'Blood is on our hands': Haitian honour student's death sparks outcry over ICE ankle monitors

Decorated with academic and athletic awards, Pierre Damas Bel was well on his way to fulfilling his dream of becoming a neurosurgeon.

Described by teachers as a "student of the highest calibre" and a "deeply dedicated" member of his community, Bel was an honour student, captain of the varsity soccer team and volunteer at a food bank in Springfield, Ohio.

But this summer, Bel lost the protected immigration status that allowed him to legally live in the U.S. after fleeing the ongoing instability in Haiti in 2024.

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) fitted the 20-year-old Wright State University student with an ankle monitor in late July as an "alternative to detention." But the device prevented him from playing soccer, and he reportedly began to be bullied by classmates and felt he was "treated like an animal."

"I came here to study, to build my future … not to be treated like [a] criminal," he wrote in a post.

Bel was one of about 350,000 Haitians living and working in the U.S. who lost temporary protected status (TPS) after a U.S. Supreme Court ruling allowed the Trump administration to revoke the humanitarian protection.

Homeland Security's deportation campaign began immediately.

"Those with terminated TPS are in our nation illegally," it posted alongside a video showing Haitian migrants in chains, escorted onto a repatriation flight on Aug. 27.

Once a lieutenant in his high school's Junior Reserve Officers' Training Corps (JROTC) program and described as a "natural leader" who would become a "great American," Bel was the only one in the Wright State ROTC program not to be given a uniform because of the monitor, his father says.

The following Monday, Bel walked into traffic on a nearby highway and was struck by a semi-truck, according to Ohio State Highway Patrol.

He died on the scene. His family believes it was a suicide.

'100% preventable'

In the following days, memorials were held in his honour in Ohio and across the U.S., including New York City. Many held ICE's immigration crackdown responsible for his death.

"Racist anti-Haitian campaign murdered Pierre Damas Bel," one woman's sign in New York read.

Asked to respond to advocates' allegations that the shame of the ankle monitor drove Bel to suicide, ICE told CBC any attempts to blame the agency for his death are false.

"No one is required to stay in the United States illegally and wear a GPS monitor," the agency wrote, adding that self-deportation is an option.

But Yola Lamarre, a friend of Bel, says ICE's response oversimplifies Bel's mental health crisis and blames the young man for his own death.

"We have to be honest in where blood is on our hands," she told CBC News.

Lamarre, who saw Bel as a little brother, said his death was "100 per cent preventable" if he had been treated more humanely.

"He told me how he would try to wear a certain wardrobe to hide the ankle monitor," she said.

"He just wanted belonging. He just wanted acceptance."

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Haitians were granted TPS after the 2010 earthquake that killed more than 300,000 people in the Caribbean country. Other crises, including cholera outbreaks, Hurricane Sandy and the assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse, prompted further extensions.

After failed attempts to end Haiti's TPS in Trump's first term, the Department of Homeland Security announced in June 2025 it was ending it, saying the situation had "improved enough that it is safe for Haitian citizens to return home." Meanwhile, the U.S. State Department tells its citizens not to travel to Haiti due to the risk of "crime, kidnapping, terrorism, unrest and limited health care."

The ankle monitoring program Bel was subjected to appears to be part of a larger strategy by ICE to "make life so miserable" that Haitians will self-deport, said Carl Ruby, senior pastor at Central Christian Church in Springfield, Ohio, a city where at least 10,000 of its roughly 60,000 residents are Haitian.

"They're afraid to go outside of their homes," said Ruby, whose church saw its Haitian attendance plummet from about 50 people to two.

Residents 'shackled'

Ruby said hundreds of Springfield residents — including teenagers, elderly and pregnant people — have been "shackled" with ankle monitors, often leading to deep shame and social isolation.

"Their old friends start to pull back from them because they're afraid that if they're with a person who has an ankle monitor, that they might be apprehended."

Critics like Ohio Democratic congressman Greg Landsman say the electronic monitoring program also unfairly humiliates law-abiding migrants.

"They aren't criminals," wrote Landsman. "It's all so wrong and cruel to pick on anybody, especially a group this vulnerable."

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Viles Dorsainvil, executive director of the Haitian Support Center in Springfield, said his community members are caught in a catch-22: no longer safe in the U.S., they also have nowhere to go.

"There is no country that is willing to welcome us," said Dorsainvil, who lost TPS himself. "We cannot go to work. We live in fear and anxiety on a daily basis."

The end of TPS has had a chilling effect across the wider Haitian diaspora in the U.S.

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At a Springfield strip mall, once a hub of economic activity with several Haitian-owned businesses, storefronts were locked or shuttered altogether when CBC visited last week.

One store employee, who asked not to be identified because of his immigration status, described the situation as a "catastrophe."

"There are many people who don't have enough to eat, who are sick, who don't have access to medical care … and no way to get to a doctor," the asylum seeker told CBC in French.

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Other businesses are struggling to pay their bills.

Claucia Dossous, a Haitian American who runs T-Co Islands Restaurant in Columbus, Ohio, said ending TPS has "broken everybody's life" after Haitians who frequented her restaurant were forced out of work.

"I pay for the price, too."

Looking to Canada

The climate of fear has led some Haitians to try moving to Canada.

More Haitian nationals file for asylum at the land border than any other country so far this year, according to the Canada Border Services Agency (CBSA). Figures from the Immigration and Refugee Board show that more than 27,000 Haitians are awaiting decisions — about 1/10th of all pending asylum claims.

Haitian American activist Guerline Jozef wants Canada to open more humanitarian pathways for Haitians who no longer feel safe in their country.

"We find ourselves in a place where we cannot leave, we cannot stay. And the only option they are giving them is to be kidnapped and be deported to the same place that they have fled," said Jozef, executive director of the Haitian Bridge Alliance in San Diego, Calif.

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Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada told CBC it "cannot speculate on future policy decisions" but highlighted temporary measures for Haitian nationals in place until October.

But for those outside Canada, those measures are only available to family members of Canadian citizens and permanent residents.

Ruby described the case of one family who was a part of their congregation who survived several kidnapping attempts in Haiti.

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Because one of them had a sister in Canada, they were able to join her. The day they arrived in Canada, they received letters from ICE telling them their TPS was over and to self-deport.

"They got out just in time," he said. "But that option just isn't available to very many people."

Instead, Jozef said many of the people who try to flee the U.S. into Canada are turned away.

Under the Safe Third Country Agreement, refugees who first arrive in the U.S. are barred from seeking asylum in Canada, barring certain exceptions. More than 1,100 asylum seekers were returned to U.S. immigration authorities under this agreement so far this year, according to the CBSA.

Montreal migrant advocate Frantz André said the agreement now effectively allows for "deportation by proxy" when Canadian agents turn back Haitian migrants knowing they will be deported by the U.S.

"The United States is no longer a safe country for hundreds of thousands of people," he said. "People are in despair."

If you or someone you know is struggling, here's where to look for help:

• Canada's Suicide Crisis Helpline: Call or text 988.
• Provincial and territorial mental health support.
• Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868. Text 686868. Live chat counselling on the website.
• This guide from the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health outlines how to talk about suicide with someone you're worried about.