Your email is not valid
Recipient's email is not valid
Submit Close

Your email has been sent.

Click here to send another

Argentina’s Last Jewish Cowboys

Thousands of Jews fled 19th-century Russia for the South American Pampas. Can their unique heritage survive?

Print Email
Carmel’s synagogue where gaucho Jaime Jruz’s grandparents and parents once attended service. Jruz helped restore the synagogue over a decade ago. (Michael De Pasquale)
Related Content

Venezuela’s Dispossessed

Half of Venezuela’s Jewish community fled under Hugo Chávez, who died this week. Will the other half follow?

In Treatment

In Argentina, psychoanalysis is as common as Malbec

Jamie Jruz mounts his horse and begins swinging his lasso around in the air. “Watch this and take a photo!” he shouts. “Ayyyy!” The cows around him begin to scatter, kicking up the ground. Jruz expertly wrangles a brown heifer with his lariat and turns to face us. “Did you catch that?!” he says.

A compact man with a bit of a paunch, Jruz moves with the bravado of a young Hollywood star even though he’s almost 66 years old. As president of the Community of Villa Dominguez and Carmel, he has the key to just about every important building in the area. He’s also one of the last remaining Jewish cowboys in Argentina.

Jruz is a descendant of a group of Jews who came to Argentina at the end of the 19th century as part of a mass exodus promising escape from the anti-Semitic violence occurring in Eastern Europe. Thousands of Jews brought with them trunks filled with ornate gowns, pressed suits, fine art, and literature—and were left at the doorstep of a vast and unrestrained land in middle of South America. It was here, after back-breaking struggle, that many of them learned to tame the wild and became cowboys, or “gauchos,” of the Argentine Pampas. With a strong sense of Jewish tradition, deeply impressed by the grit of the gaucho, they created a settlement of new colonies—which they considered to be a holy land in the Americas.

I first heard about the colonies while I was living in Buenos Aires last summer. The thought of a Jewish cowboy struck me as novel, and so I set out to see one for myself, driving 270 miles north of the capital. What I discovered during my visit was even stranger: colonies with ranch-style adobe synagogues and street signs bearing names like Avenida Hertzl and Calle Saslavsky, populated by Jewish gauchos who were all as old as if not older than Jruz. All the young gauchos had fled long ago, but their elders had remained, in a geriatric Jewish version of High Noon.


In the late 1880s, a wealthy German-Jewish philanthropist in Paris by the name of Baron Maurice von Hirsch established the Jewish Colonization Association. Its goal was to provide Jews persecuted in the Russian pogroms with a safe place to practice their beliefs. Hirsch used his own money to purchase vast tracts of farmland around New Jersey, Connecticut, the western Canadian prairies, southern Brazil, and especially Argentina, where he had nearly 45,000 fertile acres set aside in the province of Entre Rios.

Argentina itself was undergoing a massive campaign to populate the Pampas and Patagonia with Europeans. During the 1870s and early 1880s, the military had violently seized tens of thousands of square miles of land from indigenous tribes in an initiative called the Conquista del Desierto, or Conquest of the Desert. The government saw Argentina as a natural extension of Europe, and they used cheap land and the promise of low taxes to entice their foreign counterparts. Generous open-door policies and favorable laws made it easy for foreigners to immigrate and, in Hirsch’s case, to experiment with Jewish colonization.

In 1889, under the guidance of Hirsch and his associates, the first wave of immigrants left their homes in Ukraine and set out to sea on a Mayflower-like pilgrimage lasting 35 days. As recounted in Shalom Argentina: Huellas de la Colonización Judía, a book retracing the settlement, on a damp and cold winter’s day in August, 813 Jews (130 families) were accepted at the port of Buenos Aires. Soon after, they were ferried northward up the River Parana and left at the foot of a rough sprawl rife with thistles and thickets. For the newly arrived Jews, the Pampas represented both the size of their freedom and their own helplessness.

Upon arrival, each family was leased a 75-hectare plot, given a set of tools, and told to dig a well. “Ninety percent of the immigrants knew nothing about working on the land,” Abram Stezlon, a 80-year-old descendant and a third-generation gaucho living and working in Villa Clara, told me. “It took more than a generation to see a community come together. And it wasn’t easy.”

Before the arrival of these Jews, the Pampas, like much of Argentina, was presided over by gauchos, who were a mix of indigenous and criollo livestock herders. The cowboys were proud horsemen, and their centuries-old traditions produced a distinct culture with its own cuisine, dress, and attitude. For work, they depended on contracts from large land-owners that required them to move cattle across the same land where the new immigrants now resided. Remarkably, a kinship developed between the pair, and the gauchos slowly but surely incorporated themselves into the settlements. They first offered help as farm hands and house-keepers but quickly found themselves teaching Jews to till the land, handle cattle, break horses, and even cure animals of disease. The fusion of the two cultures truly emerged in the second generation, when some gauchos were taught Yiddish and many Jewish men traded in their yarmulkes for cowboy hats and a clean shave.

Nora Fistein, a history teacher from the neighboring colony of Basavilbaso who has spent decades researching the immigration (which included that of her own grandparents), told me, “The gauchos started learning about European food and language from the Jews, and the Jews about gaucho clothing and drink. The gauchos had their own music, but then they started to dance to Jewish music and watch their plays.” By the third generation, this colorful gaucho culture had spread across all of the colonies, along with Jewish schools, synagogues, libraries, and shops.

A hundred years later, the scene today is strikingly different. Lone buildings adorned with Jewish stars and fading scribbles of Yiddish can be seen from main roads connecting the colonies. Weeds and plants have eaten away at the walls of synagogues and abandoned homes as if to reclaim the land. Train stations that were built and tracks laid to accommodate the transport of goods produced by each farm have shuttered—empty silos sit along hundreds of miles of track overgrown with weeds.

1 2 3View as single page
Print Email
Felix Tejeda says:

what ℂhristℴph℮r r℮spℴnd℮d I’m in shℴℂk that anyℴn℮ ℂan g℮t paid $6747 in a f℮w w℮℮ks ℴn th℮ ℂℴmput℮r. did yℴu s℮℮ this sit℮ link…… WWW,

Great article! I lived in La Plata, Buenos Aires and went to high school there for a year-long cultural exchange. I was one of 2 Jews in my public school. Loved reading this.

Beba Marantz says:

Most interesting, many thanks. A classic on the subject:

The Jewish Gauchos of the Pampas (Jewish Latin America) by Alberto Gerchunoff

(ISBN 10 0826317677

Mirta Trupp Dreiman says:

Excellent article. My family were colonists in La Pampa and Entre Ríos. I have written a memoir, which is available on Amazon, entitled “WITH LOVE, THE ARGENTINA FAMILY”, MIRTA INES TRUPP

Phillip Cohen says:

I never really traveled much. My United Jewish Communities mission to Argentina in 2002 was full of color and beauty. I loved visiting Buenos Aires, Basavilbaso and Iguazo Falls. It was in a temple in BA that an elderly lady came up to us and said, we may never have met before but we’ve known each other for 3000 years.

I think it’s time for me to take my son on a family mission to Argentina.

Bill Robbins says:

Chai noon at the U-K Corral.

Dafna Meltzer says:

The author needs to look at a map and re-read the history books. It is a physical impossibility to be “ferried up the River Parana” and arrive at the Pampas. I am delighted for her that she “just found this out” but this is a well known fact. Also, the first shipment of immigrants was not as well received as she claims – when Argentina sent a call out to European farmers it did not have Jews in mind. The first few contingents settled in the provinces of Santa Fe and Parana.

Abel S. says:

There were Jewish immigrants that came before Hirsch’s, but they weren’t part of any association and were certainly not afforded the same “luxuries” (tools, animals, etc.) as the ones mentioned here. The Jews that found success in these areas were beneficiaries of de Hirsch’s efforts. And speaking of maps, Santa Fe and Parana are considered part of the Pampas.

daized79 says:

Why would his mom cry when she lit shabat candles?

Susan Slesinger says:

My Mother had talked a bout my grandfather being a cowboy at one time. Now it makes sense.

Hazel Cormack says:

Following Susan Slesinger above, my grandmother’s sister (English) married a Myall who was a Jewish gaucho. This was about a hundred years ago. I never knew any more than this, but to be able to fit him into an era and episode in Jewish history is wonderful


Your comment may be no longer than 2,000 characters, approximately 400 words. HTML tags are not permitted, nor are more than two URLs per comment. We reserve the right to delete inappropriate comments.

Thank You!

Thank you for subscribing to the Tablet Magazine Daily Digest.
Please tell us about you.

Jewish Gauchos

Photographs by Michael DePasquale
More on Tablet:

Why I Stopped Saying the Unetaneh Tokef, and Why I’m Ready To Say It Again

By Jennifer Richler — After my mother died, I couldn’t recite the High Holiday prayer anymore—until I gained a new understanding of its words