I learned about Rateb al–Hribat from my Arabic interpreter, a young woman named Sadeel. This was November of last year and we, Sadeel and I, were traveling in the West Bank as I continued research for a series of essays called “Palestinian Voices.” Rateb had recently been released from prison after twenty-two years. His was a voice I wanted to hear. Rateb and Sadeel are from the same West Bank town, Dura, and one of her uncles is a friend of Rateb’s family. Sadeel and I were scheduled to be in Dura—a community of 40,000 located 11 kilometers southwest of al–Khalil (aka, Hebron)—at the end of November. Sadeel’s uncle arranged for us to meet Rateb. It was a memorable occasion. We spoke for more than an hour about his experience and the Israeli prison system as it was prior to 7 October 2023. It was during this interview that I learned about Rateb’s volunteer work in the infamous Ramla Prison Hospital. Rateb had been incarcerated there from January 2015 until June 2018, when he was transferred to Gilboa Prison. The transfer of prisoners is common, and Rateb was moved more than one hundred times during his years of incarceration. While at Ramla he wrote two books about the prison clinic and the medical abuse and neglect of Palestinian prisoners. These were the first books I’d learned of written by a former prisoner documenting life inside the Israeli gulag. Because I wanted to read them, I offered to find someone to translate the first book into English. I could not then know the extent to which it documents what almost certainly qualify as crimes against humanity. Rateb signed copies of both books and handed them to me. Because of the importance of Rateb’s work—for its documentation of Israeli criminality and as a contribution to the corpus of Palestinian prison literature—I decided to make excerpts available to readers of The Floutist. What follows is a three-part series on Rateb and the first of his books. In Part One I report on our initial meeting and conversation. In Parts Two and Three I publish—for the first time anywhere—extracts from the English translation of Rateb’s book, which he titled Why Can’t I See White? These will be published in succession over the following days. —C.M. 2 DECEMBER—I met Rateb at his family’s home on a quiet street in a residential neighborhood of Dura. Sadeel was with me. We were greeted at the door by members of his family. These were men and women, some smiling and some not, each as curious about me as I was about them—all extremely polite. Throughout the interview, Rateb’s family displayed the same hospitality I have come to expect when traveling in Palestine. I was never to learn names or in what way each was related to Rateb—in part a consequence of the language barrier. But that was not the purpose of the visit. I had come to interview their son, brother, cousin, nephew—the 45–year-old man recently released from prison. We removed our shoes in the entryway, setting them among a large pile of family footwear. From there we were escorted up a flight of stairs to a spacious guest room on the second floor. Arab houses are distinguished by a division of public and private space. Most homes, with the exception of those belonging to nomadic people or the very poorest Palestinians, have a room specifically for guests. These are formally furnished with the best a family has to offer. Sadeel and I were seated next to each other on an elegant ivory-colored sofa that wrapped along two walls. A young woman carried in a tray and set it before us on a low table. There was Arabic coffee served in delicate demitasse cups. Small glass bowls filled with seeds, nuts, dates, and other delicacies crowded the tray. As I found in other interviews, these remained largely untouched. Sadeel’s rapid translation and my hurried scribbling of notes left little opportunity to eat. We waited some moments for Rateb. I took a sip of coffee and noticed three books lying on the couch near me. I picked one up. One of the men explained: These had been written by Rateb while he was in prison. When Rateb finally entered the room I was immediately impressed by his composure and the obvious respect his family showed. Rateb’s presence filled the space. His face, solemn and handsome, betrayed no evidence of the years he’d spent in prison. He was dressed in a suit and carried himself with dignity. He was articulate and soft-spoken. These initial impressions remain vivid in my mind even as I write this. He took some steps towards me and broke the silence with a formal Arabic greeting, “Welcome. Dura is your second home.” I thanked him for meeting with me. “I will do anything that’s related to the Palestinian cause,” he said as he took a seat. Rateb had been released from Negev Prison at the end of July, only four months earlier. He didn’t look like a man recently freed from the hell of the Israeli gulag. “Will it be difficult for you to speak of your experience in prison?” I asked. “No.” he said. “Because what happened to me is part of the same continuum of violence that my people have experienced since the Nakba.” What follows from here is Rateb’s story as he conveyed it to me in Arabic and as interpreted by Sadeel. I present his replies to my numerous questions as a seamless narrative. I’ve done so for brevity and continuity and to showcase Rateb’s voice. My few interpolations, in italics, are intended as clarifications. Rateb al–Hribat. We are talking about raw reality. This is not related to politics. I’m not different from any of my people and the sequence of violence that has been inflicted on my people. My experience and suffering aren’t unique. This was a sentiment I heard from others, men and women, who spent time in Zionist prisons. The immense suffering prisoners endure is apparently made more bearable because it’s a shared experience. In this way a prisoner knows he or she is not alone. It must be noted: This was before events of 7 October 2023, before the systematic starvation of prisoners, and before the escalation and intensification of beatings, torture, and rape. I was part of the Al–Aqsa Intifada. It began when Ariel Sharon raided the mosque in September of 2000. It moved Arabs and Palestinians to defend themselves and their rights. I was one who tried to do something to defend my country. This is the result of injustice our people have been living with. Although we have eyes for peace and normal lives, Israel didn’t allow our people to live normally. The _expression_ “we have eyes for peace” is one I heard frequently in my travels and conversations with people in urban and rural areas. It conveys a passionate desire for peace with the poetic nuance characteristic of Arabic. Ariel Sharon, chairman of Likud from 1999 to 2005, became prime minister six months after the Al–Aqsa incident. In the Israeli prisons system, prisoners endure a lot of violence through the whole process. We are beaten when we’re arrested, and again during the so-called investigation process, when we’re interrogated. There is mental and physical torture. Mental torture includes blackmail. When they arrest someone they frequently threaten to demolish the homes of their families. Mental pressure is applied to friends who have also been arrested. They spread rumors that one of your friends was martyred or died in prison. There are other methods specific to different contexts. For example, during interrogations they will say things like, “There’s no future for you. We will destroy you.” Elsewhere during my travels I learned, reliably, of one notorious instance of sexual blackmail used to turn someone into an informant. In consequence, he was killed by the resistance. Rateb would never have spoken of sexual blackmail to a woman, but it is not hard to imagine the truth of it. This type of blackmail, at which Israelis excel, would be highly effective in Palestine, where sexuality is confined to marriage between a man and woman and any deviation carries social and criminal penalties. The other side is physical torture. Israelis beat prisoners with tools, they keep us sitting in small dark dungeons with no room to move and no light. They harass people, forcing them to stay awake so they lose sense of time. Even the physical abuse has a psychological effect. They put plastic bags on our heads; we’re handcuffed with our hands behind our backs and forced to sit in small chairs. They scream and swear at us. They use humiliation. ■ The real struggle for Palestinian prisoners is being parted from family for years. For many years the prison authority didn’t allow family members to visit. This was used as punishment. Another way to punish or break prisoners is constantly moving us from one prison to another. The main reason they do this is to destroy any sense of stability for prisoners, because a prisoner searches for a sense of settling, so he can have a schedule and take advantage of time in meaningful ways. Constantly moving prisoners destroys any sense of stability and any community. Rateb is referring here not only to communities prisoners form inside of prisons, but also to communities on the outside. Families lose contact with their loved ones when they’re moved from prison to prison, sometimes not knowing where they are. Or if they’re even alive. Prisoners are moved in metal boxes in prison vans. Our hands and legs are cuffed with our arms behind our backs. The seats are made of metal. Prisoners are not belted to the seats and are injured during transport. The space is small and prisoners fall on each other or on the floor. Because Palestine is a small area, the distance between facilities is [typically] about 45 minutes. But they keep the prisoners in transport vehicles for about five hours. They don’t let them use a toilet, and prisoners have to hold their urine. Men who suffer from diabetes urinate on themselves. In May 2024 I spoke with a woman from Ramallah who spent a year in prison and was released just prior to 7 October 2023. She reported a similar experience when being transported. The prison transport personnel deliberately drive for hours on rough, winding roads. They take corners and turns at high speeds. All of this is intended as a form of torture. During summer months the vehicles get dangerously hot so that it becomes difficult to breathe. There were times, she told me, when she thought she would die. ■ I was charged with being a member of Shoada Al–Aqsa, the military branch of Fatah. This was the charge. Israelis play games. They’ve been working on the Zionist project many decades. They do whatever it takes to destroy Palestinian community. The main accusation against me was resisting occupation. Trials are only for media show for Israelis. There is no justice in Israel’s law. Being Palestinian gave me the strength to endure twenty-two years in prison. This is a benefit only Palestinians have. We can live in any circumstances and cope. Palestinian prisoners live inside the prison, but the prison doesn’t live inside of them. Palestinian prisoners can endure their circumstances because we don’t have a home besides Palestine and because of our belief in our right to live and to live a decent life. We always look to the future and freedom for our country. Just like any other people, we don’t like violence. We don’t like killing. The occupier forces it on us. For the family of a prisoner, their struggle is double that of the prisoner. I say this because a prisoner suffers from separation from his family. But this is a personal struggle. It’s an individual struggle. He alone suffers. For the family and community and friends the loss of a loved one is great. Their suffering is greater. On every happy occasion, like a birthday or wedding, the happiness isn’t complete or whole. Also, to go see their loved one in prison they must endure the hardships of traveling. Families endure constant worry. For example, when families hear bad news coming from inside the prisons and the condition of the prisoner (their loved one) isn’t known. This causes fear and worry. The prisoner knows his own condition and circumstances but the family doesn’t. Most prisons are in “the ’48 lands” [the Palestinian term for the land stolen during the Nakba]. The families struggle to see their loved ones. They endure checkpoints and road closures, and are often prevented from traveling for “security reasons.” The prison authorities frequently take away the right to visit, and visits are limited to forty-five minutes once a month. They take place behind thick glass. Conversation is by phone. Visits are restricted to parents and siblings, spouses and children. Visits require permission. Visitors are forced through slow and elaborate security checks. Their belongings are searched. Prisoners have to endure a body search. I went ten years without seeing my family. My mother passed away before she could see me. My father saw me once before he passed away. My sister saw me several times and then she also passed away. This is one of the sad experiences prisoners encounter, when they lose a family member. ■ Prison is like a community—a kind of village. Prisoners form friendships and support groups. Some of the strongest relationships are formed in prison. Prisoners have strong social connections and become like family inside. Of course, there is a common religious connection and practice. Through long years of protest, including hunger strikes, prisoners won some religious rights. The price was high. A lot of prisoners were martyred. Looking back, after the protests and hunger strikes we were able to create a system to organize our lives. [There have been many strikes through the years; several large hunger strikes occurred in the 1990s.] We won the basic means for comfort: stability, a book—books were allowed inside—prisoners had eating schedules, sports, exercise. We were able to walk and read. We were able to meet with other prisoners inside our prison units. We created this improved situation with the prison administration after a long fight. Our lives weren’t so chaotic. If there was a problem we could meet and talk about it. After 7 October, circumstances changed one thousand percent: decent food and eating schedules, contact with the prison administration—all these accomplishments and rights were taken away. Now prisoners have only a bare minimum to live—a bare minimum of food, clothes, water. The worst abuses are to their humanity and dignity. Prisoners are beaten with tools, prevented from meeting with each other and organizing, cells are overcrowded, the caloric intake has been reduced to starvation level. Sickness spreads in prisons. There are a lot of skin diseases. This is intentional. 7 October showed us the true face of the occupation. We discovered they have no decency. ■ I carried Rateb’s books with me when we left, determined to get the first one into English as quickly as possible. Over the next week I put together a team of three translators—young Palestinian women, all of them friends—and secured a modest sum of money to pay them. The initial work was finished in early February. A fourth person, also a friend and with whom I worked closely, compiled and edited the preliminary translation. I spent three weeks editing the final English version. What I read as I edited was utterly shocking. Rateb’s book is a close personal account of horrific suffering and intentional medical abuse. The singular importance of Rateb’s work is why I decided to publish excerpts from his book. These will follow shortly in Parts 2 and 3 of this series. This series was previously published at Winter Wheat. Everything I write is freely available. If you appreciate what you read, please consider supporting my work, including my travels to Occupied Palestine. I rely entirely upon reader support. You can become a paid subscriber by clicking on the button below. You can “buy me a coffee.” You can send a one-time, monthly, or yearly donation via PayPal. Or you can support me on Patreon. You can also share this article. Thank you. You're currently a free subscriber to The Floutist. 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