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Hostage by Eli Sharabi review: ‘a highly readable account of barely imaginable nightmare’

The first hostage releases a book and instead of the misery memoir you might expect, it is a story of survival

October 6, 2025 10:29
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Freed: Sharabi (centre) with Israeli President Isaac Herzog and Polish President Karol Nawrocki after his release from Hamas captivity
2 min read

On October 7, as terrorists snatched him from his house at Kibbutz Beeri, Eli Sharabi screamed “I’ll come back” to his British wife Lianne and teenage daughters Noiya and Yahel. He’ll never know whether they heard him.

When he was finally released from captivity after 491 days, nearly five stone lighter, Hamas terrorists encouraged him to say he was looking forward to seeing his wife and daughters. It was the last torture they were able to inflict on him: the watching world knew that all three had been killed on October 7, set alight in their home. The day before, Hamas had told Sharabi that his brother Yossi had been killed in captivity.

Hostage, which became the fastest selling book in Israel’s history, could be a misery memoir, but, instead, it is a story of survival. Within days of being released, Sharabi flew to meet President Trump, and since then, he has been an unstoppable force. He is the first of the hostages to release a book and those lucky enough to have heard him talk in person will know that he refuses to indulge in self-pity. He has chosen to live and to ensure the remaining hostages will do too.

Early on in the book, he describes how terrorists are punching him as he’s dragged into Gaza, but even then, all he can think about is surviving to return home. “There is no more regular Eli,” he writes. “From now on, I am Eli the survivor.” In the first few weeks of captivity, he formed a strange bond with his captor and his family: they would play card games, and Eli taught them basic economics. There is a strangely touching moment in which he is briefly invited to stand by a window with his captor and smell the sea air, feeling the breeze on his face. “We stand like friends,” he writes. “Like brothers. Like something that can’t be defined… As if he’s not a religious extremist. As if he doesn’t hate my people.”

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