In the late 19th century Berlin schoolteacher Bernhard Förster declared that German culture and virtues were endangered and blamed Jews for the decline. A fervent antisemite, he repeatedly faced trials for racist incitement, disciplinary actions at his school and even ended up on a wanted list. Concluding he had no future in Germany, Förster dreamed of founding a new “Jew-free” Germania where German blood and values could be preserved.
Förster planned to transplant German culture to Paraguay, at the confluence of the Aguaray-mí and Aguaray-Guazu rivers. Between 1883 and 1885 he explored the country on horseback seeking suitable land. Accompanying him was his wife Elisabeth Förster-Nietzsche, sister of philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who embraced his project and promoted the idea of breeding an “Aryan master race” in South America.
The Paraguayan government granted Förster 20,000 hectares roughly 150 kilometers north of Asunción for what would be the country’s first independent colony. After the devastating War of the Triple Alliance (1864–1870), Paraguay had lost about half its territory and roughly 70% of its population, so the state welcomed settlers. In return, the Försters agreed to settle at least 140 families within two years. Before departing for Paraguay in 1886 they advertised in newspapers and at lectures to attract artisans and farmers and to raise funds.
The promised “paradise-like refuge” drew little interest. Förster initially persuaded only 14 families to join him; later totals remained far below the government requirement. The emigrants were largely poor, disaffected by industrialization and economic change in the German Empire—often younger sons with little inheritance—who invested their last savings to emigrate. It’s unclear how many shared Föster’s racist ideology, though he lectured the migrants en route on racial “purification” and civilizational rebirth.
Settlers soon discovered Förster’s promises were misleading. The climate proved brutally hot and humid in the rainy season, with swampy, damp conditions along the rivers; in the dry season soils became sandy and infertile, making farming arduous. Crops failed, parasites and tropical diseases were widespread, and many families faced severe deprivation. Wealthier colonists could relocate, but most had no option but to stay and struggle. One settler wrote home about longing for Germany and fearing premature death from the hardships.
Meanwhile, Bernhard and Elisabeth lived in relative luxury at the colony’s center in a stately house known as the Försterhof, while homesteads were scattered up to five kilometers apart. Their central position and ostentatious lifestyle, combined with the settlers’ isolation, fostered resentment; some historians suggest Förster intended to keep colonists separated to limit collective dissent.
The colony failed to maintain any intended “racial purity” and likely would not have survived without assistance from the indigenous Guaraní people, who helped clear land and supported the settlers. Financially, the venture never found solid footing: Förster’s appeals for money to Germany were ineffective, and the colony was a private enterprise, not state-sponsored. Förster lacked financial acumen, and the settlement struggled to attract enough settlers to meet its targets.
Friedrich Nietzsche refused any financial support and opposed his sister’s and brother-in-law’s antisemitic stance. Elisabeth had attempted to curry favor by proposing to name part of the colony after him, but Nietzsche rejected the idea. Two years after its founding only about 40 families lived in Nueva Germania, far short of the 140 required. Deeply indebted and desperate, Bernhard Förster died on June 3, 1889—his death is often described as a possible suicide, though that was never conclusively proven. Elisabeth tried to sustain the project for a few more years but ultimately returned to Germany.
Nueva Germania endures as a village today, with houses along a wide dirt road leading to a sluggish river. About 2,000 people live there; many still speak German. Residents often react with irritation when outsiders focus on the settlement’s racist origins, saying contemporary concerns are practical—roads, tractors, small farms—while the founders’ ideology feels distant. The town occasionally attracts neo-Nazi tourists seeking memorabilia, and items have been stolen from its small museum.
Research by archaeologist Natascha Mehler, who conducted fieldwork in the area, highlights surprising continuities. Mehler found parallels between late-19th-century settlers and modern German anti-vaxxers: Förster himself opposed mandatory smallpox vaccination in Germany and once urged followers to emigrate to Paraguay where no compulsory vaccination existed. During the COVID-19 pandemic, German anti-vaccination activists promoted Paraguay as a destination; Mehler even flew with anti-vaxxers to Asunción and observed promotional material for a German-speaking colony marketed to conspiracy theorists called El Paradiso Verde. The resonance between past and present—idealized utopian escapes and migration driven by ideological dissent—struck her as historically recurring.
This article was originally written in German.