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Tuesday was a day of firsts.

The first day of college. The first day of new friends. And the first day I had to call the Harvard University Police Department.

That morning, I didn’t mind my blaring alarm, nor the resonating sound of bells coming from Memorial Church, nor the fact that I now had to get used to wearing shower shoes. Classes were about to begin, and I was ready to be immersed in the “transformative experience” that I was promised from the moment I opened my acceptance letter.

Beyond psyched to get ready for my first biology class of the year, I bounded out of my Thayer dorm, toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, when I noticed something was missing. In the place where my mezuzah — a Jewish ritual object traditionally placed on doorposts — had been so tightly secured, only a bit of sticky adhesive I had used to hang it remained.

My heart sank. After my roommate and I swept through the dorm’s entire floor, the morning’s excitement dimmed into an awful anxiety. My mezuzah was nowhere to be seen.

Coming from a religious Jewish background, I arrived on campus with optimistic caution. Despite reading the numerous headlines and testimonies characterizing Harvard as a hotbed for antisemitic behavior, I convinced worried friends and family that this year would be different. I told myself that intolerant people would not stop me from attending my dream school. And when my entryway pledged to create an inclusive community for all, I truly believed it.

Having to repeatedly explain my situation in meetings with my resident dean, proctor, upper-level administrators, and the Jewish leadership on campus, I felt the warm carefree glow of freshman year escape me.

Thrown into the cultural crisis of the University, my wishful thinking of feeling that I fully belong is on life support.

The Crimson’s initial coverage regarding my mezuzah’s disappearance was written under a misleading narrative and without my knowledge, omitting the critical almost five-hour timespan from when my roommate and I looked for the mezuzah to when it finally resurfaced. The story focused more on whether or not my mezuzah had fallen off by accident rather than the distressing reality of the potential hate crime. Moreover, The Crimson took over 12 hours to consider my input and update the article. I feel it necessary to use this space to explain what actually happened.

I refuse to believe my mezuzah magically fell off. I don’t see how it could have fallen given that I had seen it firmly attached while walking to the hallway bathroom at 2 a.m. that morning. I know because I kiss it every time I walk through my doorway. That morning, after searching in vain, I went to class.

An investigation was opened, and a detective came to take fingerprints. After searching, the detective found the mezuzah about two doors down from me across the hall, tucked into the wall.

I have no idea how it got there, but it was certainly not sitting there when my roommate and I searched every inch of our entryway for it.

Since there were no cameras around to capture the act and no one has stepped forward with any information, the culprit will probably never be found. I live on the top floor of Thayer, and given that there were other mezuzahs on lower floors that were not torn down, I am left to speculate whether this was a targeted act. Worst of all, I’m left wondering whether someone on my floor — or even someone I had just met — hated my identity so much that they felt compelled to frighten me.

Today, being Jewish on a college campus requires a certain level of strength — strength to stay steadfast in your beliefs, even while bullies try as hard as they can to tear you down. By no means did I expect to be embroiled in a spotlighted antisemitic incident on my first day of classes. With the support of the Jewish community and my allied friends who have helped me at this uncertain time on campus, I feel confident that I can heal from this and get back to my normal life.

Rubbing the fingerprint ink off the mezuzah Wednesday morning, I placed the mezuzah right back on my doorpost with the help of a rabbi. Because I refuse to be afraid of expressing my religious beliefs. Because I won’t give in to antisemitism on this campus. And because I am proud to be a Modern Orthodox Jew.

Sarah F. Silverman ’28 is a freshman in Thayer Hall.