible.

On weekends she once joined church and immigrant rights events. Now she only lets her two dogs into the yard before returning inside.

"Living with this worry is awful," she said. "It is unjust for those of us who came here not to harm anyone but to seek a better life."