Eli Sharabi spent 491 days as a hostage in Gaza. This is his story of survival
From weighing 44kg to learning an unthinkable truth - read this former Hamas hostage’s extraordinary account of survival in Gaza’s tunnels.
Five terrorists enter with weapons drawn.
We are in our pyjamas; they have come with uniforms, balaclavas, and Kalashnikovs.
They’ve found us: me; my wife, Lianne; our beautiful daughters, Noiya and Yahel; and our dog.
We’re in our safe room, a reinforced shelter in our house that is supposed to protect us from rocket attacks – not intruders like these.
The dog barks in distress. She doesn’t like strangers. The sound draws the terrorists’ fire, and the sound of their gunshots ricochets off the walls.
It’s deafening. Lianne and I jump onto the girls to shield them, checking they’re not hurt and shouting at the terrorists to stop. Begging them. Don’t be afraid, they reply in Arabic, and demand that we hand over our cell phones. I look into my daughters’ eyes. Noiya is 16 years old. Yahel is just 13. I try to reassure them, telling them everything will be OK. They don’t scream. They don’t cry. They don’t even speak. They are frozen in terror. I will never forget that look of terror in their eyes.
The terrorists storm the house and quickly reach the safe room. The door opens. They haul us out. The living room is still full of balloons from Noiya’s and Yahel’s birthdays.
They were both born in October, so we celebrated twice this week. The five terrorists who broke into the safe room are not alone. There are five others, plus a commander barking orders. These are skilled, careful operatives, who know what they’re doing. Two of the terrorists manhandle me. I know they plan to kidnap me, there’s no doubt in my mind. “British passport! British passport!” Lianne starts blurting in English, trying to signal that she and the girls are British citizens, with the documents to prove it upstairs. We’ve talked this through. We’re sure the terrorists wouldn’t dare mess around with His Majesty’s subjects. My wife and two daughters should be safe. One of the terrorists signals for me to go upstairs and bring the passports. I start climbing the stairs. The broken windowpane sparkles in the sunlight. The commander catches a glimpse of me and orders his men to bring me back. They hold me in my living room, make the girls stand in the kitchen, and order Lianne, who’s still wearing shorts and a tank top, to get dressed. Lianne goes to our room. I’m right by the doorway, held by the terrorists. I watch her, lingering by the closet, unsure what to wear or what to do next.
“Lianne, don’t freak out,” I tell her. She stares at me. Her eyes say it all: What the hell do you mean, don’t freak out? I think they’ll be fine, Lianne and the girls.
I mean, they just told her to get dressed. And anyway, they have British passports. And after all, if the terrorists wanted to kill us, they’d have already riddled us with bullets in the safe room, finished the job in five seconds flat, and moved on to the next house. The terrorists start dragging me out of the house. I’m barefoot. I can’t see the girls anymore because they’re in the kitchen behind me and the terrorists are holding my head forward. “I’ll come back!” I shout as the terrorists haul me outside. I can’t hear them. I don’t know if they heard me. They’re dragging me out through my front door. The terrorists have pinned me between them, my head forced down. When I manage to raise my head and steal a glance, I see my beautiful kibbutz reduced to carnage. Our neighbours’ homes are burning.
We pass the fence. The terrorists drag me north. As we walk, other passing terrorists take turns punching me. One of them kicks me in the ribs.
The men holding me try to stop others from coming close. They want me alive, I think to myself. At one point, they grab a headband off a nearby terrorist to cover my eyes.
I can just about see through it. I’m being kidnapped. I understand this is a catastrophe. I understand what this means. I don’t mind that they’re beating me. I don’t even feel it. Because in these moments, as I’m being led past the kibbutz fence, under the blazing sun, engulfed by the smell of smouldering ruins, a headband strapped over my eyes, dragged by terrorists gripping both my hands, totally aware that I am being abducted into Gaza but knowing at least that Lianne and the girls were left behind, I focus and concentrate on one mission: surviving to return home. There is no more regular Eli. From now on, I am Eli the survivor.
The fence at the northwestern edge of the kibbutz is wide open. Standing there is a man who looks like a taxi dispatcher, directing the traffic. Unlike the others, he hasn’t covered his face. He has a role. He is no mere terrorist; he’s an administrator. There is order here, a plan. Logic in this murderous madness. I understand what’s happening. The terrorists are loading hostages into vehicles stolen from the kibbutz and are driving them into the Gaza Strip.
After the last stop, we drive again, a short rideuntil the car reverses down a small slope and brakes. They pull us out. I feel sand under my bare feet and think: just not a tunnel, please, God, not a tunnel. Not the nightmare of being buried underground. Not being suffocated inside Hamas’s terrifying warren, a bottomless underworld with no light, no air, and no return. They drag us until we feel concrete beneath our feet, and we begin walking upstairs. With every step, I feel relief. All I want is to be above ground, not below it. All I want is not to be thrown into a pit. We climb one flight of stairs, then another. Between the flights, I reckon we’ve entered an enclosed building. I can smell cooking and laundry. This must be a house. It feels reassuring to be inside. At the top of the second staircase, I feel a breeze, as if there are no walls around us. The terrorists lead us into a room and seat us on a bed. Someone brings us water. I take a few sips. They remove our zip ties, and I thank them, relieved to free my arms. The zip ties hurt terribly and I’m glad they’re off. But a minute later, the terrorists return with thick ropes and tie us up again, even tighter. They bind our hands behind our backs again, and this time also tie our legs. The ropes are so tight, they brand my flesh. The tension in my shoulders from having my arms pulled behind my back … from now on, for three days, my entire body convulses with pain.
I think a lot about coming home. I fantasise about it. I imagine telling Lianne, That’s it, let’s get out of here. Come on, Lianne, let’s take our girls to live somewhere different, somewhere quiet.My eyes begin to adjust to the room they’ve put us in. It’s an ordinary children’s bedroom. There’s a small bed, two mattresses on the floor for us, a dresser, and a desk with shelves. There are two large windows: one facing south, the other west. The windows are draped with burlap, branded with the letters: UNRWA. The fabric is secured to the windows but doesn’t block the light. I think about Lianne and the girls. About Yahel’s bedroom. The gunshots inside. The room we were all snatched from.
But I refuse to let myself sink into longing. I refuse to let myself drown in pain. I am surviving. I am a hostage. In the heart of Gaza. A stranger in a strange land. In the home of a Hamas-supporting family. And I’m getting out of here. I have to. I’m getting out of here. I’m coming home.
On day 50, they suddenly tell me: “Get ready. Take your clothes and your things, because tonight you’re being moved somewhere else.”
In the evening, we pack our belongings, cross the living room in darkness, and step out into the street. We proceed for several minutes in silence until we reach a mosque. There, waiting for us, is their commander. This is not a good sign, I realise. Why a mosque? Why not another house? Why are we going into a mosque? Inside, they take us to a side room and open a trapdoor. Beneath the trapdoor is a shaft. A shaft leading into a dark tunnel. I tremble. I clutch myself and shake my head: No. No, no. Not a tunnel. Please, just not a tunnel. From inside the shaft, climbing the ladder, comes another guard, someone new. He smiles and signals for us to descend. I have a choice. To go into the tunnel … or die. There is always a choice. Always a choice. There. Is. Always. A. Choice. I can choose to end my life here and now. Resist until they shoot me and I fall bleeding on the mosque floor. I can choose that. Just like I could have chosen to resist in my bomb shelter at home until they shot and killed me. Some made that choice. It is a choice. Even when you have no control over yourself, you always have a choice. And I choose: I’m going down. I start descending the ladder. The shaft is very narrow then it is sealed. Below us, darkness opens.
We never enter our captors’ quarters. They come to us, to bring food and updates or just to talk, parroting Hamas talking points. Slogans:
All of Palestine is ours, and only ours.
There’s no room for the State of Israel, and there’s no such thing.
Go back to where your parents or grandparents came from.
There won’t be peace as long as you’re on our land.
Our lives in Gaza are hard.
We’re the victims.
Bibi wants to kill us all.
In all these months, our captors repeatedly taunt us that we’ve been forgotten, that (Prime Minister Benjamin) Netanyahu doesn’t care about us, that our families have stopped protesting for us. I take a deep breath and turn to the other captives. “Do you really think that? Do you really think they’ve forgotten us? I guarantee you, our families are standing at a junction somewhere right now and shouting our names. I guarantee you, nobody’s forgotten our faces. And I’m telling you, don’t let yourselves get fooled and don’t believe their bullshit.” I don’t know if they believe me. I don’t know if I believe myself. But I cling to these beliefs, and to these words, because they give me strength. Strength to endure. To survive.
During 491 days in captivity, Eli met other hostages, among them Hersh Goldberg Polin, aged 23 and Almog Sarusi, aged 27, who were later murdered in Gaza tunnels, and Alon Ohel, 24, who remains a hostage at the time of writing. Eli was kept in darkness and filth underground, at times starved and beaten before he was released as part of a ceasefire deal on February 8, 2025. At the time he was freed he weighed 44kg. He had lost almost half of his body weight.
Onstage, I do exactly as instructed. I don’t put a foot in the wrong place. I follow the script we rehearsed so many times. I’m careful not to slip up, not to ruin anything, not to sabotage the moment, just to make sure this release actually happens. I give the “right” answers, I smile, I wave at the audience. The terrorist interviewing me works the crowd, chanting “Allahu Akbar!” and they holler back in a call-and-response. The ceremony comes to a close.
Ohad Ben Ami gets off the stage first, followed by me, then Or Levy. We get into a Red Cross vehicle and sit down. The car starts moving. The crowds are banging on the windows. The woman from the Red Cross turns to us. “Hi, I’m Felicity. I’m from New Zealand,” she says and points at the driver. “He’s from South Africa. I want you to know you’re safe now. This vehicle is armoured. The windows are bulletproof. No one can get in. You are protected. Nothing will happen to you.” And the moment she says that, I break down crying. After 491 days of captivity and suffering and darkness and pain, I break down like never before. I sob and sob and sob. When was I last safe? When was I last secure? When could I even let myself break down like this? I look out the window, tears streaming down my face. Ohad, sitting next to me, also looks at the Red Cross staff, unmoved by Felicity’s gentle eyes. The car stumbles over Gaza’s potholed roads.
Every now and then, Gazans start banging on the windows. Ohad turns to Felicity, his voice cracking. “Where were you?” She says nothing. Neither does the driver. “For a year and four months, we didn’t see you. We didn’t hear from you. You didn’t take care of us. You never visited. Where were you?” Felicity looks at Ohad. Then she turns back, to face the road ahead. “They didn’t let us reach you,” she says softly.
We approach the IDF handover point. After almost 500 days, I’m finally seeing IDF soldiers! I already broke down in the Red Cross car, so by the time we reach the handover, I’ve pulled myself together again. We step out, and a female officer approaches me. “You’re in safe hands now,” she says. “Your mother and Osnat are waiting for you at the meeting place in Camp Reim.” I look at her. “Bring me my wife and daughters.” Silence. “Your mother and Osnat will tell you.” Your mother and Osnat will tell you. No one needs to tell me anything.
It’s all clear in that moment, right there, standing in front of her. I understand everything. I understand it in my bones. I understand it from head to toe. I understand it, and I feel the pain pulsating through my broken body, a pain without a name and without form, and nobody needs to say another word.
We drive to Kfar HaRif. Me and the two psychologists who have been with me since my release. We are joined by my sister Osnat, our family’s army liaison Officer Sigal, and a nurse. The scenery races past the windows. I need closure, I think to myself. I need to see it with my own eyes. I need to tell them I’m back. I promised them I’d come home, and here I am.
This is an edited extract of Hostage by Eli Sharabi, published by Swift publishing. Out now..
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