Questions

Israeli citizens have become inured to a high level of security. At the airport there is an extra round of questioning before you even board the plane: what is the purpose of your visit; who are you visiting; have you ever burned Ariel Sharon in effigy? I'm not used to these types of questions and my faltering answers are barely tolerated by impatient staff.

It gets worse when you land in Israel. Unsmiling women in their twenties sit at passport control and interrogate you without emotion:

What's your father's name?
Same as mine.
Why are you here?
I'm visiting friends.
Are they Jewish?
Some of them.
Where do they live?
I don't know.
What are there jobs?
They teach music to Palestinian children. Why are you putting on gloves?

As we queue for the check-in desk to fly back to the Netherlands, an airport worker comes to ask us some questions. It's 3am. The questions are direct and personal. The two men travelling in front of us have just had to confirm that they are in a relationship. Luckily, the man asking us questions smiles and is apologetic about the invasion of privacy. After a look at our passports however, he looks a little uncomfortable and calls a colleague, shows her something in our passports, and departs. His superior is cold-looking and unsympathetic to our condition at this late hour. She could be the evil vixen from a Bond movie, and is clearly trained to recognise liars.
The issue is the stamp we received when we crossed the border into Jordan, a neighbouring Arab country on peaceful terms with Israel, but this isn't immediately obvious to me in my tired state. She asks us where we've been. We list places, avoiding the West Bank, but including Jordan. She asks us if we visited any private residences while in Jordan. I feel like asking her if she's ever experienced the assertiveness of Jordanian hospitality, and how difficult it is to refuse offers of coffee from taxi drivers etc, but I don't. No, we haven't. We are allowed to fly home without further questioning.