(Sorry – I meant it to be brief…)
I started life as Gilda Schwartz. But first…
My father was born in 1903 in a shtetl [small town] called Swir in the district of Vilna. Today this village is in Byelorus. My father, given the name Yisroel Velle Schwartzgor, came from a deeply religious family and studied Talmud under his father, but had no formal secular education. Nevertheless, he was self-taught and became active in the literary and cultural life of the Jewish community as a writer and actor. With anti-Semitism rising in eastern Europe, he escaped to the US in 1927, where his brothers and sisters had fled before him. Even his deeply Orthodox parents moved to the US where they spent a brief year of discomfort among their now-secular children, and then fled to Jerusalem, where they spent their last years. My father’s parents are both buried on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem.
Meanwhile my father, now known as Walter Schwartz, began life in America as a chicken farmer in New Jersey. That was a profession that the US authorities would allow in under its strict immigration laws. After 20 years of chickens in Iselin, New Jersey, my father built a store (in Rahway, NJ) and started a business of juvenile furniture and toys. He did not return to writing until his retirement, when he wrote Roots and Leaves, a beautiful evocation of Jewish life in eastern Europe. I plan to put his book on this website as soon as I have the energy to type it all in. My father died in 1995, at peace at last after renewing his sense of self by his last years of writing. He was a shy and modest man, but had strong liberal views, which he passed on to me.
My mother was born in 1914 in the shtetl of Constantinove not far from my father’s village. Named Haya Sarah Swirski, she was involved in the fervent Zionism of that era, like most of the Jewish young people desperate to get out of Europe and become pioneers in Palestine. My mother attended prestigious Hebrew-language schools in Vilna (first Tarbut and then Dr. Charno’s Gymnazium), and became a passionate Zionist with the militant, right-wing Beitar movement. In 1935, she received one of the rare immigration certificates to Palestine. Upon arrival, she took a room in Jerusalem with a nice old couple, second cousins, who happened to be my father’s parents. Little did she know that she would end up marrying their son. But my mother eventually left them for Hadera, a town in northern Israel, as the old folks were shooing away suitors in hopes of saving her for their son in America.
My parents began corresponding (he in Yiddish from New Jersey and she in Hebrew from Palestine) and the relationship became serious over the course of a year. By 1936, my father put his chickens into the care of one of his brothers and set sail to meet this vivacious 21-year-old woman in Palestine, and incidentally also see his parents in Jerusalem. They were married five days after his arrival. They spent their honeymoon journeying to see family and friends in Byelorus, who were still unable to leave Europe – a last visit before almost all of them were killed in the Holocaust. From there, to America. Caught between three worlds – her family in Europe, the materialistic life in the US, and her longing for Zion – my mother captures this in her memoirs, A Life in Three Continents, before her death in 2001. That will be another book for this website. My mother maintained her staunch right-wing views to the end, and we were out of sync in this sense, as in many.
I was born in 1946, the third and last child, with two older brothers, Eli and Paul. I spent my first 5 years among the chickens on my parent’s chicken farm in New Jersey.
When I reached school age, the family moved to Elizabeth, New Jersey so I could attend a yeshiva (Jewish religious day school), where my brothers were already studying (involving a daily train commute). Although my parents were not strictly observant, they wanted us to have an Orthodox Jewish education. The school and synagogue were called the Jewish Educational Center, and they were founded by Rabbi Pinchas Teitz, who created a small empire of Orthodox Jewish synagogues and schools in Elizabeth, which were bequeathed like property through the Teitz family dynasty. In those years, the yeshiva was focused on Yiddishkeit – Jewishness – keeping kosher and observing the Jewish commandments. Today, however, it is avidly Zionist, and many graduates (including many former classmates) can be found in Orthodox Jewish settlements scattered throughout the Palestinian Occupied Territories.
When I was ready for 7th grade, the yeshiva ran out of school for girls, so I began my first public school classes in Hamilton Junior High. Coming from such a sheltered community, it was a shock for me to be talking to non-Jews. Initially I felt shy and nervous, but over time the discomfort faded, as most of the kids came from similar white, middle-class homes. The academic level was high, and there were many Jews in my homeroom, a class of achievers and over-achievers.
Battin High School was a much greater shock. It was an all-girls’ school, separated from Jefferson High, the boys’ school in Elizabeth. (Rumors were that a girl had become pregnant in the 1920s, and so they separated the schools by gender by the time I studied there.) Battin had a diverse student body, and I was exposed for the first time not just to non-Jews, but to girls of all races, ethnicity, class, and academic levels. Elizabeth was a community of immigrants, and the school was a mix of ambitious first-generation Americans, girls with no expectations of themselves, and petty criminals. Knives were numerous, yes, at this girls’ school. “Did you have a nice weekend?” I politely asked my new classmate on the first Monday of school. “Shit, girl, my boyfriend and me got busted holding up a bar.” I learned slang, tough talk, and getting along with others, simply to avoid getting beat up. I was stunned at first, then well educated.
I want to mention my high school friend Linda LaPolla of an Italian family, who was my close friend at Battin. It was not easy for me to become close with a non-Jew, but I did and learned to admire and love Linda. She was smart and tall, like me, and the first one of her family to go to college. We did the NY Times crossword puzzle together every morning, and had to fill in every square before we could enter the classroom. I never visited Linda’s home, nor did she visit mine – my parents would often repeat to me that I could be friends with non-Jews “between 9 and 5”, but not socialize with them after hours. Today, I deeply regret this. I also regret having lost touch with Linda after high school. It was only in 2005 that I discovered how to connect with her again, a few months after she died of cancer. I desperately miss the talk we could have had now as grownups.
One of the most formative experiences of my teen years was the summer camp I attended for 6 years: Camp Massad, a Hebrew-speaking, Orthodox, Zionist summer camp. For 8 weeks every summer, we were immersed in a quasi-Israeli environment in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Half sports camp, half school, it was there that I learned to love Israel and developed an intense desire to live there. It was also at camp that I had my best theological conversations about God, and why I am an atheist. My bunkmates and counselors were all happy to engage in profound theological conversations deep into the night.
I attended Brandeis University, majoring in philosophy after a brief, foolish stab at physics. Brandeis was good for me because it had a radical campus and a kosher kitchen. This was the sixties, and the heart of the civil rights and anti-Vietnam War movement, and I learned a lot about demos, civil disobedience, and the passions of activism. Perhaps ironically, it was also a time in my life that I spent long weekends at the home of the Bostoner Rebbe, a Hassidic “grand rabbi” in Brookline. I loved the Rebbe’s family, and returned to Orthodox practice as a result of his nurturing. To quote the Rebbe, “You don’t have to believe in God to be religious.” So I gave it a try again. Upon graduation from Brandeis in 1968, I moved to Israel.
Israel was not new to me. Not only had I visited it in 1963, I had spent my junior year in Jerusalem in 1966-67, and experienced my first Israeli war. By then I was pretty good in Hebrew, thanks to my summer camp.
I attended Hebrew University and completed an M.A. in communications, specifically the sociology of mass media, which was a subject of great interest to me. I met and married Shimon Brand, a sophisticated Israeli-American 12 years my senior, and we had two daughters together, Mieka and Denna. Although I began writing my Ph.D. dissertation (on some ethical aspects of mass media), I soon gave it up to spend full time as a mother because Denna was born with a physical disability (Erb’s palsy) and needed intense physical therapy for several years. I loved being a mother, and cherished those years at home. Soon after Denna was born, I also gave up Orthodox practice. It was hard to sustain without a theology supporting it and a husband who was not Orthodox himself. I did remain kosher, however, probably because I had never eaten non-kosher food in my life and was horrified at the idea of actually eating non-kosher meat, let alone pork or shrimp.
Shimon and I opened Logos, the first word-processing business in Jerusalem, just as computers came into the popular market. Being a businesswoman was fun and lucrative, and we soon expanded into translations and technical writing. I loved working with a team to produce eloquent and esthetic products, but our marriage was no longer a success and we separated.
Thus began a new chapter in my life. I left Logos and was offered the position of Director in Israel of the New Israel Fund, then a small foundation. Over my six years at NIF, it grew considerably, thanks primarily to the development skills of Jonathan Jacoby, and became the premier funder of liberal causes in Israel. It was in NIF that my education really took off about the fundamental moral issues plaguing Israel – economic injustice and discrimination against women, minority groups, and the non-Orthodox, etc. I would travel around the country visiting grassroots organizations that addressed these issues, and come away dismayed, informed, and ultimately inspired by their efforts.
My marriage was over and my horizons broadened. I began dating women. Soon I met Miri Sager, which began a lovely 11-year relationship. Miri helped sharpen my sensitivities to many political and social issues. After she and I amicably separated, I had the good fortune of meeting Judy Kirshner, and we are now together almost 30 years. Judy is the kindest, best-hearted person I know, and smart in so many ways that I am not. It’s great to be with someone forever.
Now for the political part of my life. I’ll write about my activism in chronological order, though there’s some overlap:
The New Israel Fund. For 6 years (1985-1991), I was director in Israel of this foundation that gives support to Israeli organizations working for justice, pluralism, coexistence, and civil rights. I loved working there, but quit out of a desire to actually engage in the work of some of the organizations that we were funding. After leaving, I began translating in order to support myself, mostly articles and books that advanced my left-wing views. Although this meant lower income, I could set my workload and be free for activism in my areas of interest. I initially became active in three main organizations: the Adam Institute, which educates for democracy and peace; Kol Ha-Isha, a feminist center in Jerusalem; and B’Tselem, working for human rights in the occupied territories.
Women in Black. While at NIF, I joined Women in Black from the third week of its existence (in 1988). This meant standing on the Jerusalem vigil every Friday for one hour dressed in black as a sign of mourning for the victims on both sides and holding a sign with just three words on it: “End the Occupation”. This slogan captured it all, in our view, but evoked much hostility in Jerusalem, a predominantly right-wing city. We women often found ourselves discussing how to handle incitement and violence directed against us. The Jerusalem vigil spread to other locations around Israel and eventually became rooted overseas. It is now an international movement. I stood on the vigil for 24 years until I left the country for a decade.
B’Tselem: The Israeli Information Center for Human Rights in the Occupied Territories. This is the premier Israeli organization investigating and documenting violations of Palestinian human rights in Gaza and the West Bank, as well as advocating for compliance with international human rights law. I served as chair and co-chair of the B’Tselem board of directors over the course of many years. I am proud of B’Tselem’s exceptional work, and it’s not surprising that it has been the target of much right-wing anger, violence, and even arson. I note that the word b’tselem in Hebrew means “in the image of”, helping us remember that we are all created in the image of God (which means for us atheists, I guess, that we should treat each other respectfully).
Bat Shalom. I served for 2 years (1997-1999) as director of this national organization that worked with Israeli and Palestinian women to promote peace and human rights. Bat Shalom was the Israeli side of “The Jerusalem Link”, while the parallel Palestinian organization is the Jerusalem Center for Women. It is here that I first met Sumaya Farhat-Naser, a Palestinian professor of botany at Bir Zeit University, who had taken leave of academia to work as director of the Jerusalem Center for Women. I have deep respect for Sumaya and her work, and ours was a productive partnership for peace. Bat Shalom fell apart financially over the years.
Coalition of Women for Peace: In 2000, after the outbreak of the second intifada, I co-founded (together with Hannah Safran) a broad-based national coalition that brought together 9 feminist peace organizations in Israel. Through the hard work of many women, the Coalition became one of Israel’s leading feminist voices for peace and a high-risk practitioner of civil disobedience. Many of these actions are described on this website under “Dispatches from the Peace Front”. I left the Coalition in 2007 to engage in more of my own writing.
Ecumenical Accompaniment Program in Palestine and Israel. From 2004, I was an active member of EAPPI’s core reference group. This organization, sponsored by the World Council of Churches, brings people of all faiths from other countries to accompany Palestinians and Israelis in their nonviolent actions to end the occupation, often putting themselves at risk together with those they accompany.
I have also been privileged to play a small role in several other organizations: the Association for Civil Rights in Israel (Board 2000-2001); Safe Homes for Children and Youth (Board, 1996-2020 or so); Israel Women’s Network (Advisory Council, 1995-1997); and Israel/Palestine Center for Research and Information (IPCRI) (member of the Jerusalem/Brussels Project, studying the applicability of the Brussels coexistence model for Jerusalem, 1995-96).
Full disclosure: While in the New Israel Fund, I recommended against funding the Public Committee Against Torture in Israel (PCATI) in the belief that this was an extremist organization, and that torture by Israel’s security forces was random, not routine and systematic. Following the publication of groundbreaking research by Stanley Cohen and Daphna Golan, I came to regret my previous position. In 1999, the Israeli Supreme Court outlawed torture in Israel, at the time a sterling achievement produced by the combined forces of 7 human rights organizations. This has not stopped torture, however, which now transpires hidden from view. At least it is no longer sanctioned by Israeli law.
An entirely new and surprising chapter began in my life in 2012. Judy was working in the IT department of the United Nations in Jerusalem when she was asked to spend three months in Nepal. I followed her—and soon I was smitten by the “international bug.” I wanted to live in different countries, meet different people, and see the world through new eyes. Judy began applying for positions abroad, but I worried that leaving Israel might strip my life of its meaning, which had long been rooted in the struggle to end the occupation. I feared that I—and others—might see my departure as a betrayal of our common cause. In the end, we decided to try it out–we could always return, we told ourselves–and Judy accepted a job offer working for the UN in Mombasa, Kenya.
That decision was the first step in a journey that reshaped my mind and heart: seven years in Uganda, one year in Kenya, one in Spain, and even a year in New York. Throughout those years, I searched for a sense of purpose beyond the excitement of discovering new cultures. I ultimately created a program to help young, indigent Ugandans attend high school, which is neither free nor compulsory in Uganda. Thanks to the generous support of friends and family, the Shalom Scholarship Program pays the tuition, room and board, health care, books, supplies, uniforms—everything needed for a student to attend and complete high school. To date, dozens of students have used this scholarship to attend high school and twenty have earned university degrees in fields such as engineering, law, and medicine. Others have completed vocational training courses. Along the way, Shalom graduates have become our family and we remain in touch with most of them. I’d like to acknowledge the generosity of all our donors, particularly our dear friend Sally Gottesman, who made school and university attainable for so many of these students.
The only complication has been Uganda’s harsh anti‑homosexuality laws. Not only is being gay a serious felony in that country, but failing to report someone you know to be gay is also punishable by imprisonment. To protect the scholars, Judy and I lived as “sisters” while in Uganda. They had no idea that we are a married couple.
My book Waking Up in Africa: A Story of Secrets, Love, and Reinvention tells the story of my years in Africa. It’s available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, other sites, or ordered from your local bookstore.
Tax‑deductible donations to the Shalom Scholarship Program can be made here:
After Judy retired in 2020, we moved to the United States and spent several years in Virginia before returning to Israel in 2025. Israel is truly my home, despite its considerable flaws and sins. There is much work to be done here, but I am heartened by the generation of extraordinary young people who have taken up the mantle.
The Insufficient Humility Corner
Without sufficient humility, I also note that I was the recipient of 3 awards that I hope to tell my grandchildren about some day:
The Solidarity Prize of Bremen in 2003, together with Sumaya Farhat-Naser, for efforts to overcome the consequences of colonialism and racism, and to promote democracy and human rights.
The Hermann-Kesten-Medal in 2002, also together with Sumaya Farhat-Naser, awarded by the PEN Association of Writers in Germany for ongoing literary efforts to achieve peace in the Middle East.
In 2004, I was honored by the New Israel Fund, my former employer, for my “contribution to strengthening Israeli democracy”.
Here’s the final paragraph from my book Waking Up in Africa, which I think is a good ending to this not very brief bio:
As I sit here writing these final words, my granddaughter asleep in my lap—a tender reminder that my own life is nearing its denouement—I think of Sofia, Parker, Majid and all my young friends now stepping into adulthood in Uganda. It brings me profound relief to know they have escaped the grip of poverty and can look ahead to meaningful work, perhaps a loving partner and children, better health care, and the chance to bring family—and others—along with them. I am old, and they are young engineers, teachers, doctors, programmers, hairstylists and HVAC repairmen. They have stepped through the door to a brighter future, and I feel humbled to think I have helped open it—for them, their families and perhaps for others who will follow. And now, my granddaughter in my arms, these young people in my dreams—I look forward to the world I will not see.