Refuge

The trouble with living in Ramos is that I don’t know who might have killed someone. The Gadi woman who gives me extra milk at the market. The old man from Reuven who walks with a stooped step to the houses of learning each morning. Our Menasheh cousins who have de facto adopted my brothers into their family.

It’s impolite, in an ir miklat, to ask the question, though I know that so many people here must be. The law is that you must announce your crime at the gates, in front of the elders, but who is always at the gate to listen? Maybe Achinoam bas Zecharyahu, who’s a famous busybody. Sarah, she used to tell me in her creaky voice, her fingers like claws digging into my shoulder, you’re all alone here. No parents, those three little brothers to raise. You need a husband.

A husband. From where? For 14 years, there were few Israelite men on this side of the Yarden River, only guards who patrolled the borders and had little time to go home. The rest disappeared with Yehoshua bin Nun into Canaan, armed and marching at the forefront of the invading force. As they experienced miracles beneath Hashem’s Hand, I went from an orphaned 24-year-old with no prospects and three adolescent and teenaged brothers to feed, to a 38-year-old on her own with even less to offer.

Now, they’re back, powerful men, tall and strong and fierce, their beards dark and their faces still glowing with Heavenly Providence. After years of women and children, long-haired boys grown to young, fresh-faced adults, this is something new.