My father, Yossi Sharabi, should have been here this week when we marked Father’s Day. Instead, after being kidnapped by Hamas and murdered in captivity, he remains trapped in Gaza while I carry on without the person who was my everything.
Growing up in Kibbutz Be’eri, my father was always there during the rocket attacks that have been part of our reality since I was born. He was my protector in our safe room, his reassuring voice calming our fears whenever the sirens wailed. Now, with the escalating war between Israel and Iran, I find myself back in that same terrifying position — but this time, there’s only an emptiness where his strong presence used to be. The sound of sirens and the rush to shelter bring back all those memories of Oct. 7, 2023, when he stood between us and danger for the last time.
That’s who he was to me: my best friend, my protector, my backbone. Dad introduced me to surfing, and every Saturday we’d wake up early and head to the beach together, catching waves as the sun rose. What made it truly special was that this peaceful, perfect time was shared with my father. On Oct. 7, 2023, everything changed. Hamas terrorists attacked our kibbutz, transforming our piece of heaven into a nightmare. During those terrifying hours, I huddled in our safe room with my family and my boyfriend, Ofir. My father positioned himself between us and danger. When the terrorists broke in, they forced us outside and made us sit on the ground. I remember them telling me to help my father stand up, because his hands were tied behind his back. Then they walked us to where a car was waiting.
Those were the last moments I spent with him. They put him and Ofir into that car and sped away toward Gaza. There was no time for goodbyes — nothing. I had no idea that would be the last time I’d see my father’s face. The rest of us escaped to a deserted house and hid until we were rescued that night.
The next day brought even more devastating news: My uncle Eli had also been kidnapped, while his wife Lianne and their two daughters, my cousins, were murdered. Our entire family had been torn apart in a single day.
For days, I clung to hope. When Ofir was released during the first deal, my confidence soared — if Ofir could come home, surely Dad would too. I wanted to wait for him so we could return together.
After 100 days, we received devastating news: My father had been killed in captivity. The question now isn’t about reunion. That dream died with him. The question is about basic human dignity and closure. My father was kidnapped alive. He deserves a proper burial in the land he loved, in the country where he and my mother raised us.
Even in captivity, my father remained the protector he had always been. When Noa Argamani was released, she told us how he had taken care of her and the other hostages held with him. He made sure they ate and drank, becoming the adult in charge, even in those horrific circumstances. That’s who my father was. Even facing his own terror and uncertainty, he was looking out for others.
When my uncle Eli was released after more than 490 days, he came to see us, hugged me tightly, and said, “Hug me like I’m your father. I won’t leave you. I’ll always be here for you.” Looking at him, I thought to myself: I lost my father, he lost Lianne and the girls. What happened here? How did this happen?
With President Donald Trump now in office, having completed one successful hostage deal, there is renewed hope for bringing all the remaining hostages home. Like me, other daughters and sons are waiting for their fathers who are still being held in Gaza. Some, like mine, have been murdered in captivity, while others are still alive, still fighting to survive each day. All 53 hostages deserve to come home — the living to their families, and for those who have died to receive the burial their family needs to finally mourn. Every family deserves the closure that has been denied to us for far too long.
It took me nine months to return to my kibbutz. Walking through those familiar paths felt strange. Everything was so green again, nature reclaiming what violence had destroyed. Our house was completely in ruins. My mother and I walked through the rooms together, remembering our idyllic lives there: the dining area where we shared so many meals, the gardens where we barbecued and laughed together, and finally the safe room where we used to watch sunsets as a family — and also where we spent those final, terrifying hours together.
After my visit, the house was demolished; they had waited for me to say goodbye. As I left for the last time, I whispered, “Goodbye, sweet home.”
This past Father’s Day, as families celebrated with their fathers, I couldn’t help but think of mine — still lying somewhere in Gaza, far from the home he loved. He is not there alone. Fifty-two other hostages remain in Gaza, kept from their families who long for their return.
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Since then, the world has kept moving. Life has resumed for many. But for us, for the families of the hostages, time remains frozen. The ocean waves still call to me, but they’re different now without Dad beside me. I still surf, feeling his presence in every wave. But nothing will be complete until he’s finally home, until we can lay him to rest in the soil of the country he loved, surrounded by the family who will never stop loving him.
I hold on to hope that the recent reports of progress in the negotiations are real — that both sides are finally showing the flexibility needed to reach a deal. All 53 hostages must come home. Every family deserves answers. Every family deserves peace. We have waited long enough.
Yuval Sharabi, 19, is the daughter of hostage Yossi Sharabi, held by Hamas for 620 days.