Palestine

He looks very young. Are they sending children now to fix TVs? He passes me his official ID, and I check it twice, just to be sure. His face is half familiar from the news reports ' only just too old to be throwing stones, old enough to be an Infitada suicide bomber. It is a face that has slid out from these reports and is now standing on my doorstep looking a bit nervous.

He says that his boss dropped him off and will be back for him in an hour and that from what I said it sounds like a relatively simple problem, shouldn't take too long to fix. His hand is moving towards the phone clipped to his belt. He doesn't think I'm going to let him in.

I pass back his ID. He fixes it back to the front of his shirt, affirming his official identity. Ibrahim Kamar, TV Repairman, Bethlehem Palestinian Authority. No one would blame me for shutting the door in his face.

It is the flicker of resignation at what he takes to be my automatic hatred for him and his people that makes me let him in. It is a look that I have seen on others, boys his age, a long time ago.

The second after he has put foot in my house, of course, I regret it. Does he dance in joy when one of his takes a bomb onto a bus or café or checkpoint to tear apart the bodies of the innocent? Has he seen a friend, a brother or - God forbid - a sister off wrapped in explosives and razor blades?

I show him to the living room and the dead TV set, flick it on to show the blank screen. He gets to work, checking the wiring and then pulling the back off the TV, setting the parts he takes from its insides neatly on the piece of sheeting he has spread on my floor. I sit in my armchair and peer at him over the top of my magazine. He tries to move as if he does not realise he is being watched.

The afternoon sun makes the room hot, even with the fan on. Knelt on the floor, he has growing dark patches under his arms and plump sweat beads on his face that burst and run down his neck. The company uniform shirt he wears is far too big for him, and I can easily tell how lean his body is through it. I ease myself up from my chair.

"I am going to make myself a drink, would you like anything?

"A glass of water, please. He seems surprised that I asked him.

My son bought me a new fridge with an ice-cube maker when my old one broke and I fill a glass with ice and water while I wait for the water to boil for my tea. My son, Eli, wants me to move with him and his wife in Tel Aviv. He says that living here is too risky and anyway, the way things are going at the moment soon I might have no choice . He doesn't understand why I won't leave this house. Me and my husband chose it when I was expecting Eli and we were still living in Jerusalem in the corner of my cousin's flat. It was the first place we had lived that was our own since our parents' houses in the old country. It's mine and no one is going to make me leave my home again, not even if they come with guns.

I take the tea and water into the living room on a tray and put it down on the sideboard, hand the young man the glass of water. He thanks me, very politely. He certainly seems well brought up. It is odd hearing the Hebrew words coming from his mouth ' an old Hungarian Israeli woman and young Palestinian man speaking God's language over a broken tv set.

"Is there anything particular that you'll be watching tonight? He asks the question in the manner of a puppy running up to a stranger, looking at them, and then running off, half scared at their own boldness.

"Ah, I'm not sure what's on. I'm hoping its not repeats again, sometimes that's all there seems to be on these days.

"I think there's the Wednesday film on Channel 3. My mum normally watches that.

"Yes there is, isn't there? I'll see what it is. I pick up my magazine and flick to the TV listings.

"I haven't seen a film in ages but I used to go every Sunday afternoon to the cinema with my husband when he was alive.

There is a film on tonight. It's Schindler's List. I close the magazine sharply and put it back on the table.

"I don't think I'll be watching the film tonight.

Why watch what I've spent most of my life trying to forget?

"No? Me neither, I have a double shift today to make some overtime. I have six younger brothers and sisters ' they never stop eating.

He finishes the water, thanks me, carefully puts the glass back on the tray and goes back to fiddling with the back of the TV set. He puts some of the bits and pieces from the sheet back in, and tries to turn the set back on again. Nothing. The screen is still dark. He takes things out again, tries again. Still nothing.

"I am sorry, he says, "but I don't think that the problem is what we thought it was. I can't understand why the set is still not working. I had better phone my boss.

He takes the phone off his belt clip and a rapid conversation in Arabic follows.

"Ok, I'm sorry, I have spoken to my manager and he says that he will send a senior technician out, but they are not available until seven tonight.

"Well, it can't be helped I suppose. Thank you for trying to fix it though.

"No problem. The guy who is coming out is very good, he can fix anything. I am hoping that in a few years I will be a senior technician too.

He packs his tools away and goes to wait on the pavement for the van to come and pick him up. I watch him through the window. He is a blank silhouette against the sun.