Alumna Profile: Sarah Pirtle

Since coming to Oberlin, I’ve realized that almost everyone here is connected. For example, when I sat down in Slow Train to write this blog, I recognized more than half the people sitting inside. Another example is that a longtime friend and mentor of mine, Sarah Pirtle, attended Oberlin in the late 60s. While I’ve known her since I was five, I didn’t discover our college connection until after I had already applied. In talking to her, I’ve realized our Oberlins are more connected than I thought, so I decided to interview her for the blog:

Let’s start with some background about yourself. What kind of work do you do?

SP: I’ve been a lifelong activist, working especially in peace education. Back in 1994—31 years ago—I started a peace camp called Journey Camp, to fit with a sense of a lifelong journey, and that’s how I know Ozzie. We’ve known each other for fifteen years, so I got really excited when Ozzie chose Oberlin. 

One of the things I’m always talking about at camp is this sense that we’re all part of a Long Line of people working to change oppression before us. In fact, one of the questions I ask people is, which Long Line are you part of? We have such an individualistic culture, and I’m thinking instead of what it means to feel you’re part of a group making important change. If you think of the Long Line that you want to be part of, imagine those people from the past really caring about you. What words of encouragement can you imagine they are sending you? I’ve really begun to feel that—the support people give each other. 

Recently, I became part of Women of Vision, which is a group of both Arab and Jewish women in Israel who meet every new moon. Representatives came here to Western Mass, and I went every single time I could. I was on a Zoom where 2,000 people—Palestinian and Jewish Israelis—gathered in the Negev Desert, right around Hanukkah, and they called the gathering Woodstock. They came together using music to express their fervent belief in peace and ceasefire. There they were, holding candles. It was a cold desert night. We got to see everyone gathering under a tent and singing, and then the Zoom went dead. I just stayed there thinking, “How can I send them a message?” So I wrote a song, and the next day, got to sing it to Dorit Bat-Shalom, one of the founders of Women of Vision. She was in the Galilee in a yurt, and she heard the song and just wept, really feeling how we’re all pulling together. Since then, that same Zoom recording has been sent to women in Russia. So my work is really building an interconnected beloved community of all ages—of all generations. 

Can you tell me about your commitment to anti-racism?

When I first was going to trainings on anti-racism with Equity Institute in 1981, they taught about what they called the wheel of oppression. To illustrate, they drew spokes in a circle said that all the oppressions keep the others going. Which are spokes from the wheel of oppression that you want to add more into your awareness? At that time, classism and homophobia were all listed. What are spokes of oppression we should talk about today? Trauma stigma is a cornerstone of oppression that often goes overlooked.

It’s really important for me to work lifelong on unlearning white supremacy and oppression. Growing up white, it’s as if some kind of helmet was placed over my head that kept giving messages of white supremacy and I have to take that off in a deliberate way. I think it’s so important for us all to feel like all these struggles matter. 

Is there any way to support the work you’re doing right now?

SP: For fifteen years, I’ve been connected to Palestinian House of Friendship. Mohammed Sawala has become a friend, and he’s come to Western Massachusetts. His son, Majed, is now an international peace builder. He goes locally into schools to help young people in Palestine not get caught up in the cycle of violence. They’re doing such impressive work for democracy—they support families in nearby refugee camps. They’re just tireless. So that’s an organization that I invite people to really have your eye on and give donations to. 

Okay, shifting focus a little— What was your time at Oberlin like? What were you involved with on campus?

SP: I arrived in Oberlin in 1967. And within a few months, Oberlin students surrounded the army recruiters’ car on campus to protest the Vietnam War, and a close friend of mine asked me to be on his support team. I was also heavily involved with the Quaker meeting, and we would do many different standouts on the southwest corner of Tappan Square. After the death of Dr. King, the death of Malcolm X, the Quaker group would be out in Tappan. We had actually a regular weekly vigil. 

My sophomore year, I was really lucky to be able to get into Keep Co-op. It was very important to me to be in a co-op because my childhood involved growing up in a Unitarian church, and I went to a UU peace camp called Rowe in Massachusetts. The place on campus that was most like Rowe was within the co-ops. I was devastated when after that first year in Keep, I didn’t make the lottery. That loss really impacted me. OSCA really gave a sense of a beloved community.

My sophomore year (1968-1969) was also the first year they did January Term. I got chosen to be working with Psych Services to learn how to give peer support. That summer, one of the directors of Psych Services arranged for me to study in Cleveland with Careers in Social Work. I met a whole community in Cleveland of progressive people, including the very first beginning of feminism there in 1969. It was called Cleveland Women’s Liberation, and both women and men were taking part. I started leading consciousness-raising groups. The loss of being in Keep contributed heavily to my decision to leave Oberlin and transfer to CWRU in Cleveland to be part of that progressive community. 

Do you feel like your time at Oberlin shaped your lifelong involvement in peace work? 

SP: Absolutely. When I think of Oberlin, I think of sitting at Keep, around a table. I also think of when I was a bread baker for January Term, and feeling like everyone in the room was joined by similar commitments. I feel imprinted by what happened at Oberlin, standing on the vigil, talking to other students late at night. Or when Adrienne Rich came, and she talked about how the personal is political. She was the first feminist voice that had—to my knowledge—come forward, on campus. I’m so very glad to get to, in this way, say hello and reach my hand to the Long Line of people at Oberlin. 

Read Part II here!