"So you recently went to Dubai," the Israeli security guard said as she peered suspiciously over her desk, while her male colleague looked me up and down as if I had just touched down from Syria.

"Yes," I replied.

I was at the end of my second trip to Israel, about to head home to London from Ben Gurion airport. I had visited Boys Town Jerusalem, a school for underprivileged children, for an assignment for the JC.

"Why did you go to Dubai?" she asked bewildered. I toyed with the truth, which would have been something like, "my dad recently died of cancer and after months of caring for him and a funeral, I needed to run far away, for four days and cry if I wanted to, before I went back to work."

But I decided Ben Gurion wasn't the place to break down in floods of tears telling that story, so I went with, "because it's hot and I like shopping."

"Did you travel alone?" she asked. I paused again, to consider where her questioning was going. But I already knew, and having been taught not to lie I explained that I went with a friend.

"What is your friend's name?" she said.

"Nazim," I replied.

Then there was another pause, this time it was theirs, and lasted a lot longer than mine and included an exchange of very bewildered looks between the two security guards.

"But you're Jewish?" the male guard asked.

We had already established this earlier in the interrogation when he asked me what synagogue my family went to and I explained that although my maternal grandparents had been long standing members of Alyth Gardens synagogue, my Jewishness amounted to working for the Jewish Chronicle, loving a Friday night dinner and an obsession with cheesecake.

Clearly puzzled, he persisted by franticly firing a round of questions at me.

"Does your friend Nazim go to Alyth too? Is he just your friend? Why did you go on holiday with him? Did you share a room?" he said.

In my 29 years, not even my own Jewish mother has made me feel so panicked about one of my male friendships, of which I have quite a few.

And before you raise your eyebrows like the Israeli security guard did, yes all of them are genuine, no I've never been there, and yes it is possible.

"Did you share a room?" the male guard repeated the question.

"Yes," I said flustered. "He's my best friend!" I suddenly felt like a scolded schoolgirl, caught behind the bicycle shed with a boy – except, we hadn't done anything.

"Where is he from?" she interrupted. "He is British" I replied. She fired back… "but where is he from?"

She continued: "What are his parents' full names and ages? Where do they live? What language does he speak? How long have you known him? How many times a week do you speak? Did he take you to meet anyone while you were in Dubai?"

Overwhelmed with the speed at which she was firing questions at me like a speed round in a general knowledge quiz, I started having flashbacks to when I was 15 and got my first boyfriend. My hands were clammy and my cheeks were red.

But unlike when I was 15 and shrinking with embarrassment, as my mother asked everything about my boyfriend from his shoe size to his blood type, I felt annoyed, that as a 29-year-old woman I should have to justify who I choose to holiday with.

Eventually, she was forced to ask what she wanted to from the moment she heard, "Nazim."

"You said he is British, but his name, Nazim where is that from? Where was he born? That doesn't sound British."

"It doesn't?" I replied contrarily, before telling her what she wanted to hear, "he is Algerian," I said. And with that I stared her dead in the eye.

By now I was feeling quite protective of my poor friend thousands of miles away, blissfully unaware our friendship was a cause for concern for some people.

"I see", she said, and disappeared with her male colleague and my passport, for some time.

It was when I was left alone to contemplate my friendship and the fact I couldn't recall my friends' parents' names on the spot, that I chose to see the funny side.

I knew full well that Nazim, who grew up round the corner from me, was as much a threat to any country's national security as the Kardashians are to the destruction of reality television.

And I decided, that while all be it annoying and uncomfortable, it was understandable that, where just days before an ex-elite soldier, university professor, mother of four and fiancée were shot and killed in the deadliest terrorist attack in Israel in recent memory, they might be a little bit jumpy about who they let in and out of the country.

I pondered what I cared more about, knowing the pain it was to lose someone, and the panicked messages I got from family and friends after the attack, or whether national security be compromised, because I don't like answering a few personal questions?

I decided that if making me feel uncomfortable about my relationships and travel habits were an unfortunate consequence of what was needed to keep me and others safe, then so be it.

She came back after some time and stuck a high risk sticker on my passport and waved me on my way, but not before giving me a disapproving look.

It either said: "you're letting the tribe down," or: "what kind of weirdo goes on holiday with a guy who is just a friend?" I wasn't quite sure, but I didn't care.

And after a tediously long bag search, I left Israel for the second time, not angry with the security guards for doing their job, but with a worrying thought.

I must ask my friend Nazim much more about his mum and dad.

Rosa Doherty is a JC reporter