david wainer

[Adam Wagner KC @AdamWagner1]

With permission, I am sharing Steve Brisley's speech from Wednesday's event in Parliament. I won't comment or summarise as I think it speaks for itself.

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One hundred days

This is my story.

My name is Steve. To my mum, when she's cross with me, I'm Stephen. But to my big sister, Lianne, I'm Stevie. She first started calling me Stevie just to annoy me, when we were in our early teens and couldn't stand each other. But it stuck and - once we'd both grown up - it became a special mark of our love and affection for each other. When her daughters, Noiya and Yahel came along, they too called me Stevie. Just the three of them. Because nobody else is allowed.

I stayed at Lianne and her husband, Eli's home on Kibbutz Be'eri in July last year, to celebrate Yahel's Bat Mitzvah. We ate, we drank, we swam, we laughed, we danced and we sang. I was introduced to scores of people on the Kibbutz, but always as "Steve". When one, entirely innocently, followed Lianne's lead in calling me "Stevie", she shot them a look - a look that only Lianne could - and corrected them with "His name's Steve, not Stevie...". Because nobody else is allowed.

When I woke up on October 7th and heard about the missile attacks from Gaza into Israel, I WhatsApp'd Lianne to ask if they were okay. I've never wanted to see those two little blue ticks on a WhatsApp message more. But they never came. My older brother, in a different time zone, and so awake before me, exchanged messages with Lianne. So, we know that they were all in their bomb shelter, which was Yahel's modified bedroom - the four of them and the family dog, Mokka. I haven't been able to bear to speak to my brother about how he felt when he received Lianne's final message, which read: "Oh god. There are terrorists in Be'eri. Shooting outside my house. I've never been this scared." And that was it. The point at which my story; our story; my family's story, changed forever.
Lianne, Noiya and Yahel were murdered in their home on Kibbutz Be'eri. Around 10% of the Kibbutz residents were killed that day.

I try not to feel bitter that my family were not in the 90% who survived.

I try not to think about how scared they were.

I try not to think about how they died.

But I do.

Every day.

Every night.

I watched my sister and two young nieces’ funerals on a WhatsApp videocall. Huddled round my mobile phone, propped up on a coffee table in my elderly parents living room, while they sobbed next to me on the sofa.

I miss my sister and niece's. I miss their voices. I miss being called Stevie. Because nobody else is allowed.
We initially assumed that my brother-in-law, Eli, had perished in the attack. We waited to hear that he had been identified among the pile of bodies recovered from the Kibbutz. But, in early November, we found that he was alive, but had been taken to Gaza. A hostage.

And so, our story changed again.

Since that time, our family has done all we can to secure the safe release of Eli and his brother, Yosi, who was also taken from Be’eri, in the hope that their release will cast some light upon the darkness which has enveloped our lives. In the hope that bringing them home will bring some sense to all this. In the hope that our story can change again.

They say that it's the hope that kills you. I disagree.

Hope is all that I have left. Because time is running out.

For our beloved Yosi, our hopes were crushed. Not only that, but the videos released by Hamas over a 24 hour period were psychological torture. Make no mistake  - these are war criminals who revel in compounding our distress.

It's been 64 days since I spoke in a room like this. To people like you. I spoke about my brother, Eli Sharabi, and his place in the hearts, minds and souls of his British family. I spoke about his love of Manchester United, of a Sunday roast, of Christmas and the British seaside.

Since that time, I've made many more speeches, appeared on the TV news and given newspaper interviews. All, with one goal - to bring Eli home.

Since that time, I've met with MPs, ministers, Lords and all manner of powerful and influential people. I've put my professional and home life on hold and had small victories in pursuit of that one goal - to bring Eli home.

Since that time, I've buried my grief at the loss of my sister and nieces, so that I can focus my mind on that one goal - to bring Eli home.

But we need more. Eli needs more. More than I can offer.

Lord Cameron and the Foreign Office have offered increased support to my family, and we are grateful. Lines of communication and engagement with my family - about which I have been so publicly critical over the past couple of months - has greatly improved. I'm glad that my government has finally heard my family’s voice. My sister's voice. Eli's voice. We've spoken to the government about proof of life; about whether the Red Cross will gain access to hostages; about international stakeholders and about negotiations. We've spoken of the political landscape, of two-state solutions, of priorities and agendas. But my story is not about nations or land or borders. It's about people. About family. About Eli.

And I'm tired of talking about Eli.

I want to talk to him.

The last time I saw Eli in person was 190 days ago, when he hugged and waved me and my family off at Tel Aviv airport.

Eli has been lost to my family for more than half of the time since then.

100 days of wondering.

100 days of anguish.

100 days of mental torture.

I was scared of the dark as a child. Scared of the monsters under my bed and in my wardrobe. I used to sleep with a light on until I was 9 or 10 years old, until I realised that the monsters weren't real. I'm a 47-year-old man now. But for the past 100 nights, I've once again slept with the light on.

I slept with the light on when I was a child because I thought there were monsters in the world. I sleep with the light on now, because I know there are monsters in the world.

But how can I complain about the shadows in my bedroom and my sweat-inducing nightmares, when my brother has spent 100 days in captivity, in tangible, visceral torment. In a living nightmare. Held underground, with no lamp to comfort him, no light switch in easy reach. Hungry. Thirsty. Scared. And those are just the thoughts I'm allowing myself to have.

Because the reality is too much to bear. And because time is running out.

I'm a historian by education and 100 days is a period of time often appearing or used in a historical context. The Battle of Waterloo brought an end to Napoleon's re-emergence after 100 days. The Hundred Days Offensive brought an end to the First World War. National leaders often set out what they have achieved in their first 100 days in office.

In the history of my family, it's 100 days since I had to tell my own parents that their only daughter had been brutally murdered and their granddaughters murdered with her.

100 days since I heard my mother's screams as she collapsed to the floor, my arms unable to hold her up.

100 days since my brother was taken.

But what will the history books say about this past 100 days? Will they say that I did all I could to bring the hostages home safely? Will they say that you did all you could? Will they say that world powers did all that they could?

I can look in the mirror and honestly say that I did everything within my power to make sure that Eli's seat at my dining table isn't empty, like it was last month, for a second Christmas. Who else can say that they have done everything?

What can you do now?

And, as Hillel the Elder, the Jewish scholar, said in the first century - "If not now, when?". Because time is running out.

I'm not a religious man, but both the Talmud and the Koran include passages which broadly translate as "Save one life, save the world". This is your opportunity to save the world. By saving Eli's life. Bring my family hope. Bring me hope. Bring Eli hope.

They say that it's the hope that kills you. I disagree. Hope is all I have left. Because time is running out.

This is my story.

[Fascinating @fasc1nate]

A struggle to weigh a 97-day-old baby emperor penguin.