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Cities of Refuge

2016; Duke University Press; Volume: 31; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1215/08879982-3493485

2164-0041

Maryann Jacobi Gray,

Jewish and Middle Eastern Studies

Although i’ve always known I’m Jewish, my family was not in the least bit religious. We rejoiced on the High Holy Days because it was so easy to reserve a tennis court near our house in Scarsdale. We were too busy decorating our Christmas tree to celebrate Chanukah. When Easter rolled around, my sister and I dyed hard-boiled eggs lurid colors and received little baskets filled with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans.Even though we never joined a temple or went to services, it was impossible to grow up in Westchester County without learning something about Judaism. There were bar mitzvahs and weddings to attend; occasionally I went to temple with a friend’s family. I learned how to say “Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu,” and I knew the words meant “blessed our Lord,” but I had no idea what came afterward and no burning desire to find out.I learned more in college, because I took a course on Judeo-Christian religions after I was closed out of a class on Eastern religions. I also sat through a day-long workshop about the Kabbalah, in the same spirit that I attended Sufi dancing and Buddhist meditation sessions—striving to be open, but knowing in my heart that something was off about the fit. I don’t believe in organized religion, I concluded, and that’s where things might have stayed if not for the accident.At first what happened convinced me that God did not exist, or at least not a benign and loving God. If He did, He would never have let an eight-year-old boy named Brian dart into the street in front of my car. He would never have let that child die in the road, his blood pooling on the blacktop while his mother wailed a few yards away. He would not have left me all alone at age twenty-two, without comfort or support. None of it made sense.I could only partially accept the idea that God was punishing me. I was envious of those prettier and more popular than I was, contemptuous of those less so, and overly concerned with myself. But why would God punish an eight-year-old boy? Why punish his entire family? If there was a God, He wasn’t paying much attention on that day.I spent the first few weeks after the accident hiding inside my apartment. I was ashamed to show my face and afraid of being attacked if anyone recognized that I was the girl who killed a local child. Although I had moments of despair, I mostly felt dull and frozen. I thought about the accident all the time, while a continuous loop of flashbacks ran in random sequence: The boy flying up into the air after I hit him. His mother in a house dress, knees buckling on her front stoop. A crowd of onlookers. Blood. Sitting in the back of a police car, arms wrapped around myself, while an officer told me the boy had died.Sometime during those weeks I pulled out my college textbooks and read more about Judaism. I was longing for solace, but I would have settled for some decent advice. What I discovered was not reassuring. In To Be a Jew, a book offering an introduction to contemporary Judaism, Rabbi Hayim Donin writes, “If he who saves a life is credited in our tradition with saving a world, it follows that he who destroys a life is guilty of destroying a world.”“He can’t mean me,” I told myself. “What I did was accidental.” But I couldn’t shake the suspicion that he did.Thumbing through the book for another perspective, I ran across a quote by Abraham Joshua Heschel. “The purest intentions, the finest of devotion, the noblest spiritual aspirations are fatuous when not realized in action.” So, my intentions were irrelevant. It didn’t matter that the child’s death was an accident. What mattered were my actions, and they were horribly destructive. I felt queasy.But didn’t Judaism also tout the wonders of atonement? Could I atone for killing Brian and, therefore, for destroying an entire world? Again, I was disappointed by what I read. Donin writes,I had sinned against Brian and his family, but how could I possibly approach them to ask for forgiveness? I had no right to ask anything of them. They had a right to hate me. Atonement was out of reach.I was approaching fifty years old. The accident was ancient history, except it didn’t feel that way. I had stopped talking about it long before, but I still thought about it every day. More than that, actually: every time I got in my car; when I was around kids; if I did something careless. Watch yourself, you know what can happen. My husband Glen and I had decided against having children. We both came from troubled families, and we were both deeply involved in our careers. “I don’t think I’d be a good mother,” I would say, but what I secretly meant was, “I’m afraid my child would get run over. I don’t trust myself.” Glen was a non-practicing Lutheran and I was a non-practicing Jew, and that was fine with both of us.In July 2003, an out of control car plowed through the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market, killing ten people and injuring over sixty. I lived and worked nearby, and the buzz of helicopters overhead became the soundtrack to that day. Glen and I watched television for hours, working email and the phone to make sure friends and coworkers were okay. As I watched enraged bystanders scream “murderer” at the elderly driver, I remembered how I feared that others would hate me, even try to hurt me after my accident. For the next few days, memories of my accident flooded me, and I had frequent flashbacks, which hadn’t happened for years.Unable to concentrate at work, I started surfing the web, exploring sites for people who had accidents. I searched the phrases “car accident” and “auto accident,” but all I got were gory photos or advertisements for lawyers. After that I tried “accidental killer.” The words seemed awkward and overwrought and I wasn’t expecting much. The first few hits were things like “poison number one accidental killer in the home.”But then I clicked on a site that caught my attention. At the top of the page was a head shot of a rabbi—a kindly, plump face topped by a black yarmulke—Rabbi Buchwald. In the middle of the screen, I read:The Torah was talking about me. I kept my office door closed and began to read. I ended up obsessed with learning all I could about the cities of refuge, endlessly surfing the web for commentaries, talking with faculty members and clergy at the University of Southern California and UCLA, and visiting the library at Hebrew Union College. I couldn’t say exactly what drove me, but I never felt bored.The Torah first addresses cities of refuge in the Book of Numbers, which indicated that, of the forty-eight cities assigned to the Levites, six would be designated as cities of refuge. More information is provided in the Books of Deuteronomy and Joshua. Then there are the hundreds, maybe thousands, of pages of commentary that have accumulated over the centuries.The way it worked was that, immediately after a deadly accident, the killer would race to the city of refuge. The victim’s relatives, called blood-avengers, were likely to be in hot pursuit. If they caught up with the killer en route to the city, they could attack or even murder him with impunity. Once inside the gates of the city, however, the killer was safe from revenge attacks. He would stay in the city until his trial before an assembly of elders. If the assembly decided that the victim’s death was intended, the person faced execution for the crime of murder. If the assembly agreed that the death was unintentional, the accidental killer then returned to the city of refuge to live.The Book of Numbers also specifies that the cities of refuge were not only for Israelites, but also protected resident aliens. Furthermore, no one could buy their way out of the city with bail, bribes, or ransom.When the High Priest in Jerusalem died, the accidental killer could return in safety to his home and his lands. Anyone who attacked him in revenge would be punished. If he left before the High Priest died, however, the blood-avengers could murder him without consequence.It’s not clear why accidental killers were released from the city of refuge when the High Priest died. Some rabbis believe the Priest’s death symbolized penance for all the sins of the Jewish people. Others wrote that the death of the High Priest reminded everyone that no one lives forever, so the victim’s family would realize they were not alone in their grief.Deuteronomy provides additional information, describing the person who can find refuge there as “one who has killed another unwittingly, without having been his enemy in the past” (Deut. 19:4). This chapter also notes the importance of providing ready access to the cities of refuge. “Otherwise, when the distance is great, the blood-avenger, pursuing the manslayer in hot anger, may overtake him and kill him; yet he did not incur the death penalty, since he had never been the other’s enemy” (Deut. 19:6).Talmudic commentary indicates that, to help accidental killers reach safety, the roads leading to the cities of refuge were supposed to be twice as wide as regular roads, free of obstacles, with good signs and sturdy bridges. If the blood-avenger attacked the accidental killer before he could reach a city of refuge, all Israelites shared in the blame.The Book of Joshua underscores the protections offered by the cities of refuge, stating that the manslayer should run to the gates of the city, plead his case to the elders, “and they shall admit him into the city and give him a place in which to live among them” (Josh. 20:4). Moreover, if the blood-avenger came to the city seeking revenge, the residents were obligated to protect the manslayer.Although separation from all the people, places, and activities that constitute one’s life must have been wrenching, the cities of refuge were humane. The accidental killer’s immediate family usually accompanied him there. Rather than being ostracized or confined to a ghetto, accidental killers were fully integrated into the community. In fact, they could even receive honors, so long as they disclosed their past.I had felt so disconnected from Judaism, and so harshly judged. And then, decades after I chucked the whole thing, there were entire chapters laying out exactly how society is supposed to respond to people like me. The Torah wasn’t telling me that I was a horrible person. Even God found me deserving of asylum.Once the immediate danger of retribution passed, however, the God of the Torah did not want me to simply move on with my life. He knew that killing, even by accident, changes a person. The safety of the city allowed the accidental killer to move beyond fear for his own survival to a deeper consideration of life, death, and personal responsibility. In this safe space, the killers could reflect on the harm they caused, build character, and deepen their appreciation for life.As soon as I learned about cities of refuge, I yearned to find one. What I didn’t realize was that I was already living in one—not a designated place for accidental killers, but a community that cared about me. As long as I kept my accident a secret, I felt alone. When I began telling my story, I was deeply touched by the acceptance of my friends and family. I was also able to reach out to Brian’s older brother (his parents had passed away) to let him know that Brian lives in my heart. This painful conversation, more than thirty years after the accident, brought us both some solace.Yet far more important to my own spiritual growth than accepting refuge has been offering refuge. A few years ago, I established a website for people who have killed accidentally. I receive correspondence every day from people who are despairing and frightened, and I try to write back to all of them. Many post comments and write back and forth to each other as well. The website has become a virtual city of refuge—a safe space where visitors in need can be both open and accepted.The residents of the cities of refuge, most of whom were not accidental killers, welcomed strangers and outcasts into their communities. They did not set quotas. They did not turn them away. Rather than complaining that the killers were a burden, they helped them become productive members of the community. Some accidental killers—traumatized and perhaps otherwise troubled—undoubtedly needed lots of support, while others were more resourceful. I expect that some were grateful for the safety of the city while others resented their confinement. It didn’t matter—they needed sanctuary, so the community took them in.This willingness to accept strangers is foundational to Judaism. Abraham and Sarah practiced hachnasat orchim (welcoming the stranger) when they offered three strangers food and rest and washed their feet. The command to extend hospitality to strangers is repeated throughout the Torah. After all, the Jews, too, were once strangers, wandering the world and seeking refuge.And according to talmudic commentary, welcoming the stranger takes precedence over both Torah study and welcoming the divine presence.It is this concept of hospitality to those in need that offers a bridge between the biblical cities of refuge and today’s cities of refuge. Over the centuries, the concept has become more expansive, no longer limited only to accidental killers but rather to anyone seeking sanctuary or protection due to circumstances that are at least partly beyond their control. Contemporary cities of refuge offer sanctuary to those seeking protection from persecution and injustice. While this is evident in the modern sanctuary movement, it goes back at least two hundred years in the United States.A bizarre effort to establish a city of refuge began back in 1820, when Mordecai Manuel Noah bought 2,555 acres of land on Grand Island near Buffalo, New York, and five years later declared it a city of refuge for Jews worldwide. Noah was an accomplished man—a playwright, journalist, newspaper editor, ambassador, sheriff, and businessman—but his success did not buffer him from anti-Semitism. In 1816, Secretary of State James Monroe revoked his appointment as Consul to Tunis because he was a Jew, writing, “At the time of your appointment … it was not known that the religion which you profess would form an obstacle to the exercise of your Consular functions.” This and other experiences convinced Noah of the need for the Jewish people to have a state of their own.He opened his city of refuge, which he called Ararat, with great fanfare on September 15, 1825. A cannon fired to start the day, followed by a large parade and a twenty-four gun salute. Noah, dressed in a crimson silk robe trimmed in fur, declared himself governor and judge of Israel. Among various proclamations, he imposed a tax on all Jews worldwide of three silver shekels per year to support Ararat.Ararat was a failure. No one moved there, not even Noah, and today only the cornerstone remains to commemorate his vision.The story of Ararat is a story of one man’s hubris, but it also shows that building a city of refuge must be a community responsibility. No single individual can create one.Other cities of refuge have been less grandiose and far more effective. The tiny Protestant village of Le Chambon in the French countryside became a city of refuge for Jews fleeing persecution during World War II. The 5,000 villagers saved the lives of 5,000 Jews, sheltering them in their homes, establishing schools and homes for orphaned children, and helping some escape to safety.The sanctuary movement of the 1980s emphasized safety for undocumented immigrants, particularly those from Central American nations that were engaged in civil war and/or harsh repression. The movement began in churches and synagogues, but by the end of the 1980s, more than twenty cities had declared themselves cities of refuge. Even though the last twenty-five years have seen repeated efforts to undermine such places of refuge, today over 200 cities are considered “sanctuary cities.”During the 2016 electoral season and throughout last year’s Republican debates, anti-immigration rhetoric makes for a bizarre and distressing soundtrack juxtaposed against images of thousands of refugees streaming across borders in search of safety. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, the forcibly displaced population around the globe had grown to 59.5 million people by the end of 2014, compared to about 37.5 million a decade ago. Each day in 2014, roughly 42,500 people fled their homes, yet the United States accepts only about 70,000 refugees per year. Never have we needed cities of refuge more.Although the six cities of refuge played a special role, talmudic commentary tells us that all forty-eight cities assigned to the Levites had some responsibility to welcome the refugees of the day. In addition, as the population grew, the citizens were expected to add more cities of refuge. Today, too, each of us has the opportunity and obligation to offer refuge and to welcome the displaced and the needy. To deny refuge is to deny our own history. We can transform all our cities into places of refuge.