When we think of Nazi Germany, resistance is rarely the first word that comes to mind. But visiting the German Resistance Memorial Center in Berlin challenged that instinct. Tucked within the Bendlerblock complex, the museum doesn’t dramatize resistance—it humanizes it. It tells the stories of ordinary people who made extraordinary decisions, often knowing it would cost them their lives.

The most sobering part of the exhibit is how diverse the resistance truly was. Students, clergy, laborers, aristocrats, and even officers within the Wehrmacht each played roles—sometimes small, sometimes symbolic, sometimes seismic. The museum pays particular tribute to Claus von Stauffenberg and the failed July 20 plot to assassinate Hitler, which took place in this very building. Seeing the courtyard where he and his co-conspirators were executed was haunting. It was a reminder that resisting a totalitarian regime didn’t require grand success to be morally significant. The attempt, the refusal to go along, mattered.

What struck me most was how resistance wasn’t always loud or overt. It could be a forged document, a whispered warning, or refusing to raise a hand in salute. The museum reframes heroism—not as victory, but as conscience. As Germany continues to reckon with its past, places like this ask visitors not just to remember the resistance, but to imagine what courage looks like today, in our own lives.

Visiting Oskar Schindler’s Enamel Factory in Kraków isn’t just a museum visit—it’s an encounter with memory molded into space. The exhibits are immersive, placing you inside the lived experience of Kraków during Nazi occupation. Walking through dim corridors styled like ghetto walls and listening to crackling radio broadcasts, I felt history close in. This isn’t a place that glorifies heroism or resistance alone. Instead, it humanizes the wartime experience—Polish citizens, both Jewish and non-Jewish, caught in the machinery of terror. The factory’s most powerful message comes not from its focus on Schindler, but from its effort to show how ordinary life was upended, deformed, and in many cases, destroyed.

What struck me most is how the museum balances Poland’s dual identity during the war—as both victim and witness. While other nations emphasize victory or national sacrifice, Poland’s memory, as preserved here, is more fragmented and personal. There’s no singular narrative; instead, there are layers of grief, survival, collaboration, and kindness. Schindler’s legacy, while central, is just one thread in a much larger, tangled tapestry of loss and courage. In Kraków, history isn’t tucked neatly into plaques—it’s something you walk through, with heavy steps and an open heart.

Walking through the Musée de l’Armée at Les Invalides, I was struck by the weight of French military history layered into every hall, every artifact, every echoing footstep on the marble floors. The golden dome above Napoleon’s tomb gleamed in the sunlight—a reminder of France’s imperial past—while the galleries below held rifles, uniforms, and medals that told quieter, more personal stories. What moved me most wasn’t a single object, but the overwhelming sense of continuity. From medieval armor to the liberation of Paris in 1944, each room revealed a country constantly reshaping its identity through conflict, loss, and resilience.

One of the most striking takeaways from the museum was how much admiration and reverence the French still hold for Charles de Gaulle. His presence is woven throughout the exhibits—not just as a general and a statesman, but as a symbol of resistance, unity, and national pride. The displays dedicated to him were rich in detail and admiration, portraying him almost as a mythic figure in modern French memory. As I stood in a room filled with World War II artifacts—resistance armbands, faded maps, and Allied uniforms—I felt a new connection to the war we’ve been studying throughout this program. In Normandy, we learned about the invasion; here in Paris, we could feel the aftermath. Paris may be a city of lights, but that day, I saw it as a city of memory—and of legacy. A city that remembers not just who it was, but what it survived, and who helped lead it through.

As I was walking through Bayeux, Normandy, on my way to a donor-sponsored dinner, the bells of the Notre-Dame Cathedral suddenly began to ring with a force and rhythm that made me pause. At first, I thought they might be marking the hour, but the sound continued—joyful and persistent, echoing off the stone walls of this historic town. Then Dr. Hahn said it was in celebration of the newly elected pope. White smoke had just risen from the Sistine Chapel! In that moment, it clicked; the bells of Bayeux were ringing not just for the town, but in celebration with the world.

There was something poetic about standing in the first town liberated after D-Day and hearing centuries-old bells announce something as current and globally significant as the papal election. Bayeux has witnessed the sweep of history—from medieval times to World War II—and in that moment, I felt like I was witnessing a new chapter unfold in real time. The sounds of war and liberation that once filled these streets had, for a moment, been replaced by the sounds of hope and spiritual renewal. I will never forget the day the first American pope was elected.

Walking through the quiet halls and codebreaking huts at Bletchley Park, it becomes clear just how central ordinary people were to Britain’s war effort. This wasn’t a place filled with soldiers or generals — it was staffed by young mathematicians, linguists, crossword enthusiasts, and thousands of women doing clerical and analytical work. The story of Bletchley Park fits perfectly into the narrative of the “People’s War,” where victory depended not just on military strength but on the brainpower and perseverance of civilians working behind the scenes. The secrecy and silence that surrounded their contribution for decades only underscores how humble and collective this effort truly was.

What stood out most was how the museum emphasizes both the technical brilliance and the human side of the operation. You get a sense of how exhausting and intense the work was. Long shifts decoding German messages in cold, cramped huts, with the fate of convoys or entire battles hanging in the balance. Alan Turing’s story is front and center, but so are the lesser-known figures, especially the women, who made up most of the workforce. Visiting Bletchley made me rethink what “fighting a war” really means. It wasn’t just about guns and battles, it was also about ideas, sacrifice, and thousands of people working tirelessly in secret to protect their country. One trend I’ve noticed at war museums and memorials in England is that they focus more on the suffering and sacrifice caused by the war, rather than celebrating victory, which is what you might typically expect from a museum in the United States.