I associate mezuzot with the concept of protection, and therefore with Jewish feminism. Creating spaces where everyone feels safe to be themselves should be an important component of both activist and faith-based communities, and I see it as a big part of Jewish feminism for that reason. The biblical verse that describes the mezuzah appears in Deuteronomy, and has been subject to countless interpretations throughout the centuries. Because I see mezuzot as emblematic of Jewish feminism, I have to wonder: Do these interpretations paint the mezuzah as a part of Jewish feminism too? 

My first round of research on mezuzot yielded surprisingly disappointing results. The rules regarding the mezuzah seemed to overwhelm its function and almost every act involving the mezuzah was geared towards men: only men could write mezuzah scrolls, only men could hang the mezuzah, and the only relationship the mezuzah had to women, according to Professor Elizabeth Shanks Alexander, a Judaic studies professor at the University of Virginia, was to “secure their place of domicile: under a Jewish male householder.” I was upset by how blatantly exclusive these rules are. Then, I discovered Professor Alexander’s article, “Ritual on the Threshold: Mezuzah and the Crafting of Domestic and Civic Space,” and, as a result, Philo.



Since reading this article, Philo has become one of my favorite Jewish thinkers. Philo lived in Alexandria in the first century CE and he, unlike many rabbis from the first and second century CE, believed the mezuzah was meant to be on the outermost part of the house so that it was visible from the street (or, if you had a gate or a fence, it should instead hang there.) He wanted the mezuzah to proudly take up space; he believed that the mezuzah should be as public as a statue in order to widely spread its inscribed principles of justice. According to Professor Alexander, Philo’s ideas opened the door to seeing the mezuzah as a feminist item, as he believed the mitzvah of the mezuzah was viewing them, not hanging them or writing their contents. This emphasis on viewing, rather than creating, enables women to take part in the mitzvah. 

The mezuzah represents my identity as a Jewish feminist because of its emphasis on the act of welcoming. By hanging the mezuzah on the outside of our doorposts, we can essentially advertise a safe space for anyone seeking refuge—just as the broader movements of Judaism and feminism are supposed to. Mezuzot mark a home as protected. With the mezuzah, Jews can “claim” space as our own. As a good luck charm, the mezuzah has brought safety and G-dly presence to so many Jewish homes. It's essential that welcoming doesn’t become a forgotten virtue. After all, activism is not just about rallying; activism is also about creating lasting change that helps communities, which is especially important during the pandemic.



One of the most important values of Judaism to me is shared connection. Whether with my community, my congregation, my ancestors, my family, my camp, or my friends, these connections are big parts of what make people Jewish. It’s why I value traditions; they connect past, present, and future Jews who have all participated or will participate in the same activities. The mitzvah of mezuzah connects my home not only to houses in the ancient streets of Alexandria where Philo lived, or to the generations of future Jews who will proudly display their mezuzot on their own doorposts, but also to the large web of Jewish homes with mezuzot in 2021. 

The mezuzah has always felt like a bodyguard to me—protective and comforting. My family recently moved, and one of the first things we did at the new house was hang mezuzot together. The mezuzah that hangs outside my bedroom door is beautiful. It’s a long, thin, blue oval, with a chain of sculpted people holding onto each other to keep from falling off the little piece of ceramic.

Last summer, at Camp Ramah in the Rockies, a deer died on camp grounds. Rather than getting rid of the deer’s body, the camp leaders decided to elevate its holiness by turning some of the animal’s skin into a scroll for a mezuzah. I helped prepare the skin to dry, assisting in the mitzvah of making a mezuzah. I felt honored to be a part of such a time-honored tradition, especially one in which so many Jewish women historically couldn’t participate. (Although I must admit that handling the deer’s skin was pretty disgusting.) 



Philo has helped me realize that a mezuzah is a time-traveling object that connects me to Jewish women thousands of years ago, who kissed their own mezuzot as they passed through their doors.  My mezuzah is a shield, guarding my space from anger and hurt. My mezuzah is a guide, a constant reminder of the principles of justice. My mezuzah is a mitzvah. Most of all, my mezuzah represents my pride—in Judaism, in feminism, and in myself.