Earlier this week I, along with 1,400 other British Jews, attended an evening at St John’s Wood Synagogue to listen to Eli Sharabi share his story from hell.
Eli Sharabi was kidnapped from his home in Israel by Hamas terrorists on October 7 and held hostage in tunnels under Gaza for 491 days. His wife and two daughters were killed on the day he was taken, though mercifully he wasn’t aware of their fate until he was released.
The Sharabi family asked that none of Eli’s words were recorded and out of respect for Eli and his family I won’t share what was said.
That moment when Eli walked in felt spiritual. We all stood and applauded as he made his way to the stage. I was crying the moment I stood, before I even saw him, as were many others. Perhaps it was the overwhelming sense of togetherness we felt or the shock of seeing someone from that horrific day in real life. When I did see him, my mind went to the image we all saw when he was released; the photo that showcased the unimaginable suffering the hostages had been through, and are still going through, at the hands of terrorists. I tried to shake that picture out of my head as I looked at the man standing in front of me. The sadness in his eyes gave away his loss yet his presence felt hopeful and strong. He was defiance, true resilience, in the face of true terror.
As the audience continued their applause, I felt so many things. Awe. Sadness. Guilt. Anger. Without meaning to sound hyperbolic I felt as though I was in the presence of something divine. Something bigger than me. Of course Eli himself is a simple, normal man by his own description but what he represents – well, it’s beyond words.
We’ve all had experiences with people who move us in some way. Film stars, musicians. I understand what it’s like to be starstruck, to not believe that someone you admire is standing in front of you. This was not that. Eli is not a celebrity. He’s not a martyr. But being in that room tapped into something on a different frequency that I had not felt before; perhaps it’s the same feeling people describe when they visit the Kotel or a glimpse of what it might have felt like at Mount Sinai.
I recall an ethics lesson in high school where we discussed what we’d live for and what we’d die for. We learnt about war and the concept of dying for one’s country, for something greater than yourself. From a young age we were taught stories of people who risked their lives to celebrate Chanukah or light Shabbas candles whilst living through times of persecution. This idea has always stuck with me; the idea that there is something greater than the individual human experience, something worth that risk. Hearing the words of Eli Sharabi, I felt that abstract idea as a visceral emotion.
Life has changed for the Jewish people since October 7 and the truth is that many of us have come together because of it. There has been so much sadness, such a depth of darkness, that it feels wrong to credit it as the catalyst for this renewed sense of unity. But there has also been so much light. Jewish sadness is an important part of who we are, it brings us together in divisive times and reminds us of what we fight for but it is Jewish joy, community, hope and unity that will keep us going.
I have wondered throughout these past 18 months if there was a reason for October 7. I’ll never know and I’d never want to pretend to understand. I don’t find comfort in finding good reasons for bad things. What I do know is that 1,400 of us sat in that room listening to the words of an incredibly brave man and left feeling closer to each other, and perhaps to something greater, as a result.
What I took from Eli Sharabi is strength. He is Jewish resilience. He is Jewish survival. He is the bigger picture. He is what we will remember over the next century as we read the Haggadah during Seder or commemorate the anniversaries of October 7. He is also Jewish joy. He is Jewish healing and Jewish restoration.
I hope to remember and be guided by the energy within that room for the rest of my life.
Follow Josh Rose on Instagram @joshrosewrites
