📖 Story
Hala was twelve years old and the most skilled painter in her school. Her paintings hung in the school corridors, the teachers asked her to paint the pictures for parties and special occasions, and her classmates said, "If you want a beautiful painting, go to Hala." Hala loved painting with all her heart, but in recent months she had begun to love something else too: hearing words of praise, and always being first. When the city's big painting competition was announced, with the theme "My Garden," Hala said confidently, "That prize is mine."
Hala decided to paint the garden of their house. It was small but beautiful, with a lemon tree, an old palm tree, beds of red and white roses, a wooden swing hanging from two ropes, and a little pond where the birds came to drink. Hala set up her wooden easel in a corner of the garden, placed a large canvas on it, and arranged her paints and brushes on a small table beside it. Every day after school she spent two hours painting, mixing her colors carefully and painting every leaf and every flower in detail, until the painting looked like a real window onto the garden.
Hala had a little brother, six years old, named Wassim. Wassim loved his sister very much and saw her as his favourite hero. He would sit on the grass near her while she painted, watching the brush move, and ask her lots of questions: "Why do you mix blue with yellow? How do you make the roses shine? Can I paint like you?" At first Hala answered him kindly, but as the competition drew near, she began to say quickly, "Not now, Wassim, I'm busy." Wassim would go quiet, then go off to draw by himself with his crayons on the pages of his notebook.
Two days before the paintings were due, Hala was working on the last part: the corner of sky above the palm tree, where she wanted to paint a beautiful orange sunset. Suddenly Wassim came running, his face glowing with joy and a piece of paper in his hand. "Hala! Hala! Look! I drew our garden too!" Hala looked at the paper. On it was a green tree that looked like a lollipop, a big yellow sun with lots of lines, a crooked swing, four stick people, and a purple cat. Underneath, in wobbly letters, Wassim had written: Our Garden.
Hala was tired and stressed, and without thinking she said, "Wassim, that's not a garden, that's scribbles! The tree doesn't look like a tree, cats aren't purple, and people aren't sticks!" Then she gave a short laugh and turned back to her painting. Wassim fell silent and looked at his paper for a long time. Then he folded it slowly and walked into the house without a word. Hala tried to finish the sunset, but she couldn't concentrate. The picture of Wassim's face as he folded his paper would not leave her mind.
That evening Hala passed Wassim's room and saw him sitting on his bed, holding his box of crayons and not drawing. She heard him tell their mother in a sad voice, "Mama, I'm never going to draw again. My drawing is ugly. Hala said it's scribbles." Hala felt as if someone had squeezed her heart. She suddenly remembered herself at six, drawing suns with lots of lines and trees like lollipops, and she remembered her late grandfather taking her drawings, sticking them on the fridge and telling her, "You're an artist, Hala. Keep going." Without those words of his, would she ever have become a painter?
Hala went into the room, sat down beside her brother and said, "Wassim, may I see your drawing again?" Wassim shook his head. In a gentle voice Hala said, "I'm sorry, Wassim. I was tired, and I said things that weren't true and weren't kind." Hesitantly, Wassim handed her the paper. Hala unfolded it and this time looked at it with different eyes. She saw that Wassim had drawn four people holding hands: Mama, Baba, Hala and Wassim. She saw that the big sun was smiling. "And why is the cat purple?" she asked. "Because purple is your favourite color," he said. "I drew it for you."
Hala's eyes filled with tears. She realized that her brother's drawing had something her careful painting did not: it had love, joy and family. "Wassim," she said, "this drawing is very beautiful, and I was wrong. Do you know what? Great artists say the hardest thing of all is to paint like a child, with a free heart." Wassim gave a small smile and said, "Really? Will you teach me to paint roses?" Hala looked at the clock and remembered that she had only one day left to finish her painting. Then she looked into her brother's waiting eyes and said, "Of course. Tomorrow after school."
The next day Hala had two choices: spend the last two hours finishing the sunset, or keep her promise to Wassim. She stood in front of the easel for a moment, then put a little chair and a small board beside it for Wassim. She taught him how to hold the brush, how to mix red and white to make pink, and how to paint a rose as small overlapping circles. Wassim laughed every time he made a mistake, and Hala laughed with him. The time flew by without her noticing, until their mother called them for dinner, and the corner of sky in Hala's painting was still white.
On the day the paintings were due, Hala took her painting just as it was, with its unfinished white corner. At the exhibition she saw wonderful paintings by children from many schools, and for the first time she felt that she was not the only talented one, and that others painted better than she did in many ways. She admired a painting by a boy who had painted a garden on a rooftop, and another by a girl who had painted a garden in the desert. She went up to the artists and told them, "Your painting is wonderful. How did you paint that light?" They smiled and explained, and she learned from them.
When the results were announced, Hala did not win first prize. It went to the girl who had painted the desert garden. Hala applauded her with all her heart and was truly happy for her, which surprised even Hala herself. But the head of the judging panel stopped in front of Hala's painting and asked her about the white corner. Hala told her the whole story, honestly. The judge smiled and said, "Today you painted the most beautiful picture of all, Hala, but it isn't on the canvas." And she gave her a special certificate of merit that read: For the spirit of an artist who encourages others.
When Hala got home, she found Wassim waiting at the door with a new drawing in his hand: Hala standing in front of her easel with a crown on her head, and underneath it the words: My sister is the best artist. Hala laughed and hugged him, then took her unfinished painting, put it on the easel and said, "Wassim, come here. We'll finish the corner together." And together they painted, in the corner of the sky, a big yellow sun with lots of lines, smiling above the palm tree, just like Wassim's sun. Hala hung the painting in the living room, and she told everyone who saw it, "This is my most beautiful painting, because we painted it together."
And so Hala learned that true talent does not make us look down on others; it makes us reach out our hands to them. A small word of encouragement can make an artist, and a hurtful word can put out a dream. Winning is lovely, but a humble heart that rejoices in the success of others is lovelier and lasts longer. So if you are good at something, share your skill, encourage those younger than you, and remember that someone once encouraged you until you became who you are.
Hala decided to paint the garden of their house. It was small but beautiful, with a lemon tree, an old palm tree, beds of red and white roses, a wooden swing hanging from two ropes, and a little pond where the birds came to drink. Hala set up her wooden easel in a corner of the garden, placed a large canvas on it, and arranged her paints and brushes on a small table beside it. Every day after school she spent two hours painting, mixing her colors carefully and painting every leaf and every flower in detail, until the painting looked like a real window onto the garden.
Hala had a little brother, six years old, named Wassim. Wassim loved his sister very much and saw her as his favourite hero. He would sit on the grass near her while she painted, watching the brush move, and ask her lots of questions: "Why do you mix blue with yellow? How do you make the roses shine? Can I paint like you?" At first Hala answered him kindly, but as the competition drew near, she began to say quickly, "Not now, Wassim, I'm busy." Wassim would go quiet, then go off to draw by himself with his crayons on the pages of his notebook.
Two days before the paintings were due, Hala was working on the last part: the corner of sky above the palm tree, where she wanted to paint a beautiful orange sunset. Suddenly Wassim came running, his face glowing with joy and a piece of paper in his hand. "Hala! Hala! Look! I drew our garden too!" Hala looked at the paper. On it was a green tree that looked like a lollipop, a big yellow sun with lots of lines, a crooked swing, four stick people, and a purple cat. Underneath, in wobbly letters, Wassim had written: Our Garden.
Hala was tired and stressed, and without thinking she said, "Wassim, that's not a garden, that's scribbles! The tree doesn't look like a tree, cats aren't purple, and people aren't sticks!" Then she gave a short laugh and turned back to her painting. Wassim fell silent and looked at his paper for a long time. Then he folded it slowly and walked into the house without a word. Hala tried to finish the sunset, but she couldn't concentrate. The picture of Wassim's face as he folded his paper would not leave her mind.
That evening Hala passed Wassim's room and saw him sitting on his bed, holding his box of crayons and not drawing. She heard him tell their mother in a sad voice, "Mama, I'm never going to draw again. My drawing is ugly. Hala said it's scribbles." Hala felt as if someone had squeezed her heart. She suddenly remembered herself at six, drawing suns with lots of lines and trees like lollipops, and she remembered her late grandfather taking her drawings, sticking them on the fridge and telling her, "You're an artist, Hala. Keep going." Without those words of his, would she ever have become a painter?
Hala went into the room, sat down beside her brother and said, "Wassim, may I see your drawing again?" Wassim shook his head. In a gentle voice Hala said, "I'm sorry, Wassim. I was tired, and I said things that weren't true and weren't kind." Hesitantly, Wassim handed her the paper. Hala unfolded it and this time looked at it with different eyes. She saw that Wassim had drawn four people holding hands: Mama, Baba, Hala and Wassim. She saw that the big sun was smiling. "And why is the cat purple?" she asked. "Because purple is your favourite color," he said. "I drew it for you."
Hala's eyes filled with tears. She realized that her brother's drawing had something her careful painting did not: it had love, joy and family. "Wassim," she said, "this drawing is very beautiful, and I was wrong. Do you know what? Great artists say the hardest thing of all is to paint like a child, with a free heart." Wassim gave a small smile and said, "Really? Will you teach me to paint roses?" Hala looked at the clock and remembered that she had only one day left to finish her painting. Then she looked into her brother's waiting eyes and said, "Of course. Tomorrow after school."
The next day Hala had two choices: spend the last two hours finishing the sunset, or keep her promise to Wassim. She stood in front of the easel for a moment, then put a little chair and a small board beside it for Wassim. She taught him how to hold the brush, how to mix red and white to make pink, and how to paint a rose as small overlapping circles. Wassim laughed every time he made a mistake, and Hala laughed with him. The time flew by without her noticing, until their mother called them for dinner, and the corner of sky in Hala's painting was still white.
On the day the paintings were due, Hala took her painting just as it was, with its unfinished white corner. At the exhibition she saw wonderful paintings by children from many schools, and for the first time she felt that she was not the only talented one, and that others painted better than she did in many ways. She admired a painting by a boy who had painted a garden on a rooftop, and another by a girl who had painted a garden in the desert. She went up to the artists and told them, "Your painting is wonderful. How did you paint that light?" They smiled and explained, and she learned from them.
When the results were announced, Hala did not win first prize. It went to the girl who had painted the desert garden. Hala applauded her with all her heart and was truly happy for her, which surprised even Hala herself. But the head of the judging panel stopped in front of Hala's painting and asked her about the white corner. Hala told her the whole story, honestly. The judge smiled and said, "Today you painted the most beautiful picture of all, Hala, but it isn't on the canvas." And she gave her a special certificate of merit that read: For the spirit of an artist who encourages others.
When Hala got home, she found Wassim waiting at the door with a new drawing in his hand: Hala standing in front of her easel with a crown on her head, and underneath it the words: My sister is the best artist. Hala laughed and hugged him, then took her unfinished painting, put it on the easel and said, "Wassim, come here. We'll finish the corner together." And together they painted, in the corner of the sky, a big yellow sun with lots of lines, smiling above the palm tree, just like Wassim's sun. Hala hung the painting in the living room, and she told everyone who saw it, "This is my most beautiful painting, because we painted it together."
And so Hala learned that true talent does not make us look down on others; it makes us reach out our hands to them. A small word of encouragement can make an artist, and a hurtful word can put out a dream. Winning is lovely, but a humble heart that rejoices in the success of others is lovelier and lasts longer. So if you are good at something, share your skill, encourage those younger than you, and remember that someone once encouraged you until you became who you are.
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