From the corner of my eye, I catch Miss Israel practicing her English with NATO soldiers. On the return trip, the professionals move to the front of the plane, where the aid boxes had been, while the refugees are told to sit in the back of the plane, like smokers. A young steward complains about the smell in the cabin. It's not really his fault. He has no idea that refugee camps have no showers and that, in the absence of toilets, people are forced to crouch over holes in the ground, their naked parts barely protected by low canvas screens.
Arms extend into the central aisle during takeoff, imitating the surge and glide of wings.
For some of the Kosovars, the flight is their first ever. Until two weeks ago, Hassani owned two gold jewelry shops and three small cars. The plane's intercom is used to make emotional speeches about the peace and dignity Kosovars will recover in Israel. Lunch is an introduction to Middle Eastern food, with hummus and baklava. There is Israeli folk music, mandatory clapping.