وَعْدُ الزَّيْتُونَة
The Olive Tree's Promise
A Hayya Beena Naqraa story · Tier 3 · For ages 9–11
Cover page
وَعْدُ الزَّيْتُونَة
The Olive Tree's Promise
🎨 Illustration prompt
A wide watercolor scene of an ancient gnarled olive tree on a stone-walled terrace high in a Levantine mountain village. The tree's silver-green leaves catch the late afternoon light. A small child stands at the base of the trunk, looking up — barely the height of the lowest branch. The mountains roll into the distance, terraced with more olive groves. Soft golden light, warm earth tones, a sense of quiet generations. Aspect ratio 4:5 portrait. No text in the image.
Page 1
تَسْكُنُ جَدَّتِي تيتا سلمى في قَرْيَةٍ صَغِيرَةٍ في الجَبَل. بَيْتُها أَبْيَض، وَبَابُهُ أَزْرَق. خَلْفَ بَيْتِها تَقِفُ شَجَرَةُ زَيْتُون.
My grandmother — Teta Salma — lives in a small village in the mountains. Her house is white, and its door is blue. Behind her house stands an olive tree.
🎨 Illustration prompt
A small whitewashed stone village house with a sky-blue door, set into a Levantine mountain hillside. Behind the house, an old olive tree with a thick twisted trunk. A clothesline with a few clean towels swaying in the breeze. Terracotta roof tiles, a small clay pot of geraniums on the windowsill. Watercolor, warm and lived-in.
Page 2
شَجَرَةُ الزَّيْتُون قَدِيمَةٌ جِدًّا. تَقُولُ تيتا إِنَّ جَدَّتَها زَرَعَتْها عِنْدَما كَانَتْ طِفْلَةً صَغِيرَة. كَانَ ذَلِكَ قَبْلَ مِئَةِ سَنَة. وَالآنَ تُعْطِينَا الزَّيْتُون في كُلِّ خَرِيف.
The olive tree is very old. Teta says her own grandmother planted it when she was a little girl. That was a hundred years ago. And now it gives us olives every autumn.
🎨 Illustration prompt
Close-up watercolor of the old olive tree's bark — twisted, scarred, beautifully textured, with patches of silver-grey lichen. A few leaves and a small cluster of ripening olives visible at the top edge. The hands of an elderly woman (Teta Salma) gently resting on the trunk. The viewer feels the age of the tree through her touch. Soft palette: warm browns, silver-greens.
Page 3
في الصَّيْف الماضي، سَأَلْتُ تيتا: "هَلْ يُمْكِنُنِي أَنْ أَزْرَعَ شَجَرَةَ زَيْتُونٍ خاصَّةً بِي؟" اِبْتَسَمَتْ تيتا وَقالَتْ: "نَعَم يا حَبِيبِي. لَكِنْ يَجِبُ أَنْ تَفْهَم — أَشْجارُ الزَّيْتُون تَكْبَرُ بِبُطْء."
Last summer, I asked Teta: "Can I plant my own olive tree?" Teta smiled and said, "Yes, habibi. But you must understand — olive trees grow slowly."
🎨 Illustration prompt
A child (around 9-10, dark curly hair, Levantine features, ambiguous gender) standing in Teta Salma's kitchen, looking up at her with bright excited eyes. Teta is a warm-faced older woman in a simple housedress, her hair in a soft bun, smiling gently down at the child. Her hand rests lightly on the child's shoulder. A bowl of fresh apricots on the kitchen table. Soft afternoon light through a window. Watercolor.
Page 4
حَفَرْنا حُفْرَةً صَغِيرَةً خَلْفَ البَيْت. وَضَعْنا فيها الشَّجَرَةَ الصَّغِيرَةَ بِرِفْق. سَقَيْناها بِماءٍ بارِدٍ مِنَ البِئْر. بَدَتِ الشَّجَرَةُ صَغِيرَةً جِدًّا بِجانِبِ شَجَرَةِ تيتا الكَبِيرَةِ القَدِيمَة.
We dug a small hole behind the house. We placed the young tree carefully inside. We watered it with cool water from the well. The little tree looked tiny next to Teta's big, ancient olive tree.
🎨 Illustration prompt
The same child kneeling in the earth, gently patting soil around a small olive sapling barely a foot tall. Teta stands beside them with a clay water jug, ready to pour. The huge old olive tree looms in the background, dwarfing the sapling. The two trees in the same frame creates a powerful visual: one ancient, one barely a beginning. Sunlit, hopeful, watercolor.
Page 5
في اليَوْمِ التَّالي، رَكَضْتُ إِلى الخارِج. كانَتِ الشَّجَرَةُ الصَّغِيرَة كَما هي. صَرَخْتُ: "تيتا! لَمْ تَكْبَرْ أَبَدًا!" ضَحِكَتْ تيتا بِلُطْف. "الشَّجَرَةُ لا تَكْبَرُ في يَوْمٍ واحِد، يا حَبِيبِي."
The next day, I ran outside. The little tree looked exactly the same. I cried: "Teta! It didn't grow at all!" Teta laughed gently. "A tree does not grow in one day, habibi."
🎨 Illustration prompt
The child kneeling beside the small sapling, hands on hips, looking puzzled and slightly disappointed. The tree is exactly the same size as the day before — maybe with two tiny leaves visible. In the background, Teta is hanging laundry on a line, looking over with a knowing, gentle smile. Watercolor with humor in the child's posture.
Page 6
مَرَّ أُسْبُوع. كُنْتُ أَتَفَحَّصُ الشَّجَرَةَ كُلَّ صَباح. بَدَتْ كَما هي. شَعَرْتُ بِالحُزْن. ظَنَنْتُ أَنَّ شَجَرَتي رُبَّما لَيْسَتْ بِخَيْر.
A week went by. I checked the tree every morning. It seemed the same. I felt sad. I thought maybe my tree wasn't healthy.
🎨 Illustration prompt
A simple, quiet scene: just the child sitting cross-legged in the grass, chin resting on their hand, looking thoughtfully at the small olive sapling. Morning light. The child's expression is gentle worry — not tears, just the quiet sadness of a young hope feeling slow. Watercolor.
Page 7
في تِلْكَ اللَّيْلَة، رَوَتْ لي تيتا قِصَّة. قالَتْ: "عِنْدَما كُنْتُ في مِثْلِ عُمْرِك، زَرَعْتُ شَجَرَةً أَنا أَيْضًا. أَرَدْتُها أَنْ تُعْطِيَني الزَّيْتُونَ في الشَّهْرِ التّالي. قالَتْ لي جَدَّتي: 'شَجَرَةُ الزَّيْتُون لا تُعْطِيكَ شَيْئًا لِسَنَواتٍ كَثِيرَة. ثُمَّ فَجْأَة، في صَيْفٍ ما، تَبْدَأ. وَلا تَتَوَقَّفُ أَبَدًا.'"
That night, Teta told me a story. She said: "When I was your age, I planted a tree too. I wanted it to give me olives the very next month. My own grandmother told me: 'An olive tree gives you nothing for many years. Then suddenly, in some summer, it begins. And it never stops.'"
🎨 Illustration prompt
Evening scene. Teta and the child sit together on a low stone wall under the stars. Teta has her arm around the child. Both are looking out at the dark mountains. The old olive tree is silhouetted against the night sky. A small oil lamp glows on the windowsill behind them. Watercolor with deep blues and warm yellow lamp glow. The mood is intimate, storytelling, sacred.
Page 8
مَرَّتْ سَنَة. عُدْتُ إِلى القَرْيَة. رَكَضْتُ لِأَنْظُرَ إِلى شَجَرَتي. كانَتْ أَطْوَلَ — أَطْوَلَ مِنِّي. لَكِنْ لَمْ تَكُنْ هُناكَ زَيْتُون.
A year passed. I came back to the village. I ran to look at my tree. It was taller — taller than me. But there were no olives.
🎨 Illustration prompt
The child, now slightly older (maybe 10), standing next to the sapling — which has indeed grown taller than them. The child has one hand on the slim trunk, looking up at the branches. The tree has plenty of leaves now but no olives. Sunny day, hopeful but patient mood. Watercolor.
Page 9
مَرَّتْ سَنَةٌ أُخْرى. عُدْتُ مَرَّةً ثانِيَة. كانَ لِلشَّجَرَةِ المَزِيدُ مِنَ الأَغْصان. وَلَكِنْ لا زَيْتُون. جَلَسْتُ تَحْتَها وَنَظَرْتُ إِلى السَّماء.
Another year passed. I came back again. The tree had more branches. Still no olives. I sat under it and looked up at the sky.
🎨 Illustration prompt
The child, even a bit older, lying on their back under the now-fuller tree, looking up through the branches at a blue sky scattered with thin clouds. The child is calm — they've started learning patience. Light filters through the leaves making dappled patterns on their face. Soft watercolor, contemplative.
Page 10
جَلَسَتْ تيتا بِجانِبي. قالَتْ: "الشَّجَرَةُ تَفِي بِوَعْدِها. بِبُطْءٍ، عَلى طَرِيقَتِها." أَمْسَكَتْ يَدي. "بَعْضُ الأَشْياءِ الجَمِيلَة تَأْخُذُ وَقْتًا طَوِيلًا. هَكَذا نَعْرِفُ أَنَّها حَقِيقِيَّة."
Teta sat down next to me. "The tree is keeping its promise," she said. "Slowly, in its own way." She held my hand. "Some good things take a long time. That is how we know they are real."
🎨 Illustration prompt
Teta and the now-older child seated side by side on the ground under the young olive tree, looking out at the village rooftops. Teta is holding the child's hand — a small but powerful gesture. The light is golden, an end-of-day quality. The wisdom of the moment fills the frame. Watercolor with extra care on the hands.
Page 11
مَرَّتْ سَنَواتٌ كَثِيرَة. كَبِرْت. صارَ لي أَوْلادي. وَفي صَيْفٍ ما، أَخَذْتُ أَوْلادي إِلى قَرْيَةِ تيتا. الشَّجَرَةُ الصَّغِيرَة لَمْ تَعُدْ صَغِيرَة. كانَتْ طَوِيلَةً، مَلِيئَةً بِالأَوْراقِ الخَضْراء الدّاكِنَة.
Many years passed. I grew up. I had children of my own. One summer, I brought my children to Teta's village. The little tree was no longer little. It was tall and full of dark green leaves.
🎨 Illustration prompt
A scene now showing a grown adult (the same person as the child, but as a parent now) standing under the tall olive tree, with two young children of their own beside them. The tree is mature — full canopy, thick trunk. The adult points up at the branches. The children look up in wonder. Warm summer light. Watercolor with strong sense of the passage of time.
Page 12
عَلى الغُصْنِ الأَعْلى، مُعَلَّقَةً كَنُجُومٍ خَضْراءَ صَغِيرَة، كانَتِ الزَّيْتُونات. زَيْتُوناتي. وَقَفَ أَوْلادي يَنْظُرُونَ إِلَيْها بِعُيُونٍ واسِعَة. قُلْتُ لَهُم: "هَذِهِ مِنْ شَجَرَتي." قالَتِ اِبْنَتي: "شَجَرَتُكَ كانَتْ صَبُورَة." اِبْتَسَمْت. "نَعَم. وَأَنا أَيْضًا."
On the highest branch, hanging like small green stars, were the olives. My olives. My children stood looking at them, wide-eyed. "These are from my tree," I told them. "Your tree was patient," my daughter said. I smiled. "Yes. And so was I."
🎨 Illustration prompt
Close-up watercolor of a hand reaching up toward a cluster of small green olives hanging from a branch — the sun catching them, making them look like little green-gold stars. In the foreground, blurred, the wide eyes of a young child looking up. The whole frame is full of light and reverence. The emotional climax of the book.
Page 13
قَطَفْتُ زَيْتُونَةً واحِدَة. أَعْطَيْتُها لِاِبْنَتي. قُلْت: "وَالآن، نَزْرَعُ شَجَرَةً جَدِيدَة. لَك."
I picked one olive. I gave it to my daughter. "And now," I said, "we plant a new one. For you."
🎨 Illustration prompt
The parent kneeling in the earth with their daughter, both of their hands gently around a small olive seedling, ready to plant. Behind them, the tall mature olive tree (the parent's own). And even further behind, the ancient one — Teta's great-grandmother's tree. Three generations of trees in one frame. The visual completes the cycle. Watercolor, hopeful, with golden light. *This image is the heart of the book.*
كَلِماتٌ جَدِيدَة · New Words
| Arabic | How to say it | English |
|---|---|---|
جَدَّة · تيتا |
jad-dah · te-ta | grandmother (MSA · Levantine) |
قَرْيَة |
qar-yah | village |
جَبَل |
ja-bal | mountain |
شَجَرَة الزَّيْتُون |
sha-ja-rat az-zay-tūn | olive tree |
خَرِيف |
kha-rīf | autumn |
صَبْر |
ṣabr | patience |
وَعْد |
waʿd | promise |
بِئْر |
biʾr | well (for water) |
حَبِيبِي |
ḥa-bī-bī | my dear / sweetheart (term of endearment) |
غُصْن |
ghuṣn | branch |
🗣️ Talk about it
These are not test questions — they're conversation starters. Pick one (or two), ask it, listen.
"Some good things take a long time. That is how we know they are real." What is something you have waited a long time for? What did it teach you?
The narrator's grandmother had also been a child waiting for her olive tree to grow. Why do you think she didn't just tell the narrator what would happen? Why did she let them wait?
At the very end, the narrator plants a new tree — for their own daughter. What does this tell us about how things get passed down in families? Is there something in your family that gets passed down from grandparent → parent → child?
✏️ Try it
Pick one:
- Plant something — a sunflower seed, a basil cutting, a bean in a wet paper towel. Check it every day for a week. Notice the patience. (Even faster-growing things teach the same lesson.)
- Ask the oldest person in your family what they planted, made, or began as a child that took many years to finish. Listen carefully. Take notes if you can.
- Draw the three trees from the last page — Teta's great-grandmother's ancient tree, the narrator's own tall tree, and the brand-new seedling — all in one picture. What do they have in common?
A note for grown-ups reading along
This story uses partial vowel marks (تَشْكِيل) — only on the harder or less-common words. By Tier 3, your reader should be comfortable enough with the most common words (was, the, and, I, she) to read them without marks. If a word feels hard, the marks are there to help.
The proverb in this story — "An olive tree gives you nothing for many years. Then suddenly, in some summer, it begins. And it never stops." — is loosely adapted from real Levantine wisdom about olive trees. Real olive trees do take 5–10 years to produce their first crop, but they can then live and bear fruit for a thousand years or more. The metaphor for patience and intergenerational gift-giving is literal, not just poetic.
If you and your child enjoyed this story, talk about: what's in your home that someone planted a long time ago and you're still benefiting from? It might be a tree, a recipe, a piece of furniture, a language, a value. Pass it on.
— Hayya Beena Naqraa (هَيَّا بِنَا نَقْرَأ)