Power of Place: 2026 European Summer Institute for Holocaust Educators is an experiential professional development for teachers where learning unfolds as they tour historical sites across Europe in order to transform their understanding of the Holocaust, WWII, antisemitism, and Jewish life today. Power of Place is planned and co-led by Humanus Network on behalf of JCRC and generously supported by the Minnesota Vikings, the Tankenoff Families Foundation, Allianz of America Corporation and MINNE (Minnesota Norway Education Israel & Holocaust Fellowship).

by Zach Turner, St. Louis Kaplan Feldman Holocaust Museum (St. Louis, Missouri) | June 22, 2026 | Vilnius, Lithuania

On long bus rides, I try to be an active observer of the places I’m passing by. The industrial centers of cities, the fields, the lush backyard gardens of small villages. As someone who has never been to Lithuania, I feel an obligation to observe, note the differences, and be shocked that the views of the countryside here are exactly like the views from the county highways of rural Illinois I grew up on. Music pumps into my headphones, loud enough to block outside noise unless someone jumps on the PA. My mind begins to drift. As much an active observer as I wish to be, this is a long ride and a little daydreaming always passes the time.

I close my eyes and envision the many walks that I took through the woods of my childhood. I begin walking into the clearing. It’s late afternoon, but the sun is still high in the sky peeking between the trees. There is not a single cloud to block it from warming my face. A cool breeze blows the shirt away from my chest and rustles the leaves. Birds merrily sing. I turn from a paved path to one of grass and moss that squish beneath my feet. Not wet, but soft. Flowers are in summer bloom. Pine cones, falling from trees that seem to touch the bright blue sky, plop on the ground next to me and render a satisfying crunch when stepped upon. This is a perfect day.

But, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, I notice my dream begins to dissolve. I feel the heaviness of my feet from a day of walking. I can hear a train pass by. I hadn’t heard it before, but its rumbling seems ominous. I can only imagine its cargo. The crunching of the pine cones is no longer enjoyable, cracking a silence that has suddenly developed. My stomach knots, my hands shake, my chest becomes tight, and my heart beats all the way to a throat that’s become very dry. I’ve come to realize: I’m not walking through the woods of my childhood.

I have arrived at the killing site in the Ponary Forest. I’m walking the path that 100,000 people walked before me on their way to an unimaginably sad conclusion. The sense of tranquility replaced by a sense of tragedy. I notice now that I am not alone. Over 20 other people walk in front of me. Surely, they are feeling what I am feeling? This uneasiness. This uncomfortable feeling that I shouldn’t be here while also recognizing that I must be here. Their faces show the emotion of this place. Their voices hushed trying to grasp what actually occurred here. I see a pit too large to comprehend from a photo, stand at its edge, and realize there is no manner in which I can escape it.

I open my eyes, not only to view this hallowed ground but to see the world differently.

And a question haunts me: how can I ever help people to understand what happened here from a museum in St. Louis? But just as quickly an answer comes: that’s why I’m here. It’s my duty to learn in order to help others. Neither I nor those who visit my museum will ever know what it was to walk the path through Ponary during the Holocaust, but we can aspire to understand why it happened. We can try to understand the countless actions and inactions of individuals that led to the murder of thousands here and millions throughout Europe. And we can try to use those lessons to direct our actions moving forward. History cannot only be a retelling of the past. It must be a guide for our present and future.