A Bridge to the Past

My grandfather, his siblings and his mother were internees in the Japanese internment camp system in the Dutch East Indies during World War II. I never understood the weight and depth of this story until the Normandy Scholar Program. The NSP pushed me to research my family history, which previously existed only in vague snippets of conversation from my childhood.

I worked with family artifacts and primary source materials to bring awareness to this hidden history for my family and the program. The NSP made me more aware of people’s individual histories, cultural memory and the power of words to amass support. The lessons I learned from the NSP will apply to every aspect of my life, especially with my career aspirations in government.

The professors presented World War II as a highly personal history, alive with persisting questions about war ethics and individual choices. Lessons about the concentration camp system were paired with memoirs and diaries from inmates detailing assigned jobs, systematic cruelties and specific survival methods. It’s a common mistake to make conclusions about history’s lessons and generalize groups without considering the people enduring the conflict. I am forever grateful for this experience, which taught me about individual people and the collective capabilities of humanity.

The Normandy Scholar Program offers uniquely thought-provoking classes, strong relationships with classmates and professors, and an unforgettable trip. It also provides you with immense knowledge, which for me came in handy in an unexpected way. During an interview for a full-time job with an investment banking firm, the company’s vice president and I discovered our shared interest in history. We discussed topics I had learned about in NSP. The next day, I received an offer and a compliment from the hiring manager, who told me the VP had greatly enjoyed our conversation. NSP is worthwhile for the educational aspect, but also provides professional development. You become a better speaker and writer, and most importantly, someone who is able to carry on conversations about a topic that many people, especially from older generations, are passionate about.

Being able to participate in study abroad programs was one of my highest priorities when considering options for a university. When I found out about the Normandy Scholar Program, I decided to do everything I could to be a part of it. It was an intellectually challenging but incredibly personally rewarding experience.  It was the best part of my college career, despite being the hardest. The coursework encouraged students to think deeply and carefully. Our professors nurtured our understanding of the world around us, and the community of the students in the program created a support system I will always appreciate. While burning the midnight oil working on projects or writing papers, we found ways to lift each other up. The payoff from all the work and learning is incredible: We got to know more about ourselves and created friendships we’ll have forever. 

The day helped Jordan bring her own family history into sharper focus. In 1945, her great-grandfather — a member of General George S. Patton’s army — encountered many of Dachau’s surviving prisoners. He never spoke of the traumatic sights with his descendants, but the NSP gave Jordan a deeper understanding of his wartime experience.

“Seeing the physical scars of World War II in Europe was part of what made the Normandy Scholar Program one of the most impactful things I did as an undergraduate,” she says.

Jordan captured her memories of Grunewald Station in this remarkable poem, written as part of her creative thesis.

On our fifth day in Berlin,

we take the train west.


We take the S7 line to the Grunewald S-Bahn station,
twenty-three of us,
together on the train with real Berliners

going about their everyday lives.

The station is different now than in 1944:

the old tracks are long abandoned,

a short tunnel walk away from trains that run

like clockwork, every half hour,

and delicate green trees now grow up

through the wooden beams and metal rails

that once carried more than fifty-

thousand Berliners in cattle cars

to places with names like
Łódź

Theresienstadt

Minsk

Kaunas

Riga

and eventually

Auschwitz-Birkenau.

The names are engraved

in the rusted metal grates

lining the sides of the tree-grown tracks —

the names of the places, of course —

no one knows the names of the people.

I stand slightly back and a bit to the left

of my body

because this is a place that

screams

across the decades

and into the soft skin

above the inside of my left elbow

where I dig them out with bloodied fingernails.

Numbers keep it clinical,

neat —

a series of dates

alongside the names

with their helpful numbers of Juden,

and the three-hundred fifty-three Juden
who left Berlin for Theresienstadt

on January 10, 1944

could be considered

luckier than the twenty-nine Juden

shipped to Auschwitz

six months later
on June 15 —

but were they?

Did you know they charged the victims?

Four pfennigs per kilometer for adults,

but only two for children under four.

Berlin was their city, too

more theirs than mine —

but on our fifth day in Berlin

the train that takes me east

stops at home.