Cities of Refuge – A Moral Roadmap for Gaza

 After almost two years of war, tens of thousands of killed, hundreds of soldiers dead, live hostages still in captivity, thousands starving, cities reduced to rubble – the current discourse around the destruction in Gaza continues to be extraordinarily polarized.

On one side, despite the undeniability of the scope of the destruction we continue to hear voices saying: “There are no innocents in Gaza” or “Gaza must be flattened.” Some justify this using halakhic concepts like milhemet mitzvah (“commanded war”); or liken Gaza to the ir nidachat—the city led astray by idolatry, which must be destroyed entirely; or describe Palestinians as the “seven nations,” or even as Amalek, whom we are biblically permitted or even commanded to kill, including women and children. 

On the other side, from critics outside Israel since the war began and now occasionally within Israel, a diametrically opposed view has taken hold: that all Gazans—even Hamas operatives and terrorists—are innocent, because they act within a reality of colonial oppression. According to this view, full responsibility for every act of violence lies with the occupier, and those who are colonized cannot be held morally accountable. 

The extreme distance between these two perspectives—each of which erases moral responsibility from one side and places it entirely on the other—creates a dangerous vacuum. It eliminates the possibility of true ethical deliberation and instead fosters patterns of vengeance, denial, and dehumanization. 

In this moment, the Biblical concept of the cities of refuge, arei miklat, referenced several times in the book of Deuteronomy and in the book of Numbers (Num 35, Deut 4, Deut 19)  — offer a surprising model for a different kind of thinking. 

According to the verses arei miklat, were cities where someone who had killed unintentionally could flee for protection from the victim’s “blood-avenger”  goel hadam until the matter could be investigated by a court. The city of refuge is not a utopia, but a legal mechanism that acknowledges the reality of bloodshed and the human desire for revenge and seeks to contain them. It demands a detailed examination of each case, and insists on moral discernment. 

In the second chapter of Makkot, the Mishna and Talmud deepen the significance of the cities of refuge and shape it into a structure of ethical rehabilitation: “One does not establish a city of refuge unless it is near water. And if there is no water, one brings water to it.” (Makkot 10a) It is not enough to build a wall and remove the killer from society. One must ensure conditions for full life—for a life with a future. 

But the Sages do not stop there. They add: “A student who is exiled—his teacher is exiled with him, as it is written: ‘and he shall live’—provide him with life.” The life required here is not merely physical survival. It is a demand to create conditions that allow for the person to be restored. When someone is exiled after a grave act, he needs someone to accompany him—not a guard, but a teacher. His rabbi joins him not as punishment, but as a bearer of ethics, wisdom, and future. Not to teach law, but to help him live. 

The city of refuge is not only a place of protection—it is a moral crossroads. The one who enters it does not go on as if nothing happened. They live with the knowledge that their actions caused a death, even if unintended. Exile to a city of refuge more than a legal category—it is a demand and an opportunity for change. A demand to reckon with one’s actions and to begin the long, difficult process of becoming someone different. That is why the Sages insisted that the exiled killer be accompanied by a teacher—not for comfort, but as a guide for moral repair. The verse “make life for him” is about rebuilding a life of responsibility and returning to the side of justice. 

The Talmudic model of the ir miklat goes further by seeking to ensure that the city itself does not become a hub of violence or corruption: “There shall be no intentional murderers there, and no weapons.” (Rambam, Hilkhot Rotzeach 7:1, Babylonian Talmud Makkot 11a). An unintentional killer risks internalizing a criminal identity if their environment reinforces it. That is why the space must be cleared not only of physical violence, but of symbolic and mental violence as well. It must allow for transformation. 

The idea of viewing the city of refuge not just as a legal solution but as a moral model for navigating complex ethical and social realities was developed by the French Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas in his collection Beyond the Verse. In his reading, the ir miklat is not merely a halakhic institution—it is a framework that holds the tension between responsibility, error, rehabilitation, and vengeance and insists on preserving humanity even in the face of wrongdoing, and justice even in the face of collapse. 

So what does this have to do with Gaza? 

Certainly, the analogy is not simple—and at times even dangerous. Most Gazans are not killers, and my goal here is not to equate Gaza with a city of refuge in the halakhic or legal sense. But if we look at the rabbinic model as a “moral topography”—as a way of thinking—it offers a different possibility from either collective punishment or total denial. 

The model of the city of refuge is an attempt to hold human and social complexity. It demands recognition of fracture, responsibility, and acknowledgment—and it requires that society as a whole take part in the repair. 

Israelis experience Palestinian society as a paradox: both victim and aggressor; both suffering and supportive of Hamas. But perhaps precisely because of this ambiguity, it is worth considering our responsibility to Palestinians in the moral terms of a city of refuge: a call to create conditions that prevent vengeance and promote rehabilitation. 

If we seek to apply the ir miklat model as a moral framework for thinking about Gaza—not as an empty metaphor, but as a serious tool of moral interpretation—we need to embrace, among other things, the following Talmudic principles: 

1. Halting vengeance – Even when it is emotionally or morally understandable, it cannot be a policy. 

1. Providing for basic needs – Water, food, and medical care—not just for survival, but for life. 

1. Education and culture – Not as a luxury, but as a fundamental moral condition for rehabilitation. 

1. Accompanying leadership – “A student who is exiled—his teacher is exiled with him”: moral accompaniment, not just technical. 

1. A space free of violence – Physical, symbolic, and psychological. 

1. A time limit – “He will remain there until the death of the high priest” (Num 25:38)  Guilt and penance are not eternal; there comes a time to restart the clock and begin again. 

Can such a framework be built for Gaza? I am not sure how to do it and as time goes on and the destruction continues there is increasingly less to work with – physically and morally. But as long as the majority of Israelis are unwilling to think in complex terms—to accept guilt and unintentional error at once, to hold complexity without being paralyzed by it —we will continue to act out of fear, revenge, and despair and more lives will continue to be lost. 

The Talmud does not offer us security plans but moral propositions. We—as a society and as human beings—have a moral responsibility to try to develop frameworks that allow life to flourish, rehabilitation to occur, and rebuilding to grow from out of the ruins. That is the lesson of the cities of refuge.