Misha Mansoor reflects on her first trip to Tel Aviv since October 7 

Who brought you to the airport?” our interrogator asks my sister. “My friend Kevin,” Iris replies. The El-Al interlocutor at the pre-check-in at Luton Airport doesn’t react. “Who brought you to the airport?” she fires at me. “My boyfriend Kevin,” I tell her. No flicker. “Who do you know in Tel Aviv?” she asks next. “Our uncle Yossi,” we say. “Your uncle? He lives alone?” She’s almost showing a sign of excitement here.

“No,” we say in unison, “he lives with his partner.’ ‘And what is their name?’ she demands. “Kevin!” my sister and I both say. We’ve missed this. We’re enjoying this. We’re like a double act, laughing at our own clever jokes. All these Kevins. How very amusing we are. She merely flickers a nod. The hilarious cluster of Kevins means nothing to her.

She asks us where we went to synagogue and school and where we live. Our answers mean absolutely nothing to her. We should have said “Kevin School, in the Kevin area of north London.”

When satisfied we are who we’re supposed to be – two Jewish English sisters longing to visit their vast clan of Mizrahi Israeli relatives and attend a family wedding, she flashes us a dazzling smile, welcoming us through, wishing us a safe and happy time in Eretz Yisrael.

Walking to Departures I tell Iris how surprised I am she didn’t flag up all the Kevins to her supervisors: after all, wouldn’t that be a typical terrorist name? “Shut up saying the T word,” warns my sister. We’re not through security yet and are walking past a lot of men with guns. “Good point,” I say “and what about Mansoor? That’s a proper criminal mastermind of a terrorist name.” At this point my sister whacks me hard and I scream. The men with guns look our way, stern, disapproving and lethal. The flight is calm. There are no big noisy families or school groups. Our stewardess, like me, is wearing a 7.10 silver tag. The pre-landing speech includes a prayer for the return of the hostages and peace.

In Tel Aviv, the first trip we make is to Hostages Square. The long table with empty chairs we have seen online and on the news so much now has a succah over it.

We’ve never been so sombre together, me and my sister. Well, maybe at our brother’s funeral, until the drinks and dancing began later that day. Here in Israel there’s a defiance and palpable sadness that is everywhere we go. Hostages’ photos and “Bring them home” signs are everywhere. On every street and on everyone’s lips. I witness people walking by and touching their fingers from their lips to the pictures of the hostages’ faces.

The next day we go to Dizengoff Square where the famous fountain is, now renamed the Square of Sadness. Surrounding the fountain on its wall are thousands of teddy bears, memorial candles, photos, posters and various paraphernalia pertaining to the likes and loves of the hostages, the murdered and the fallen soldiers.

Around the square hundreds of Israelis sit quietly chatting and observing, some having their lunch, some on their phones. Iris and I spend hours at the fountain. I spot the photo of Jake Marlowe, the young Arsenal fan from north London whose murder my Kevin cried over, although he’s a Spurs fan.

I’m lost in memories. In my twenties, I stayed on the square with an Israeli boyfriend overlooking the fountain.

His mother wouldn’t allow us to sleep together under her roof so he booked us into Hotel Cinema where we spent a delirious, lust-fuelled and sex-filled week making love inside our room and smoking on the balcony, languidly watching life on the square below.

I remember another time my Tel Aviv family’s huge childlike excitement when the municipality installed a fire and light show at the fountain. You would have thought it was the Moon Landing the way everyone flocked to the fountain every night to go ooh and ahh at the fountain’s side.

I recall, years later, bringing my own young children to the fountain to run around on the fountain’s wall with their happy shrieks, yelling at them not to run with their ice creams.

Such innocent times.

The wedding’s in Jaffa. Shortly before we leave our hotel, the air raid sirens wail. From our balcony we watch people running away from the beach. After the all-clear we set off in a taxi along the gridlocked seafront. A large group of teenagers in bikinis and trunks are jumping up and down, entwined and singing.

The driver plays us the same song. Soon he, my sister and I are all clapping together. It’s Eyal Golan’s Mi She Ma’amin. Tel Aviv is still one beautiful big party. Am Yisrael Chai.

Angela Epstein overlooks catering and hygiene on a new direct flight from Manchester

It’s not often that Manchester Airport could be mistaken for a shul. And quite a frum shul at that. But as we heave our luggage out of the taxi, the electric gates peel apart to reveal a Shtisel-esque crowd scene. For in the otherwise empty departure hall – ours is the last flight out of Manchester this evening – almost every passenger appears to be Charedi. But what unites us is far stronger than what divides us. Namely that we all have tickets on the first direct flight to Tel Aviv in months – thanks to low-cost Israeli airline Arkia taking over a route that has been dormant since easyJet pulled out of the Manchester run at the beginning of the year.

Understandably, if you live in London, then you may not appreciate how big a deal this is for us Northerners. With Luton and Heathrow offering direct routes, not for you trying to connect through Santorini only to find, by default, you have to spend Pesach on a Greek island due to a missed flight. And since both London airports are serviced by El Al – whose mantra seems to be “the day we cancel you really shouldn’t be going” – you have alternatives to when British Airways bale out on you.

That’s why finally – finally – having a new direct route to service the country’s second-largest Jewish community, as well as Jews from other cities in the North, is a game-changer. Not that it has been easy to secure our seat for the inaugural flight.

On first learning tickets were on sale, my husband Martin leapt online to make the booking only to discover the website was entirely in Ivrit and Martin’s knowledge of the language barely extends beyond remembered dregs of classical Hebrew A-level (can’t imagine Yoni in customer service understanding “forsooth, good sire, haveth you a window seat?”)

Fortunately, I have a brother who not only lives in Israel and is fluent in the language, but is also impeccably thorough – and patient. Thanks to him we managed to book our tickets and remained updated about repeated changes of times to the flight.

But what of the journey itself? Well, let’s just say that three days before Succot (thus so many Charedi passengers) the festivities to mark this as a new route for Arkia were limited.

Maybe there ain’t no party like an etrog party – thank you S Club fans – but there was no evidence on board that this was a new departure in every sense of the word. A few cheery announcements to celebrate this point would have been well received. Indeed there was little sign of Arkia at all since the company subcontracted the flight to an airline called Smile and Fly.

Better described as Och and Vey since despite having been idling at the airport for ten hours in Manchester, the plane was still a bit grubby (take wipes) and there was no soap in the washroom.

It is, however, possible to order kosher food from the trolley service. But my mozzarella toastie was boiling on the outside and frozen on the inside.

When I asked for a refund or exchange for something other than a sandwich – I’d been put off this option – I was told it wasn’t possible as the food was from a different section (!) Clearly this is not the M&S/John Lewis ethos where the customer is always right (I know someone who once returned an opened packet of underpants claiming they were causing chafing).

That said, the twice-weekly route has been launched primarily for Israeli football fans – Manchester is of course the heart of English soccer (Come on you Reds!). So maybe they won’t be so fussed about a little Palmolive in the bathroom.

The emphasis is the fact that this is a direct flight. And that’s the key point. We took off from Manchester at 12.40am (40 minutes late even though the runways were empty) and landed in Tel Aviv.

No driving four hours to Luton to pick up a flight. Or even worse, making that journey home to Manchester after arriving back from Israel.

Door to door makes many things forgivable – though lack of competition is also grounds for complacency. So if this, ahem, takes off, Arkia should take careful note – less och and vay, more smile and fly. But if they get it right, the sky’s the limit.