A little over year ago, residents of the Little Farm trailer park, which sits a couple blocks outside of Little Haiti and holds 100 mobile homes, were told they were being evicted. The park’s new owners, a Chinese shell company, wanted to clear it for development. But clearing out is not so simple: While the homes originally were movable when they were wheeled in the ‘40s and ‘50s, they deteriorated to the point that they were effectively fixed to the ground.

Little Farm’s homeowners have little choice but to leave. Sophia Alexandre and her husband have owned their mobile home in Little Farm for the last four years, raising two children in their three-bedroom trailer, where school awards and family pictures take up every inch of limited wall space and smells from their garden waft through the windows. Alexandre, along with other Haitian immigrants, pays $500 a month to live there and expected to do so for many years to come. “But that’s not what happened,” she says. She doesn’t know where they’ll live next, now that some of the last remaining low-income, non-subsidized housing in Miami-Dade County is disappearing.

The investors who bought the land under Little Farm offered residents between $1,500 and $2,500 to vacate their homes voluntarily, but advocacy groups such as Legal Services of Greater Miami and South Florida Voices are pushing for larger sums. Last month, the group won a court victory granting another hearing for damages and delaying the original February 28 eviction date.

But eviction is still inevitable. “Where can they go and pay the same amount of rent? Nowhere,” says Kian Frederick, the director of South Florida Voices. “What’s the next thing that has to happen? They’re very proud that they’ve come to this country, and they’ve done the right thing, and they bought their own home, and their kids go to the public schools here. But these folks are expected to remain invisible and just float out.”

Howard Kuker, the lawyer representing the new owners of Little Farm, says he sympathizes with the people who are being evicted, but claims the small sum of money they offered residents was “more than what was required.” He said that his clients hadn’t cited the elevation of their land as their prime motivation for purchasing it, and noted that the tract’s value lies in its size. “You’re talking about 17 acres of land,” he says. “You can make your own city there.”

Every week, 30 trailer-park residents and a small team of advocates have been meeting to discuss the evictions. Although they have three more months until they have to move out, residents still don’t know how they’ll pay for a new place to live. “It's more than I can bear. I can't find a house,” Yolanda Dorce, a 35-year resident of Little Farm, says in Creole to the group. Frederick, seeing the room shuffle in discomfort, interjects, “But now is the time to stick together. You don’t have to be strong because we will help you be strong.”