The Torah forbids wearing garments of mixed wool and linen, called shatnez, without explaining why Jews must follow this rule. And most Jews don’t. We pick and choose which ancient values and traditions we will uphold: Maybe we’ll never eat pork (it just feels wrong), but we’ll enjoy the occasional shrimp fried rice. We probably don’t think about whether our clothing is kosher. When I learned about shatnez, I was intrigued by the fiber-focused statute. Top search results show Orthodox Jews (“shatnez checkers”) examining fabric under microscopes. I imagine they are looking carefully for the scaly texture of wool hairs, and the bamboo-like shape of linen fibers. The two shall not mingle. Why? Because it is written. But surely there is more for us to consider.
I discovered shatnez from its Wikipedia article while doing a research project about Jewish textile traditions for my Adult Secular B’Mitzvah with the Morris Winchevsky Centre in Toronto. A textile conservator by trade and a knitter/quilter/weaver triple-threat off the clock, I am often confronted with the challenge of choosing the right materials for a project. By themselves, wool and linen both have different but delightful qualities. So learning that blending the two is illegal (or at least un-Jewish)?! I felt a blend of amusement and disappointment. The unreasoned law lingered in my mind while I concluded my b-mitzvah project, embroidering a challah cover and quilting a matzah bag with cotton and linen. Perhaps because I knew it was forbidden, I yearned to bring some wool into the mix. But for ritual textiles like these, I felt tied to the conventions. Don’t you have to understand the rules before you can break them?
I come from Reform Jews and atheists who made a decision to limit my Jewish education to the Rugrats Hanukkah special, so I am nowhere close to a learned Torah scholar. But I am a scholar and maker of textiles who has been variously entangled in questions of preservation and sustainability. Anyone who knows me has probably heard me preach about checking the fabric content label on clothing, and choosing natural fibers — like cotton or wool — over synthetic ones, like polyester and acrylic. I rarely come across modern clothing made from a blend of wool and linen (although I recently got an ad for a merino wool and linen blend t-shirt… maybe shatnez is making a comeback?). In general, both fibers have been phased out of large-scale use in the fashion industry and replaced with cheaper synthetic materials. Wool and linen mostly appear in expensive designer clothing, or brands that are focused specifically on sustainable fashion.
Clothes made from natural fibers are easier to repair and wear for a long time, while synthetic fabrics have a tendency to become pilled, yellowed, over-stretched and peppered with white specks of broken elastic. Natural fibers are also more resistant to odor and need to be washed less frequently. Synthetic fibers are useful for many things (I’m not going to scold you for the nylon that holds your socks up), but are also extremely harmful to our quickly-deteriorating environment, and sometimes even to our health. Shatnez, although conceived of before synthetic materials polluted our world, asks us to consider what we wear, and make choices about what we won’t. According to Jewish laws, synthetic fabrics are not not kosher. But are they kosher when it comes to our values?
It is interpreted that the law against shatnez specifies that it only applies to the wool of sheep, not the hair of goats, like mohair and cashmere, or of any other animal. It also applies only to linen, which comes from the flax plant, but not to other plant fibers like cotton or hemp. One section of Deuteronomy states explicitly that wool and linen should not be worn together. The rule appears in the same chapter as the line that forbids women from wearing “that which pertaineth unto a man” and vice versa, so we can take it with a grain of kosher salt. However, a section of Leviticus forbids more generally any “garment of two kinds of stuff mingled together.” The reason for the seemingly arbitrary ban on mixing wool and linen is theorized about, but not known.
From a perspective of practicality, wool and linen react differently to washing, and blends might be discouraged to prevent uneven shrinkage and facilitate the once back-breaking labor of laundry. If such is the case, shouldn’t fragile blends of fabrics with cheap polyester, spandex, nylon and elastic be outlawed too? Especially when we consider the plague of microplastics they shed with every wash?
As for a religious explanation, it has been proposed that linen and wool were used together in the robes of the kohanim (priests) as well as pagan priests, and therefore, should only be worn by those in service of God. Could shatnez be so beautiful, it is intended for God only? Is it prohibited because it is sacred? It is one in a list of forbidden mixes: women in men’s clothing, men in women’s clothing, linen and wool.
Sometimes called linsey-woolsey (which I offer as a name for a pro-shatnez drag queen), blends of wool and linen can represent a rejection of binary thinking, or sacred cross-dressing. Wearing shatnez could be a holy transgression akin to wearing gender-affirming clothing, contrary to the ancient rules that do not fit the bodies of queer and trans Jews.
We live in a different world from the one which defined shatnez. I propose a modern interpretation of shatnez, which encourages Jews to consider the clothes we wear, what they are made of and who made them.
Blends of wool and linen are a natural delicacy in a fashion landscape of poly-cotton and stretch-denim. While many fast-fashion brands “greenwash” their products by creating clothing made using recycled synthetic materials, the truth is that blended fabrics are difficult, and sometimes impossible, to recycle. Historically, rags of cotton or linen were kept, reused, and eventually given to schmatte collectors, who could sell tattered fabrics for use in the paper-making industry. Other textiles might be reused, as in historic Torah ark curtains, which were often created from repurposed scraps of fine fabrics, such as velvets and brocades.
Like many cultures who have endured long periods of hardship, Jews have a historical tradition of frugality and seeing the value in scrap. Synthetic fabrics, which are primarily made from oil-derived plastics, have an intentionally short lifespan and a long, reluctant period of decay. There is a slim chance that a pair of over-stretched jeggings will be reused or recycled. When establishing our personal set of fashion commandments, we must consider a garment’s end-of-life as well as its genesis.
Is fast-fashion our modern-day shatnez? There is a meaningful Jewish history in the textile and garment industry, and consequently, in the creation of unions which advocated for worker’s rights in garment factories. As large-scale fashion companies have moved their production to parts of the world where labor is more exploitable, it is easy to take for granted the contributions of our ancestors to worker’s rights where we live, while the workers who make our clothes are often still struggling for fair pay, hours and workplace safety.
I hope modernizing interpretations of shatnez can encourage a renewed interest in the materials we surround ourselves with, and a deeper understanding of the ones we choose not to. Not every antiquated Jewish law must be taken literally, but some may be tailored to fit us better, instead of throwing them away entirely.
