Australia/Israel Review

My name is Eli Sharabi. I am 53 years old. I’ve come back from hell. I’ve 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 neighbours. 

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. 

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 on to hope. I imagined the life we would rebuild. I dreamt 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’m 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. 

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 Nov. 27, 2023, Hamas took me into a tunnel, 50 metres 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 10 centimetres. 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. 

We had to beg for food, beg to use the bathroom. Begging was our existence.

Psychological terror was constant. Every day they told us, “The world has abandoned you. No one is coming.” 

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 months. 

On Feb. 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 stood at that sick Hamas ceremony, surrounded by terrorists, and the crowd of so-called uninvolved civilians, hoping my wife and daughters were waiting for me.

At the end of the day, I met a representative from the Red Cross. She told me, “Don’t worry, you are safe now.” Safe? How could they 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’m here today because I survived and I prevailed. But that is not enough. 

I will not leave anyone behind. Their time has almost run out. I’m 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?

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. 

Four hundred and ninety-one days. That is how long I starved. How long I was chained. How long I begged for humanity. And in all that time, no one came.

My name is Eli Sharabi. I am not a diplomat. I am a survivor. Bring them all home, now.

The above is excerpted from the March 20, 2025 address by former hostage Eli Sharabi at the UN Security Council in New York.