For nearly a decade I have wanted, with a growing sense of urgency, to
write something that would show what the women’s health movement
has meant to the women of my generation, the generation of girls who
came of age in the 1950s and 60s, became activists in the causes of
others, then turned to help one another and, finally, to help ourselves.
We grew up in New York, the Casbah of Algiers, the bantustans of
South Africa, dusty Khartoum, provincial France, the North of England,
and Old Delhi. Each of us carries, on her body and in her mind, a site of
humiliation, a scar of betrayed...