“‘Why can't I see white?’”

Writings from an Israeli prison ‘hospital.’

The author and his book. (With permission.)

29 OCTOBER—This is Part Two of a three-part series on Rateb al–Hribat and his writings while in Israeli prisons. Now in his mid-forties, Rateb spent twenty-two years in the Israeli gulag, where he wrote two books about his volunteer work at the Ramla Prison Hospital—a facility notorious for medical neglect and abuse of prisoners. Why Can’t I See White? is the first of these books to be translated into English.

In Part One of this series, “‘Raw reality’ in Palestine,” I reported on my meeting with Rateb and our conversation in his home town of Dura. Readers will find Part One here. In Part Two I present the Introduction to Why Can’t I See White?, by Yasser Abu Bakr, who was also a longtime prisoner, and Rateb’s Preface. Part Three will be comprised of extracts from Rateb’s text.

After meeting Rateb I arranged for his first book to be translated. I secured funding from a local non-profit organization located in the city of al–Khalil (a.k.a. Hebron) and hired three young women to do the initial work. A fourth person joined the project to review and compile the initial translations. I edited the final version. This series will be the first time Rateb’s work has appeared anywhere in English.

This is how Rateb described his books when we met last November:

I began writing in 2017 and completed both books while I was still in prison. They tell the story of men I was imprisoned with and the suffering of prisoners in Ramla. These are men—some of them still teenagers—who were injured from previous intifadas, or who were sick. I wrote about their day-to-day struggles. These books document the abuse and slow medical assassination of prisoners.

Rateb’s book belongs to a genre of literary work known as Palestinian prison literature. This emerged as a distinct category of writing during the British Mandate. It encompasses poetry, fiction, and non-fiction written by men and women, among them well-known and first-time authors, most of whom have been in prison at some point in their lives. Palestinian writing about—and from within—Israel’s prison system expanded significantly after the occupation of Gaza and the West Bank in 1967, when increasing numbers of people were imprisoned.

Because Israel has long targeted Palestinian artists and writers for imprisonment—as well as assassination—many of Palestine’s most well-known and beloved poets, essayists, and novelists have composed works inspired, if that is my word, by their experience inside Israel’s prisons. Previously unknown writers such as Rateb—those who took up the pen in these circumstances for the first time—have made important contributions to this body of work.

While referred to as “prison literature,” the Arabic term used to describe this body of writing is more accurately translated as “captive literature.” This critical distinction—between prisoner and captive—reflects the actual reality in Occupied Palestine. Palestinians held in captivity by Israel are not prisoners incarcerated for wrongdoing, but captives of an illegal military occupation.

In the Introduction and Preface to Rateb’s book you hear the voices of two Palestinian men who spent decades inside the man-made hell of the Zionist prison system, the very existence of which is a violation of international law. Yasser Abu Bakr was serving multiple life sentences when he wrote the Introduction for Rateb’s book. Yasser was released in January 2025 along with 200 other Palestinian prisoners in exchange for four female Israeli soldiers captured on 7 October. He had been incarcerated for 24 years.

For those interested in reading prisoner testimonies, B’Tselem, the Israeli human rights organization, published a lengthy report in August 2024 documenting the systematic abuse, starvation, and torture of Palestinian prisoners, all of which escalated after 7 October. Welcome to Hell: The Israeli Prison System as a Network of Torture Camps was based on the detailed testimony of fifty-five former inmates, male and female, young and old.

Rateb’s book is more than a record of Israel’s crimes: In the face of unimaginable cruelty and pain, Rateb shows us the depths of human resilience, faith, and love. What else, indeed, would motivate Rateb to help the most vulnerable and broken of prisoners and to write two books dedicated to the sacrifices each of them made for Palestine?

Resilience, faith, love: These are the ineffable qualities that enabled the prisoners Rateb wrote about to endure the unendurable. And in this respect, Why Can’t I See White? allows the reader to perceive the bright flame of Palestinian strength, resistance, and sumud—steadfast perseverance—that will not be extinguished.

—C. M.

Introduction,

Yasser Abu Bakr.

Spending any years of your life in the prisons of the Occupation is far too long, especially when these prisons belong to your enemy, who dedicates every moment to tightening the noose around you, slowly killing you by way of medical neglect. But this is nothing more than a mask for its true name and intent: assassination.

To spend time in Ramla Prison Clinic, where you witness the pain and suffering of sick prisoners every single day—that is torment upon torment upon torment.

The torment of imprisonment.

The torment of watching the slow murders of sick prisoners.

And the torment of being powerless to save them.

This is what prisoner Rateb Abdul Latif Hribat endured. He dedicated himself to serving sick and injured detainees in the Occupation’s prison, sharing in their daily suffering, becoming their family, their doctor, their nurse, their caretaker. Today, my brother Rateb brings us, in this book, a glimpse—just a small fraction—of what he witnessed firsthand during his time caring for prisoners. His words carry the weight of endless and ongoing suffering that the Palestinian people have endured for years, in countless forms and places, all while the world—especially the so-called civilized world—remains shamefully silent, drowning us daily in its empty slogans about human rights.

First, I extend my deepest respect and appreciation to Rateb and all prisoners who have dedicated themselves to caring for their fellow detainees. The sacrifice and devotion of Rateb and others like him are priceless, and we pray that God rewards them abundantly.

I also send a message to all those who claim to stand for humanity: Act before it is too late. Expose the Occupation’s crimes before assassination becomes the fate of every freedom fighter in Palestine. Work to free Palestinian prisoners—the freedom fighters—from the Occupation’s prisons, which stand as symbols of oppression, aggression, and terrorism in our time.

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Author’s Preface,

Rateb al–Hribat.

Like everyone else, when I used to hear the word “hospital,” it immediately brought to mind a place equipped with everything a real medical facility should have: doctors, hospital beds, specialized nurses, and the necessary medical equipment to treat patients. A place where a sick person received proper care.

But the moment I entered this so-called medical section, I was completely shocked. What I saw was nothing more than another prison ward, identical to all the others: the same cells, doors, and heavy iron locks that are bolted shut every night; the same prison guards patrolling the area, watching over the detainees with hostility.

It had the same barred windows. The walls were painted the same cold, gray-blue. Even the prison beds were identical. Everything was the same. It was controlled by the same ruthless jailers who practiced oppression, cruelty, and humiliation. This was the reality of the “hospital.”

And what about the doctor? I had assumed that the medical doctor treating the sick prisoners would at least look like a doctor—that he would wear a white coat, like any other doctor. But the truth was far more disturbing. The doctor’s uniform was not white. It was the uniform of a prison officer—a police uniform.

Even the person referred to as a “nurse” was dressed the same. The medical staff wore military uniforms, not medical ones. There were no white coats, no green scrubs.

I wondered:

Why do I not see white? Is it because it is a symbol of purity, innocence, tolerance, and acceptance? Or is it because pure-hearted people could never be soldiers and officers whose main concern is to kill, destroy, torture, and humiliate freedom fighters? Even in this so-called hospital, I do not see white. Perhaps this is connected to the morning light, which never shines brightly here.

Inside the prison, and inside the prison hospital, I am constantly overcome with sorrow, grief, pain, and suffering. There is no place for white here. There is no place for light in hearts consumed by darkness.

What is expected—as I later understood and as my experience made clear— is that you must always feel you are still in prison. The person in front of you is not a doctor, but a jailer carrying out the mission of the Prison Service against sick detainees.

You can see the military doctors—officers coming in and out of the section, wearing their military uniforms. Do not even dream of seeing them in white, in the attire of real doctors. That might give you some sense of comfort or temporary security—something that is completely unwanted here. You must remain constantly tense, constantly wary. Even the nurses wear the same military uniform that fuels anxiety and distrust.

These prison doctors carry out a military mission under the authority of the Prison Service. Many of them are directly affiliated with military intelligence within the Prison Service, and some are even assigned by Israeli intelligence agencies to perform specific tasks. This includes the Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security service, which operates directly under the Israeli prime minister.

For the sick prisoner, this situation creates a perpetual state of tension. The very person who is supposedly there to provide medical treatment is the same jailer who shackles his hands and feet with iron cuffs and chains, restricting his movement and crushing his dreams and spirit.

The one who administers medical care is the same person who locks the doors shut. Look closely: He is the same man who conducts the humiliating and intrusive nightly searches. He is the same one who takes part in the violent crackdowns carried out day and night by the Prison Service.

Sick Palestinian prisoners, including those with severe medical conditions and paralysis, are shackled whenever the doctors see fit. They are chained at the hands and feet with iron cuffs, just like the healthy prisoners, as if they were wild animals. They are then tied to their beds, unable to move. Imagine the physical, mental, and emotional state of a sick detainee, bound by the hands and feet, unable to turn left or right.

The very act of transporting a sick prisoner is a scene of cruelty. Prisoners are frequently moved when they are in their worst medical condition, and in a way that deliberately intensifies their pain and suffering. Even if the prisoner is paralyzed or unconscious, he is transported not in an ambulance but in an ordinary vehicle with metal seats—a vehicle completely unequipped for medical emergencies. During transport the prisoner is shackled at the hands and feet. Do not imagine otherwise. Accompanying him are armed guards, their weapons pointed directly at the sick detainee.

In this inhumane and exhausting transfer process, the prisoner’s pain only intensifies. Due to the vehicle’s speed and conditions of the road, a prisoner may even fall from his seat.

The stories you hear or read about can never compare with what you see with your own eyes. No matter how much detail is given, it all seems unbelievable—until you witness it firsthand.

Only then does the shocking reality unfold before you. What you see is beyond comprehension. It is a world of the unimaginable, where cruelty is the norm.

In this place that is called a hospital, pain is your constant companion. After overcoming your initial shock and disbelief, after grappling with the sheer absurdity of it all, all illusions you may have had about finding even a slight sense of relief or a temporary escape from prison fade away. You quickly realize that there is no difference between the main prison and the hospital.

Only then do you truly understand the value of freedom—an experience and a human right that has no equal, except possibly equality and justice. All of these are completely absent under occupation. Here, inside these dark, suffocating walls, beneath the whips of the jailers, there is no humanity—only oppression.

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I wish to thank the translators who worked diligently to bring Rateb’s book into English. I list their names in the order in which they joined this project: Sadeel Sayyedahmad, Rawia Nasereldeen, Ghalya Ashraf, Ahmad Titi.

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