Stones, Stories, and Street: Contemporary Blog of Berlin

  This week we arrived at our final destination. Berlin. I was very excited to visit Berlin because not only is it a city that was ravaged by World War II, but it also still very much bears the marks of the postwar era and the Cold War. When we first arrived, my roommate, Kennedy, and I walked around a bit to get a feel for the neighborhood. We saw Checkpoint Charlie and the last Soviet flag in Berlin. It was fascinating to observe the lingering differences between East and West Berlin. Although not as pronounced as they once were, the distinctions are still visible in the architecture, graffiti, and even people in the area. Berlin’s various historical sites were all unique in the powerful emotions they evoked.

The most debated site among our group was the Holocaust Memorial. While I felt that the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe was well-intentioned, I also found it somewhat lacking. The concept was strong; I appreciated the experience of walking through the stelae and feeling disoriented and overwhelmed, which effectively evoked the emotional and psychological trauma faced by Holocaust victims. In that regard, the design worked very well at conveying the message that these people went through a horrible experience.

However, I felt that the memorial was missing key elements of contextualization and respect. For an average passerby, there are few (if any) clear signs explaining the purpose of the memorial. Additionally, I noticed a lack of reverence among visitors, people were sitting on the stones, using them to tie their shoes, and letting children run freely through the site. I don’t blame the individuals as much as I do the design itself, which fails to clearly convey the gravity of the site. While there was a table with audio dedicated to the artist, there was very little information about the victims. I believe the memorial would benefit greatly from additional plaques, clearer signage, and more educational materials. A thought that one way to make the piece more powerful would be to simply include a statue depicting a Jewish family or a star of David. I felt these were easy enough additions that could greatly add more emotion and respect to the site. As it stands, the memorial feels like an unfinished piece, almost powerful, but not quite complete.

Overall, this trip has been an enlightening and empowering experience. I have broadened my worldview and learned more than I ever thought possible in just one month. I’ve deepened both my cultural and academic understanding, and I’ve grown personally as well. I’ve made new friends, honed my observational and analytical skills, and truly enjoyed myself. This trip was truly everything I could have hoped for and more.

Auf Wiedersehen,

Julia Kuss

Sites of Suffering: Contemporary Blog of Kraków, Poland

Our time in Kraków was bittersweet, marked by intense emotional turbulence. On one hand the city was beautiful, with old-world charm that can only be found somewhere with over 1,000 years of history. There are no buildings like that back in the states. With shopping markets and hole in the wall pierogi shops, Kraków is truly a charming city. However, our visit was made eerily sad when during our time at the Oskar Schindler Factory Museum we learned almost all the city’s monuments were not original but had to be reconstructed after World War II. This devastation of a nation’s identity served as a haunted reminder of the atrocities committed in Poland during the war. The shadow cast over the city did not disappear but rather multiplied and enveloped our entire group when on our first full day in Kraków we visited the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camps.

Of all the sites we visited in Poland, none affected me as profoundly as Auschwitz. Stepping onto the grounds of the concentration camp was a haunting experience, one that is impossible to fully prepare for, no matter how much you’ve read or studied about the Holocaust. If I had to choose just one word to describe how it left me feeling, it would be humbling. The air was heavy with sadness and at every turn I wanted to throw up, which made me wonder how humans could carry out these atrocities on other people. People who they hated blindly for no reason other than their religion and race. This raw vitriolic hatred could be felt in the inventive ways that the Nazis created to torture people. The exhibit that stood out the most was the two tons of human hair visible to the public. About seven tons had been discovered upon liberation by Soviet troops in 1945. When our group approached this, I will never forget the tour guide saying, “The Nazis cut off people’s hair to sell and use for textiles and wigs. They didn’t let anything go to waste.” The sentence, “They didn’t let anything go to waste” resonated very deeply with me. How could someone say that, when the Nazis wasted over a million lives in this place. These people had full lives complete with friends, family, and futures. For all that to be extinguished so quickly, so systematically, was unfathomable.

Our time in Kraków forced me to confront my own privilege. I am someone who can travel freely across countries in a single month, pursuing education, exploration, and growth. Yet, those who walked through the gates of Auschwitz were stripped of all freedom, dignity, and identity, not for anything they had done, but simply because of who they were. Their suffering was the result of hatred, ignorance, and systemic evil. This visit reminded me that remembering history is not just an academic exercise, it’s a moral obligation: To honor the victims, to recognize the resilience of the survivors, and to ensure that we never allow such atrocities to happen again.

Romanticism versus Reality: Contemporary Blog of Paris, France

To move from the posh city of London to sleepy Bayeux was a welcome, if shocking, change. However, even those cities paled in comparison to Paris. Paris, the city of love, the city of lights, and the city that shockingly reminded me more of NYC than a dreamy European postcard. Even the “I Heart Paris” shirts bore a striking resemblance to the world-famous “I Heart NYC” shirts. Paris may have a rosy glow around it in the media, but it is a bustling metropolis. I had visited once before during a garbage workers’ strike, when the streets were lined with trash. Thankfully, this trip was far less smelly. Still, it was eye-opening to realize that just because a place is hyped up doesn’t mean it’s inherently better. Although Paris lives in the public imagination as a fanciful, elegant place full of berets, baguettes, and cigarette smoke, it’s ultimately just a city full of people.

Adopting this mindset allowed me to think more critically during our visit to the Musée De L’Armée, particularly when analyzing the Vichy regime. I was struck by how the French frame their time under Nazi occupation, and collaboration. The narrative leaned heavily on patriotism, focusing on resistance and heroism rather than the full extent of collaboration. It framed the French people as overwhelmingly resistant to the Nazis, which, while partially true, glossed over the darker realities of complicity and indifference. There was minimal discussion of Vichy France; most displays were talking about resistance in occupied France. In addition to this, the museum very much glossed over the fall of France. This omission was telling. The fall of France in 1940 was a moment of national crisis and humiliation, and the subsequent establishment of the Vichy government marked a troubling chapter in the country’s history. While resistance did occur and deserves recognition, so too does the complicity of French leaders and citizens who supported or tolerated Nazi control. The museum’s decision to spotlight resistance while minimizing collaboration reflects a national discomfort, and perhaps even denial, when it comes to reckoning with this period.

I understand why this history may be painful. No nation enjoys confronting the moments when it fell short of its ideals, especially a nation like France, the birthplace of Enlightenment principles such as liberty, equality, and fraternity. These values are deeply embedded in French national identity, and acknowledging a time when the country failed to uphold them, through collaboration, antisemitic policies, and authoritarian governance under the Vichy regime, requires a level of national self-reflection that is difficult, even painful. Yet it is precisely because these ideals are so important that France has a responsibility to examine the moments when they were betrayed. By doing so, it doesn’t weaken the power of those values, it reinforces them. Still, historical education demands honesty. By glossing over the fall of France and Vichy collaboration, the museum presents an incomplete version of events. This lack of reflection not only undermines historical accuracy but also hinders public understanding of how authoritarianism and complicity can take root. If we are to learn from history and prevent its repetition, we must first be willing to face it, even when it’s uncomfortable.

This quick visit to Paris challenged both my expectations of the city and my understanding of how nations remember their past. Beneath the glossy image of romance and refinement lies a complex reality of history and identity. By looking beyond the postcard version of Paris, I was able to engage more critically with the narratives presented at the Musée De L’Armée. History is not meant to be comfortable, and confronting its uncomfortable truths is vital to learn from the mistakes of the past.

Remembering the Human Cost of War: Bayeux, Normandy

The switch from a bustling city to the quiet charm of a sleepy French countryside town was a welcome one. The streets of Bayeux, calm and steeped in history, offered a rare glimpse into a world much older than our own. However, what stood out to me the most from our time in France was not something inherently “French” at all. It was our tour’s focus on the 1944 D-Day invasion of World War II, a moment that lives in historical memory and changed the course of modern history.

D-Day marked the largest amphibious invasion in history and was a remarkable display of Allied strategy, endurance, and bravery. While ultimately successful and pivotal in turning the tide of the war in the Allied favor, the operation came at an enormous human cost. I reflected on how that sacrifice is remembered, specifically, through the American, British, and German cemeteries that rest on this hallowed ground.

The American military cemetery in Normandy is remarkable: towering monuments and perfectly lined pristine white marble headstones of crosses and stars of David. This cemetery expresses a powerful message, that in death there is unity. The men (and a few women) buried here are honored equally for their service and sacrifice. America is proud of them. Overlooking Omaha Beach, the cemetery offers a poignant reminder of the bravery shown on those shores, and brings a strange kind of peace, knowing these soldiers now rest in the land they helped to liberate. For eternity, they can overlook the land where they once fought, not as a battleground anymore, but rather as a peaceful beach.

In contrast, the British military cemetery is in a quiet part of Bayeux off a somewhat busy road. Although smaller and less grand than its American counterpart, the grounds are beautifully maintained. Carefully manicured flowers lay at the foot of each headstone. There are no looming memorials, but rather plaques and individual tributes. Each tombstone listed the soldier’s regiment crest, religious symbol, name, and a personalized message from their family. These messages, ranging from scripture to simple words like “We miss you,” were deeply impactful. The British cemetery emphasized individualistic and emotional remembrance, honoring each soldier as a singular person, not just as part of a collective.

The German military stood in stark contrast to the others. While the American and British sites radiated a sense of peace, reverence, and pride, the German cemetery carried a somber, eerie atmosphere. The headstones were dark, flat, and often shared by two or more soldiers. There appeared to be far more unknowns than at the other two, and the tone was far less triumphant than at the other two cemeteries. The French mandated that the architect include no religious iconography, but the Germans had skirted around this rule and had “Germanic crosses” that bore a striking resemblance to the Christian cross emplaced on the grounds. In addition, on top of a large mound that holds the remains of many unknown soldiers, is a statue of a man and women at either side of a large cross, strongly evoking the Christian Holy Family. The energy of the German cemetery felt more mournful, perhaps reflecting Germany’s complicated relationship with their war dead from WWII.

Visiting these various cemeteries triggered reflection for me as to how different cultures memorialize their dead. Remembering the dead is essential to a culture and how we bury and honor our dead says as much about the living as it does about those who are gone. These cemeteries are not just sites of mourning, they are mirrors of national identity, collective memory, and cultural values. Funerary rituals are ultimately for the living and provide family and friends with space for grief, remembrance, and hopefully, healing.

The City That Sleeps: Contemporary Blog of London, England

Although our time in London was brief, I was immediately struck by the city’s quietness. Having previously visited major global cities like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris, and Barcelona, I expected a similar level of noise and energy. However, London felt noticeably calmer and more composed. On our group’s journey from Heathrow to the hotel, I observed that we were the only passengers speaking boisterously in a crowded Tube car. Even those who did speak, whom I later assumed were also tourists, did so softly, and almost never in English. Compared to Londoners, Americans, and perhaps especially Midwesterners like most of us on the study tour, seemed significantly louder and more outwardly expressive.

This cultural contrast reappeared later in our visit, particularly at the Imperial War Museum. While our group engaged respectfully with the exhibits, our quiet conversations about the subject matter stood out against the near total silence of the British visitors around us. Even when they did speak to one another, their tones were so muted that I barely noticed. At times, I felt as though I was raising a megaphone to my mouth just by speaking in a normal voice which is an experience I’ve never had in the United States, where I would not typically describe myself as loud. This is not to say that Londoners were entirely silent or standoffish. In fact, several smiled at us or politely asked where we were from. Yet even these friendly interactions felt far more subdued than the tone our group naturally adopted.

This first impression stayed with me. While London hums with the energy of a global capital, with crowded sidewalks, honking cars, and busy professionals, there is a distinctive restraint in its public life that seems deeply British. I would not describe it as indifference or judgment, but a quiet composure. Perhaps this reflects a national character shaped by historical endurance – by the Blitz, by rationing, by years of rebuilding carried out with limited fanfare. Even the national slogan of “Keep Calm and Carry On” reflects this identity. Visiting sites such as Bletchley Park, where secrecy and discretion were so ingrained that even married couples working there could not discuss their duties with one another, I began to understand how qualities like stoicism, discipline, and secrecy, which were highly valued during the war, continue to subtly shape daily life.