**Jaffa**

As I stepped off the plane in Jaffa, I couldn’t help but feel the heat of the sun on my face. My gaze shifted towards the airport tower where the Israeli flag fluttered proudly. It was a striking sight against the clear sky, signifying my arrival in this foreign land.

The airport was a hive of activity, with people bustling to and fro. I made my way down the stairs from the plane, and one particular moment stuck with me. As I gazed at the Israeli flag, it suddenly came down, cut off, and fell to the ground before me. It was a strange and unsettling occurrence.

With my bag slung over my shoulder, I joined the flow of passengers and headed towards the reception hall. Some were greeted by their excited relatives and friends with cheers of joy. However, I couldn’t help but notice that others stood alone, devoid of any happiness or companionship. Their eyes were as watchful as a cat stalking its prey. It became clear to me that these individuals were security officers.

The reception area was where passports and travel documents were meticulously examined. It was a secure zone equipped with advanced document inspection tools such as helmets and lights, capable of revealing hidden writings.

When it was my turn, I handed my passport to the Israeli official. He scrutinized me from head to toe before thanking me and proceeding to ask me a series of questions. It felt as if he were interrogating me rather than checking my passport.

The question that intrigued me the most was, “What brings you to Bosnia Hasgobina for five months?” I couldn’t help but notice a new photograph of a king on the wall, dated only about a month ago, suggesting that five months had passed since my departure.

I decided to respond with a touch of humor, “I’m here looking for news about you.” The official regarded me with a mix of surprise and suspicion, asking, “What made you stay for so long?” I replied, “I simply liked it here.” However, I knew that staying in Israel for extended periods was not a straightforward matter, especially for a journalist.

The official nodded somewhat reluctantly, and I noticed his hand resting on the table. He beckoned a young boy with papers scattered around his sides, and a tense atmosphere enveloped the room. I observed every detail, realizing that something significant was about to unfold.

As we locked eyes, the door behind the official suddenly swung open. A tall and imposing Jewish man emerged, his formidable presence unmistakably radiating authority. Despite his plain attire, there was no doubt in my mind that he was a high-ranking security officer. His mere presence demanded respect and obedience.

He accepted my passport and, in a fluent yet stern manner, inspected it closely. He asked, “Which country did you come from?” and simultaneously rolled his eyes toward me. I replied without hesitation, “I’m from Bosnia.” He continued his questioning, “What brings you here?” I quickly considered my response, realizing the delicate situation I was in as a journalist with a mission. I replied, “I’m here for research and to write stories.” He leaned in closer, asking, “Do you have evidence?”

I handed him my press card from my shirt pocket, and he scrutinized it carefully. His expression shifted, as if he were recalling something from his memory. He asked, “What exactly are you doing here?” In response, I stated confidently, “I’m here to keep my eyes open.” This response seemed to irk him, and he placed one of his hands in his pants pocket while pointing at me with the other. “I don’t like journalists in our country, and I don’t welcome snoops,” he muttered under his breath.

As tension thickened in the room, strong men suddenly entered through a nearby door and swiftly surrounded me. They instructed me to follow them, and without protest, I complied. They led me to an inspection room where my body and belongings underwent thorough examination. Not even the soles of my shoes or the collar of my shirt were spared by the metal detector.

The exhaustive inspection lasted for over an hour, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. Finally, I was ushered into an office where a large, imposing Jewish man sat in a revolving chair. He had a scruffy beard, sunken cheeks, and eyes that seemed fixated on an invisible prey. On his table lay a telephone and a stack of papers. His massive hands rested on the table, and he was in the midst of smoking a tobacco pipe.

As he swiveled his chair to face me, his eyes bore into mine as if I were an insect he intended to dissect. Smoke billowed around him, adding to the aura of tension that hung in the air.