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My name is Eli Sharabi. I am 53 years old. I have come back from hell. I have returned to tell my story. I used to live in Kibbutz Be’eri with my British-born wife, Lianne, and my daughters, Noiya and Yahel. It was a beautiful community. We were all passionate about creating the best life for our children and for our neighbors.
At 16, I left Tel Aviv for Be’eri, seeking a peaceful home away from the concrete city. I found a loving community and knew I would raise my family there. Many asked why we lived near Gaza – but to me, Be’eri was heaven.
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Former hostage Eli Sharabi addresses the UN Security Council
(Photo: REUTERS/Mike Segar)
Lianne came from Bristol, UK, as a volunteer. She was meant to stay a few months but she met me, and we fell in love. We were married for 23 years and had two wonderful daughters and a dog, Mokka.
On October 7, my heaven turned to hell. Sirens began, Hamas terrorists invaded and I was ripped away from my family, never to see them again.
For 491 days, I was kept mostly underground in Hamas terror tunnels, chained, starved, beaten and humiliated. I was held captive in the darkness – isolated from the world – by Hamas terrorists.
They took pleasure in our suffering. I survived on scraps of food, with no medical attention and no mercy. When I was released, I weighed just 44 kilos. I had lost over 30 kilos, nearly half my body weight.
For 491 days, I held onto hope. I imagined the life we would rebuild. I dreamed of seeing my family again. Only when I returned home, I learned the truth. My wife and my daughters had been slaughtered by Hamas terrorists on October 7.
I am here today, less than six weeks after my release, to speak for those still trapped in that nightmare. For my brother, Yossi, murdered in Hamas captivity, his body still held hostage. For Alon Ohel, still 50 meters underground. I swore to him that I would tell his story. For Hersh, Ori, Eden, Carmel, Almog and Alexander, murdered in cold blood by their captors. For every hostage still in Hamas’ hands. I am here to tell you the whole truth.
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Sharabi paraded by Hamas terrorists during his release from captivity
(Photo: AP Photo/Abdel Kareem Hana)
On the morning of October 7, at 6:29 a.m., the red alerts began to come through on Lianne’s phone. I told her not to worry. “It will be over soon,” I said.
Minutes later, we heard that terrorists were infiltrating our community. They were inside the kibbutz. Again, I reassured her. “The army will come, they always come.”
We heard gunfire, screaming, explosions. And then, we heard the terrorists at our door. We had no weapons, no way to fight back. Lianne and I made a decision – we would not resist. We hoped we could save our daughters.
The door opened. Our dog barked. The terrorists opened fire. Lianne and I threw ourselves over our daughters, screaming for the terrorists to stop. Suddenly, ten terrorists were inside my home. They took our phones. Two of them grabbed me. They took my wife and daughters to the kitchen. I couldn’t see them anymore.
I didn’t know what was happening to them. I was screaming their names, and they were screaming mine. I told Lianne not to be afraid. But this was fear beyond anything I have ever felt.
Then I knew I was being taken. As they dragged me out, I called out to my girls: “I will be back.” I had to believe that. But that was the last time I ever saw them. I did not know I should have said goodbye, forever.
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Large swaths of Kibbutz Be'eri destroyed in the October 7 attack
(Photo: REUTERS/Ilan Rosenberg)
Outside was like a warzone. My peaceful home—my slice of heaven—was gone. I saw over a hundred terrorists filming themselves celebrating, laughing, partying in our gardens as they massacred my friends and neighbors.
They dragged me to the border, beating me the whole way. My face was swollen, my ribs bruised. When we arrived in Gaza, a mob of civilians tried to lynch me. They pulled me from the car, but the terrorists rushed me away into a mosque. I was their trophy.
I thought about Lianne, Noiya and Yahel. Were they still alive?
For the first 52 days, I was held in an apartment. I was tied up with ropes. My arms and legs were tied so tightly the ropes tore into my flesh. I was given almost no food, no water, and I couldn’t sleep. The pain was unbearable. Sometimes, I would just faint from the pain, only to wake up to that pain again and again.
Then, on November 27, 2023, Hamas took me into a tunnel. Fifty meters underground. Again, the chains were so tight they ripped my skin. They never took them off. Not for a single moment. Those chains tore at me until the day I was released.
Every step I took was no more than ten centimeters. Every walk to the bathroom took an eternity. I cannot begin to describe the agony. It was hell.
I was fed a piece of pita a day. Maybe a sip of tea. Hunger consumed everything. They beat me. They broke my ribs. I didn’t care. I just wanted a piece of bread. There was never enough food. Sometimes, if we begged enough, we would get something extra. We had to choose: an extra piece of pita or a cup of tea. Sometimes, they threw us dry dates, and it felt like the greatest gift in the world. We had to beg for food, beg to use the bathroom. Begging was our existence. We strategized over every meal.
One day, I cut myself with a razor, just to make them believe I was injured. I collapsed on my way to the bathroom so they would think I was too weak and encourage them to give us more food. It worked. They gave us more food. We survived off those small victories.
Do you know what it means to open a refrigerator? It is everything. To be able to reach and take a piece of fruit, an egg, a piece of bread. I dreamt of this simple act every day. For months, we lived like this. I stopped counting the days.
Living as a hostage, you don’t know how the day will begin, nor how it will end. Whether you will live or die. At any moment, they could beat you. At any moment, they could kill you.
You wake up every day and do not know when you will be able to eat. It could be 12 p.m., 5 p.m., 11 p.m. This would be the only meal we would have.
You hope and pray that there will be no surprises with the captors. You think about how desperately you want to shower. We only got one bath a month, with half a bucket of cold water. Toothpaste? Toilet paper? Forget it. Psychological terror was constant. Every day, they told us: "The world has abandoned you. No one is coming."
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Crowd marks hostage Alon Ohel's birthday at Hostage Square, Tel Aviv
(Photo: Moti Kimchi)
By the time I met Alon Ohel, who is now 24 years old, we had already endured terrible captivity. We relied on each other for survival. Alon is a very talented pianist and I remember how he would pretend to play the piano on his body to keep himself sane.
One day, a terrorist took his anger out on me. He stormed in and beat me so badly that he broke my ribs. I couldn’t properly breathe for a month. Alon tried to protect me with his own body. You couldn’t believe how lucky I felt when Alon told me he had saved one painkiller pill. He gave it to me to get through the night.
Alon still has shrapnel in his right eye from the day he was kidnapped. He never received medical care. He never saw the Red Cross. To this day, he is blind in that eye.
When I was released, he grabbed onto me, terrified to be left behind. He told me he was happy for me. I promised him it was just a matter of days before he would be home too. I was wrong.
Just before my release, Hamas took pleasure in showing me a picture of my brother, Yossi. They told me he was dead. It was like they had brought a massive hammer down on me. I refused to believe it. My brother Yossi was all heart. Those with him in captivity told me that he gave his food to others.
On February 8, 2025, I was released. I weighed 44 kilograms. This is less than the body weight of my youngest daughter, Yahel, may her memory be a blessing. I was a shell of my former self. I still am. I could not believe how I looked.
I stood at that sick Hamas ceremony, surrounded by terrorists and a crowd of so-called uninvolved civilians, hoping my wife and daughters were waiting for me.
At the handover, I met a representative from the Red Cross. She told me, “Don’t worry, you are safe now.” Safe? How could I feel safe surrounded by terrorist monsters? Where had the Red Cross been for the past 491 days?
Then I arrived home. They told me my mother and sister were waiting for me. I said, “Get me my wife and daughters.” And that was when I knew. They were gone. They had been murdered.
I am here today because I survived and I prevailed. But that is not enough. Not when Alon Ohel is still there. Not when 59 hostages are still there.
Right now, Alon is trapped underground, alone, surrounded by terrorists who torment him. He does not know if he will ever see his mother, father, his entire beloved family again. I will not leave him behind. I will not leave anyone behind. Their time has almost run out.
I am here before you now to give my testimony. And to ask: Where was the United Nations? Where was the Red Cross? Where was the world?
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I know that you discuss the humanitarian situation in Gaza very often. But let me tell you, as an eyewitness—I saw what happened to that aid. Hamas STOLE it. I saw Hamas terrorists carrying boxes with the UN and UNRWA emblems on them into the tunnel. Dozens and dozens of boxes, paid by your governments, feeding terrorists who tortured me and murdered my family. They would eat many meals a day from the UN aid in front of us, and we never received any of it.
When you speak of humanitarian aid, remember this: Hamas eats like kings while hostages starve. Hamas steals from civilians. Hamas blocks aid from reaching those who truly need it.
491 days. That is how long I starved, how long I was chained, how long I begged for my humanity. And in all that time, no one came. And no one in Gaza helped me. No one. The civilians in Gaza saw us suffering. They cheered our kidnappers. They were definitely involved.
I was freed less than six weeks ago. I met President Trump at the White House and thanked him for securing my release and many others. I appreciate his efforts to free those still held hostage by Hamas. I told him: BRING THEM ALL HOME. I met with Prime Minister Starmer at 10 Downing Street. I told him: BRING THEM ALL HOME.
Now, I am here before you at the United Nations to say: BRING THEM ALL HOME. No more excuses. No more delays. If you stand for humanity – prove it. Bring them home.
My name is Eli Sharabi. I am not a diplomat. I am a survivor. BRING THEM ALL HOME. NOW.
Thank you.