I’ve been to Madrid twice, both times to perform ritual circumcisions, and both trips overlapped with some of the saddest yearly Jewish commemorations: Tisha B’av and, this year, International Holocaust Remembrance Day. The timing gave both visits a somewhat somber tone.

On my outbound journey last week, I was stopped by Israeli security to check the contents of my bag. My Brit Milah tools often raise questions. “I’m a mohel,” I informed the security personnel, although the additional information seemed to have little effect.

It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these inspections. I developed a system through experience that usually averts complications — don’t try to hide them, take the tool boxes out so they’re visible on the conveyor belt.

“They can’t be opened because they’re sterilized,” I warned the guard who paced, frantically searching for his superior.

When the manager arrived, I began to show him cell phone images to ensure none of the contents were sharp. “I don’t need that,” he said with a smile. “What’s the purpose of your trip?” I explained that two families needed brises in Spain.

I wondered if this was the beginning of a longer interrogation. I was subject to such........

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