In the early 19th century, Latvians—particularly from the Vidzeme region—were no strangers to hardship. The abolition of serfdom in Vidzeme and later in Courland sparked hope among peasants, but the dream of owning land remained distant. Tales of rich, warm soil in faraway Russian territories stirred imaginations. Visions of fertile fields yielding massive cabbages and wheat bounties promised a better life. Years of poor harvests only strengthened the desire to find a new home.

In 1846, after years of petitioning, Latvians from Vidzeme finally received permission to resettle in central Russian provinces. Among them were families from Taurupe Parish, who would soon become the founders of a remarkable Latvian colony far to the south.

The road to the Don region was grueling. In 1854, the first group of 13 families—60 individuals—set off toward the coastal city of Yeisk, near the Azov Sea. The trek spanned some 2,000 kilometers. Banditry, disease, and the unfamiliar climate took their toll. By the time they arrived, only 48 remained.

The newcomers faced relentless challenges. Droughts, locust swarms, and even a naval attack during the Crimean War tested their endurance. Seeking better conditions, the settlers eventually moved to higher ground, founding the settlements of Kandava and later Žagare. The early homes were dugouts, the winters harsh, but community spirit and a deep sense of purpose carried them forward.

By 1875, the Taurupe Latvians secured land ownership—something that eluded them for decades. They named their new colony Zvaigznīte ("Little Star"), a beacon of stability and hope. Just a few years later, the nearby Taurupe settlement emerged as its companion.

These communities were built with intent. Homes were positioned to align with the sunrise and sunset of equinox days. Dwellings began as sun-dried mud-brick structures (samans), later reinforced with stone and covered with tile or iron roofing. Flower gardens, orchards, and oaks adorned every household, while jasmine and lilies of the valley echoed memories of Latvia.

Though far from their homeland, the Taurupe Latvians never abandoned their cultural roots. Folk music, dancing, and theater performances became pillars of communal life. Many homes housed harmoniums or pianos; one even held a grand concert piano. Music teachers—both trained and self-taught—passed their knowledge to the younger generation.

Education was highly valued. A Lutheran elementary music school was eventually established, and the choir became so accomplished that it performed in Mitava (now Jelgava) during Latvia’s song festivals.

By the early 20th century, Taurupe and Zvaigznīte were thriving. Residents built schools, formed agricultural cooperatives, and established a local dairy. Orchards flourished. Roads were lined with tulips in spring and roses in summer. The colony became so successful that it drew admiration from visitors across the Soviet Union—and even from abroad.

Yet, this prosperity was not without sorrow. The sweeping Stalinist purges of 1937–1938 devastated the Latvian communities. More than 150 residents were arrested—teachers, farmers, musicians, sons of once-celebrated families. Only a few survived the labor camps of the North.

One such survivor was Valters Auziņš, a teacher, soldier, and later a decorated laborer in the Ivdel forced labor camp. His resilience became symbolic of the community’s spirit. After surviving the Gulag, he returned, resumed teaching, and helped rebuild the village school. His dedication to education and love of geography influenced generations of students, and his home became a vibrant center of life once again.

In later decades, surviving descendants erected memorials to those lost during the purges. In 1997, a stone bearing the names of the 179 deported villagers was placed at the old cemetery. Another monument, carved with a child from a Latvian folk tale, honors dreams left unfulfilled.

Through decades of hardship—war, repression, and exile—the Taurupe Latvians held on to their roots. They planted jasmine and hops, sang in four-part harmony, celebrated solstices, and passed down stories in both Latvian and Russian. Their story is a poignant chapter of Latvia's diaspora: one not of escape, but of hope, grit, and unwavering identity.

Though many of these once-thriving communities have faded, their legacy lives on—etched into family trees, whispered in folk songs, and carved into memorial stones under the southern sun.