International Experiences and Engagement 

Taken on the way to "sun temple" outside of Machu Picchu historical remains. 

Traveling by bus to the heights of what was once an Incan city is quite magical. One of the greatest misconceptions I held before my travel was that history lived simply among the pages of a book. Sure, artifacts existed, but I always felt that history was something intangible. Machu Picchu allowed me to walk right through the doorframes of history. Our Peruvian tour guide told us the culture that lived between those walls, and we even traveled to a rural area to learn the art of natural dyes. My llama wool sweater, made by indigenous women, still hangs in my closet. As those women taught me to tie together wool, I realized that they too are a figment of history, holding on to cultural traditions from generations before them. Traveling to Peru taught me to look for history in every day things. 

Taken at the Auschwitz memorial, one of the concentration camp blocks. 

Walking on the grounds of the eerie Auschwitz grounds held an emotion that is difficult to describe. I remember starting at the pile of shoes - those of little girls and boys - and choking up. It is impossible to ignore the low laying fog that hangs in the area. History, I realize, is not always beautiful architecture. It is blood and war. It is the scratches on the bunk beds in the cabins, signs of humans wanted to get out. It is the train tracks I walked on, the one that transported thousands of those murdered. I knew of this genocide, I learned about it most years in history. But seeing the worn down buildings and walking on that land was a different experience altogether. It was all so real in a way watching documentaries wasn't. Traveling to Poland allowed me to see a beautiful city, as well as a horrific history. 

At the top of a building with city view, includes "Dome of the Rock" on the right. 

Israel, out of the 30 countries I've traveled to, is my favorite. Not only did the fresh hummus, pita and pomegranate juice call my name, but the streets that were rich with culture. After all, Jesus had walked the same streets I walked centuries later. A few days into our trip, we planned to drive to Palestine and visit the church in which Jesus was said to be born. Before we crossed the border, our driver pulled to a stop. He climbed out to head back to Jerusalem, and a new driver took his place. We would not be safe without the right driver. At home I had been reading the news of conflicts in Israel. But to be there on the ground, a couple miles away from the Gaza strip, was surreal. As devastating as the conflict is, I more so saw the beauty in the culture and people, who were more than happy to welcome us.