The story of Jewish Daugavpils begins long before it bore that name—when it was still Dinaburg, a fortress town on the banks of the Daugava River. Established by Crusaders in 1275, Dinaburg’s strategic importance made it a contested prize among regional powers. But for the Jews who settled here in the aftermath of the First Partition of Poland in 1772, it became a refuge and a seedbed of prosperity. The Russian Empire absorbed the town, and with it came the first wave of 136 Jewish settlers—already one-third of the population.

By 1815, Jews made up 57% of the city’s inhabitants. Their economic exclusion from agriculture pushed them into trade, craftsmanship, and finance. They ran mills, bought grain from peasants, lent money, and sold salt, leather, and hardware. By the mid-19th century, Dvinsk (as it was renamed in 1893) had evolved into the Vitebsk province’s industrial and commercial hub, bolstered by the completion of the St. Petersburg–Warsaw railway. Jewish merchants and bankers played a crucial role in this transformation.

By the early 20th century, Dvinsk’s Jewish population had become an essential part of its economic structure. Jews ran distilleries, operated tar and resin factories, traded in textiles, flax, timber, and hemp. Jewish professionals served as doctors, lawyers, and notaries. Artisans—tailors, butchers, shoemakers—formed a vibrant working class, while the wealthy elite contributed to public institutions and urban development. Dvinsk had more trade and industry than any other city in the province.

This prosperity was built under increasing pressure. Anti-Semitic edicts from Tsarist Russia—cantonist conscription, discriminatory taxes, dress codes, and harsh residency restrictions—forced Jews into an uneasy balance between survival and flourishing. Yet, even within such confines, the Jewish spirit of Daugavpils persevered.

At its height, Daugavpils was a city of prayer. By 1923, it had around 70 synagogues—many tied to professions, guilds, or influential founders. But the architectural grandeur was secondary to the city’s spiritual force. In a unique display of unity, Hasidim, Mitnagdim, Ashkenazim, and even some Sephardim prayed side-by-side in shared houses of worship.

The city’s rabbinic legacy is legendary. Among its spiritual giants were Rabbi Meir Simcha of Dvinsk, known for his work Ohr Sameyach, and Rabbi Yosef Rozin, the famed “Rogachover Gaon.” These figures held immense respect not only among their followers but across global Jewry. They led not just with halakhic authority, but as beacons of intellectual and moral rigor, nurturing generations of disciples and defending Jewish dignity through the darkest periods.

The 20th century brought cataclysm. In 1915, as World War I raged, Jews were deported from Dvinsk as “politically unreliable.” Many returned in 1918, only to face a period of military occupations, shifting borders, and political uncertainty. By 1930, Jews still made up over a quarter of Daugavpils’ population. But that vibrant presence would soon face total annihilation.

With the Nazi invasion in 1941, Daugavpils became a site of horror. The ghetto established there saw the systematic murder of 23,000 Jews—14,000 of them locals. The few who escaped joined the Red Army, fled to Soviet territory, or were sent to labor camps. Jewish Daugavpils, once teeming with life, was almost entirely erased.

Following the restoration of Latvian independence in 1991, the Jewish community of Daugavpils began a cautious revival. Property restitution laws returned several former synagogues to Jewish ownership, including the Great Choral Synagogue and the “Kaddish” Synagogue—now the city’s sole active house of worship. Modest income from rented properties helps sustain cultural life and provide support for the remaining community elders. But the numbers speak for themselves: from 2,500 Jews in 1989, only about a hundred remain today, most of them elderly. The younger generation, like so many others across Eastern Europe, has largely resettled in Israel, North America, or Western Europe.

And yet, Jewish Daugavpils is not merely a city of ghosts. The synagogues still stand. Hebrew letters still mark gravestones. Public exhibitions, memorial plaques, and oral history projects—some led by local schools—signal a growing awareness of the city’s Jewish legacy. Visitors come to trace ancestral roots or to bear witness to a culture that once shaped the spiritual and intellectual life of this region. Though the kaddish may no longer be heard in full minyan, memory endures—in sacred architecture, in archival pages, and in the quiet resolve of those who refuse to let this history be forgotten.