On Friday, the war in Gaza shifted: For the first time, Hamas signaled its openness to releasing all Israeli hostages and immediately entering negotiations for a permanent ceasefire. Those negotiations began on Monday in Egypt and are ongoing.
The news came just days before the two-year anniversary of October 7, 2023—the day Hamas massacred more than 1,200 civilians and kidnapped 251.
Among those taken was Eli Sharabi, a resident of Kibbutz Be’eri, a small community less than three miles from the Gaza Strip. Sharabi, then 51, was dragged barefoot from his home in front of his wife, Lianne, and their two teenage daughters, Noiya and Yahel. More than 16 months later, he emerged from Hamas captivity in Gaza—traumatized, and weighing about 95 pounds—only to learn that his wife and daughters had been killed in the initial attack.
Sharabi’s new book, Hostage, is the first memoir by a released Israeli captive. This week, he sat down for an episode of Honestly with Bari Weiss, to recount his abduction, his release, the physical and psychological torment he endured—and his remarkable decision to choose life in the face of death at every turn.
You can watch their full conversation here:
We’re honored to publish the following excerpt from Hostage. Trapped in a Hamas-allied family’s house in the first days after his capture, Sharabi was tied up, humiliated, starved—all while slowly confronting the sheer depths of his captors’ indoctrination. This is a story about the capacity of the human spirit: for unrelenting evil, and for extraordinary faith in the very darkest of times. —The Editors
The vehicle stops in Gaza. The terrorists pull me and Khun, a Thai worker who was taken as well, out of the car. The sun is beating down on us. I’m sweating: It was hot in the car, and I had a heavy blanket over me. The terrorists lead me out of the vehicle, still wrapped in the blanket.
There is a huge commotion around us. I hear a noisy crowd, ecstatic, and suddenly hands start pulling me. I’m being dragged into a sea of people who start thumping my head, screaming, trying to rip me limb from limb. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, I can barely breathe. The terrorists try to push the mob back, and after a struggle, they quickly smuggle me into a building.
Our first stop in the Gaza Strip is a mosque. I realize it because I can see the floor through my blindfold, and I recognize the colorful prayer rugs. The terrorists slam the doors behind us.
It’s quiet for a moment. I can hear my own breathing. Khun sobs next to me. The terrorists take us into a side room, where they remove our blindfolds and order us to strip. With trembling hands, I remove my shirt and pants and strip down to my boxers. They start interrogating me, and I answer in Arabic. The fact that I know Arabic—which I’d learned at home growing up—makes them stressed. They think I might be part of Shin Bet or the Mossad, Israeli counterintelligence agencies.
“What’s your name?” “Eli Sharabi.” “Where are you from?” “Kibbutz Be’eri.” “Are you a soldier?” “No, not a soldier.” “Not a soldier?” “No.”
They look at each other and then at me again. “You’re a soldier,” their commander declares. “I’m not a soldier,” I repeat. “How old are you?”
“Fifty-one.” “You’re younger!” they accuse. “No, no,” I respond. “I swear, I’m 51!”
I can see they don’t believe me. They interrogate Khun too, but he doesn’t speak Arabic, or Hebrew, or even any English. They hit him when he fails to answer, and he cries.
After a few minutes, they blindfold us again and bind our hands behind our backs with tight zip ties. They move us from place to place, from one group of captors to the next. From the terrorists’ chatter, I understand it’s deliberate and coordinated, so the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) can’t track them.
After the last stop, it’s a short ride until they pull us out. I feel sand under my bare feet and think: Just not a tunnel, please, God, not a tunnel. At the time, Israel hadn’t realized the extent of Hamas’s tunnel system, but the existence of the tunnels was widely known. I pictured the nightmare of being buried underground. Of being suffocated inside a terrifying warren of tunnels, a bottomless underworld with no light, no air, and no return.
That would come later.
At this point, we are in an enclosed building. I can smell cooking and laundry. This must be a house. The terrorists lead us into a room and seat us on a bed. They remove our zip ties, but then return with thick ropes a minute later and tie us up again, even tighter. They bind our hands behind our backs again and tie our legs. The ropes are so tight, they brand my flesh.
My entire body convulses with pain. All I can think is Hands. Shoulders. Legs. God almighty! Hands! Shoulders! Legs! Up to this point, I’ve been consumed by fear, by pure survival. But once it starts to sink in what’s happening, the pain—the real, physical pain—takes over.
The terrorists who brought us here leave. An older man, who must be the father of the house, keeps watch over us. Through my blindfold, which keeps slipping a little, 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 draped with burlap, branded with the letters UNRWA, standing for United Nations Relief and Works Agency—the UN agency ostensibly dedicated to providing humanitarian support to Palestinians, but whose employees have been accused of widespread ties to Hamas.
The fabric is secured to the windows but doesn’t block the light. I think about my wife, Lianne, and the girls. About Yahel’s bedroom. The gunshots inside. The room we were all snatched from. I keep closing my eyes and seeing Lianne standing frozen in front of the wardrobe, terrified, unsure what to do. “Don’t freak out,” I told her.
In the late afternoon of the first day, Israel’s air strikes begin. This doesn’t surprise me. It’s been clear since the morning that something unheard of is going on. I knew that the mighty Israeli army would wake up, eventually.
But the Israeli air strikes are not the only terrifying sound. So are Hamas’s rockets. I can hear them being fired right next to us, and it dawns on me that the launchers must be nearby—maybe inside the houses, maybe in the yard. We hear the rockets as they are being fired. When the sound is faint, I know they’re short-range—those that fall in the communities along the Gaza border. But when the noise is loud, I know they’re long-range rockets—and I worry for everyone they’re headed toward.
Outside, the muezzin’s call curls through the air. There are unfamiliar sounds: dogs barking, muffled voices of the family downstairs, and air strikes near and far. Now and then I slip into something I can’t quite name: a fainting spell? A snooze? It’s unbearably hot, and when I lie on my side, the blindfold slips over my nose and mouth, and I feel like I’m suffocating. I call out to my captors in panic, and they adjust the blindfold. Next to me, Khun never stops crying.
My heart is pounding. My heart is aching with worry. With homesickness. With fear. And my body? My body is screaming: Help!
After three days in captivity—days spent blindfolded, hungry, in excruciating pain—two men enter our room. They remove our blindfolds and untie the ropes. I breathe a sigh of relief and feel my shoulders breathing with me. They look young, around 30. One is shorter, a bit stocky, calm. The other, with a prominent scar across his face, is taller and more sullen. The stocky one is called Sa’id; the sullen one is Sa’ad. Later, in the tunnels, we call Sa’id “the Mask,” and the sullen one “the Cleaner.” They dress my wounds from the tight ropes, and then chain both Khun and me with iron shackles on our legs. They leave our hands free. And no more blindfolds.
They’re both uneasy. From what I overhear, I understand they’re afraid of Israeli military ingenuity. They think maybe the IDF planted a chip or some tracker in me to monitor them. Like the terrorists at the mosque, they are surprised by my Arabic.
Slowly, I start to learn about them. The Cleaner is the more religious and radical of the pair. He keeps repeating that there is no place for Jews in this land, and that the hostages will only be freed if all the Palestinian prisoners in Israeli jails are released. Some years ago, I learn, he was severely injured in an Israeli air strike, leaving him with a scar—and rage.
The Mask is more relaxed, with a bashful smile, and he likes sweet drinks. When the father goes to the store, the Mask asks him to bring back a Coke or Sprite. I learn that they have families, wives, children.
The Mask is a talker. He asks me the same questions over and over again, like he’s trying to trip me up, to see if I’ll answer differently the second or third time. I agree with him when I have to, nodding when he accuses the IDF of bombing hospitals or killing babies. “That’s terrible,” I say. “War is terrible.”
The Mask gives me mini lectures about how they see the world. This land is theirs. All of it. I should go back to Morocco or Yemen, where my grandparents came from. This land isn’t mine. There will be no peace as long as we, the Jews, are on their land.
After a few days, they bring us a bucket of cold water and soap and ask us to strip and wash. Then they demand we shave all our body hair: not just head and beard, but also pubic hair.
My heart is pounding. My heart is aching with worry. With homesickness. With fear. And my body? My body is screaming: Help!
I stand naked in front of the Mask, the Cleaner, and the father, and I shave my bare body with a razor. Outside, I hear the sounds of the city: passing cars, the rumble of distant air strikes, children playing in a nearby yard, women talking. And there I am, stark naked, standing in front of three pairs of prying eyes. My private parts exposed. Ordered to remove every hair from my body. My hand trembles as I hold the razor. I peel myself in front of them. I empty myself before them. I humiliate myself under their gaze.
On day five in captivity, a man we haven’t seen before arrives. He’s very tall, at least 6′3″, fair-haired, fair-skinned, with blue eyes and a camera in hand. He looks German but speaks fluent Arabic with the Cleaner and the Mask. With us, he speaks flawless English. He explains that he’s going to film us.
I know this playbook from Ron Arad, an Israeli Air Force officer who went missing in action over Lebanon in 1986 and was photographed in captivity, and Gilad Shalit, an Israeli soldier abducted into Gaza in 2006, who was filmed as proof of life. This is what it means to be a hostage in terrorist captivity now: Your image is used as psychological warfare. Shalit came back alive. Arad did not.
They begin setting up for the shoot. I’m instructed to state my name, where I’m from, who my parents are, and what I do for a living. I’m told to speak to the Israeli government, to stop the fighting and get me out.
I read the words they dictated, but in my mind, I’m speaking to Lianne and the girls. I imagine them watching me, looking into my eyes. I need them to understand: I’m alive. I’m okay. After the shoot, the German tries to reassure us. Give it a few days, and there’ll be a deal, a prisoner exchange, and you’ll go home, he says. He packs up his equipment and leaves.
That deal doesn’t happen. And over the following days and weeks, the mutual suspicion and distance between myself and my captors narrows. I don’t identify with them. I don’t pity them. I’m not confused about who they are or what they really want. But it’s a natural, human dynamic that’s hard to resist. The better I know and understand them, the better I can express my needs, make requests, read the room.
Sometimes I feel like I am talking to people who are living 20 years in the past. One day, the Mask and the Cleaner tell me excitedly about a movie they just watched, gushing about how amazing and special it was.
“What’s it called?” I ask. “Titanic!” “Titanic? With Leonardo DiCaprio?” I stare at them. What year are you living in?
The Mask tells me he likes to dance with his wife, but because of Hamas’s religious regime, they can’t. I ask him if he wants to live differently; whether he dreams of quiet, of a life where he could go to the beach with his kids and enjoy a normal day. He doesn’t answer, but I see his eyes glimmer.
Neither one knows any Israelis. They don’t believe me when I say that not everyone in Israel just wants to kill them all the time. But the nonstop bombings only reinforce their thinking. “Bibi’s crazy,” they say. “He wants to kill us all! Why won’t he stop?”
They get their information from Al Jazeera, from Israeli television, and especially from Abu Obaida, the spokesman of Hamas’s military wing. Abu Obaida is like a god to them. A king. The font of all knowledge. Their preacher. Whenever he goes on air, they stand to attention, glued to the television or radio, hypnotized. They can’t believe I don’t know who he is. I tell them I’ve heard of Yahya Sinwar, I’ve heard of Ismail Haniyeh. . . but Abu Obaida? Nope, never. “Impossible,” they insist.
The days are long. I am often left alone with my thoughts. I listen to the chaotic noise outside, terrified by the encroaching air strikes, startled by the sound of missiles being launched nearby, sparking cheers of jubilation in the neighborhood. The endless stretches of time give me room to think, to yearn. I keep thinking about Lianne and the girls. I imagine our sweet moments together: Shabbat and holiday meals, trips, family celebrations.
I think a lot about coming home. I fantasize 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. 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 coming home.
From Hostage by Eli Sharabi. Copyright © 2025 by Eli Sharabi. Reprinted courtesy of Harper Influence, an imprint of HarperCollins. Available wherever books are sold.
