Parashat Matot - Masaei: Paths of Refuge, Signs of Humanity

We are approaching the conclusion of the book of Bemidbar, the book aptly named “In the Desert.” It is not merely an account of a physical journey, but a spiritual diary: the experience of a people who, amid stumbles and revelations, rebellions and discoveries, are continuously shaped. In that desert unfolded both the highest moments and the lowest depths, and each stage brought—or demanded—a lesson.

The parashah Masei, which closes the book, offers a detailed review of the journey. Forty-two stopping points are recorded: places where the people halted, set up camp, and awaited further instructions. This is more than a mere list of stations; it is a pedagogy of the journey itself. Remembering every step so that the goal does not make us forget the path, so that the yearning to arrive does not erase memory. Because memory—that form of wisdom—is what makes us a people.

Within this context, one concept emerges with pressing urgency today: the arei miklat, the cities of refuge. Specially designated places for someone who has taken a life unintentionally. Spaces where an accidental killer could find shelter from immediate revenge, safe until a fair trial could determine their fate.

The Torah clearly states:

“You shall designate cities for yourselves, cities of refuge, to which a person who has killed someone unintentionally may flee. These cities shall serve as refuge from the avenger, so that the killer will not die before standing trial before the assembly. The six cities you assign shall be the cities of refuge. Three shall be on the other side of the Jordan, and three shall be in the land of Canaan; they shall serve as cities of refuge. These six cities shall be a refuge for the Israelites and for the strangers dwelling among them...”(Bemidbar/Numbers 35:11-15)

The geography of these cities was no accident: Hebron in the south, Kadesh in the north, Shechem in the center. And three more on the other side of the Jordan in corresponding locations. Accessible, strategically distributed to guarantee protection for all. But they were not only chosen—they were made reachable. The roads leading to them were widened to twice their usual size, hills were leveled, bridges built, and clear signs posted. Every year, during the month of Adar, these routes were inspected to ensure safe passage. Additionally, the 48 Levitical cities also offered refuge, further extending this protective network.

Among the commentators who discuss this system of refuge, we find Daat Zekenim, a medieval collection of Torah interpretations. This work gathers insights from the tosafists, a group of French and German sages from the 12th and 13th centuries who critically analyzed Rashi’s Talmudic commentaries, expanding, contrasting, and deepening them. Their approach often weaves together legal, moral, technical, and spiritual threads.

There we can read:

“The Torah instructs the Jewish people to erect signs at every major crossroads to guide potential refugees to the nearest city... If God shows the way back even to those who have committed a serious unintentional transgression, how much more so to those who err without malice. That is why the Psalmist says:‘He guides the humble in what is right and teaches the humble His way.’”(Psalm 25:9)

The message is clear and profound: there are paths to return. For the righteous and for those who have strayed. For those who have been overtaken by hatred or led astray by leaders who promote vengeance and destruction. The Torah demands that access to refuge be easy, visible, and tangible. Not as an exception, but as a policy of humanity.

Today, the echo of those arei miklat cries out to be reborn in our own landscapes. Not only in Israel. Not only on one side. Across every border of pain, we need real and symbolic refuges. Places where the cry of revenge can be suspended, where “the strangers dwelling among them” are also welcome. Where people do not just flee death, but also cruelty, contempt, fanaticism, political manipulation, and the desperate cries that find no solace.

Perhaps behind simple walls, away from cameras and screens that expose everything, there is room for shared tears. To look each other in the eye, acknowledge the losses on both sides, and honestly long for another way to live through conflict.

Maybe hope is not so far away. But it requires new paths. They don’t appear by themselves. Valleys must be raised, mountains leveled, obstacles cleared. The ground of understanding is tough, and it is only smoothed by joint effort. With clear signs. With the will to build cities—physical or symbolic—that do not deny justice, but also embrace the possibility of forgiveness, containment, and new beginnings.

And perhaps it is no coincidence that we read these words precisely on the eve of Shabbat.

Because Shabbat is, in a way, a city of refuge in time. A sacred space not measured in miles but in breath. A day offering protection from the chaos, fear, and despair. A pause reminding us that not all is lost, that there is still room for the soul, for light, for true rest.

Today the world is convulsed. Wars, displacements, hate speech, institutionalized indifference. The Middle East burns—and with it, the tears of those who still believe that the suffering of any human being must matter. In Gaza, in Israel, and in so many other parts of the world, we urgently need the same message that beats at the heart of the Torah: prepare paths, not only for those fleeing but also for those seeking to reconnect with their humanity.

Shabbat invites us to do just that. To stop. To see with different eyes. To heal. To believe another route is possible and commit ourselves to it.

May this Shabbat find us opening paths, building refuges, leveling mountains. Not with machines or concrete, but with gestures, words, prayers, and decisions. Because if we manage that, then perhaps the promise is not so far away. But only if we make refuge a policy—and memory a compass.

May we, in the midst of the wilderness, feel these days, be able to say that we not only crossed history…but also managed to humanize it.

At the start of the month of Av, we always say:

מִשֶּׁנִּכְנַס אָב מְמַעֲטִין בְּשִׂמְחָה

“Mi’shenichnas Av, mema’atim be-simchá.” “When the month of Av begins, joy is diminished,” because it is in Av, on the ninth day, that we commemorate the tragedy of the destruction of the Great Temple in Jerusalem, the Beit HaMikdash.

May this time of mourning be one where we value not only what we lost to senseless hatred but also what we have today as a people—and as individuals—to protect and uphold.

Shabbat Shalom ve Chodesh Tov

Rabbi Gustavo Geier