By Jessica Raksi
On March 20, as most New Yorkers were snoozing their alarms or catching up on text messages with coffees in hand, Eli Sharabi, of Kibbutz Be’eri, Israel, arrived at the United Nations headquarters on East 42nd Street. He came prepared, surrounded by security guards for physical protection and held in the warm embrace of his younger brother Sharon Sharabi for emotional protection. He even brought posters of his family members, who were murdered on Oct. 7, and beloved “adopted” friend Alon Ohel, whom he met while the two were being held captive by Hamas in Gaza, to emphasize his important message.
He was well aware of his mission: “To tell the whole truth.” His execution plan? A 19-minute speech to be delivered to the UN’s Security Council.
What he hadn’t realized, however, until he took a few steps out of the car that brought him to the infamous UN building, was that a group of approximately 40 people would be standing outside, waiting for him to arrive, in solidarity and support. This gathering was not a coincidence; as is the beauty and power of caring for a cause, initiative was taken, and at 8:30 AM on a rainy Thursday morning, a crowd gathered on the sidewalk opposite the UN complex in anticipation of Eli’s arrival. It felt rather strange for me to be in the presence of mostly strangers and yet feel bound to each one, due to our united desire to make a positive impact on one Israeli man’s heavy day.
A great importance lies in numbers when it comes to support gatherings. It is crucial for released hostages to understand just how much Jews around the world care for them and consider them “part of their own.” I have engaged in countless conversations with Israelis in which they have been left utterly shocked to hear of the efforts and involvement of non-Israeli Jews in the continuous post-Oct 7 whirlwind.
It is part of our responsibility as members of the global Jewish community to consistently show up, in whatever way that may be, in order to ensure that they feel support from Jews across the globe, and even learn to expect it.
I decided to attend this emotional gathering because I saw it as an opportunity to solidify the personal connection that I felt towards the Sharabi family, by giving part of myself to them in a rather anonymous manner. I wanted to help uplift and empower Eli and his brother as they entered a rather frightening, tense environment that day.
As I was overcome with a sense of awe upon my first in-person sighting of the brothers, I pondered the unusual nature of the situation in front of me. I, Jessica Yael Raksi, had no doubt that my involvement in this show of solidarity was necessary; at the same time, however, I recognized that in reality, the Sharabi family will never come to know me in the slightest, nor will they ever know that I had showed up for them that day.
In that sense, standing on that rainy sidewalk that day was my quiet act of support, one in which my presence mattered a great deal. However, the emphasis lay not in me specifically showing up, but rather in how I, as a young Jewish woman, took part in the larger gathering as a whole, filling in an otherwise empty space in the crowd.
This realization left me feeling quite empowered. Because this act, which sprouted from a deep care and burning need to show support, could easily go unnoticed, my presence was actually even more meaningful. There was no need or expectation of recognition, and it was definitely not a transactional experience either. It brought out the very best in us all; the truest form of giving and receiving that could possibly be.
As Eli walked by the crowd, taking a couple of moments to express his gratitude to us all, we sang Hatikvah, with yellow flowers in hand and Israeli flags draped over our shoulders. Eli and his brother immediately paused in a moving act of recognition of all that the tune represents, especially being sung there, by people they had never met, in a place I can only imagine felt so foreign to them both. Once he passed through the large doors leading to the General Assembly Hall, the crowd dispersed, and I began to make my way back to the Beren campus for my morning classes.
As I walked through the rainy streets of the city, I was hit with a wave of inspiration from the unity I had just experienced, through banding together with others for the sake of delivering comfort to a man none of us had ever met. It was quite surreal to meet another human being for the first time, from afar, whom I already felt that I knew well, and yet had never met in my life.
I learned Eli’s story and heard all about him and his family in online interviews and articles. His name even made its way into my prayers, a form of entry into my heart, before having ever met him with the human eye. Seeing him in person served as a testament to the hope that still exists in the world, and it truly appeared to me as a sort of open miracle. It was enlightening to be exposed to this element of human nature, which allows us to feel a real connection to someone, to be able to sympathize with them and care for their wellbeing on a deep level, without actually knowing them or ever being in their presence.
That morning, I felt as though I was a witness to Eli Sharabi’s strength and courage. It could be felt radiating off of his whole body. I was privileged to be in the presence of a true hero, who built up his own family of beautiful angels who now rest in heaven. Eli’s decision to speak out at the UN and bring attention to the devastating condition of kidnapped Israelis in Gaza serves as clear proof of his pure heart and noble care for others.
It is because of him, after all, that we were all united that morning.
Photo Caption: Eli Sharabi outside the UN
Photo Credit: Gabriella Gomperts