Mariam Rietveld

Mariam Rietveld ist eine Teenagerin aus Dunedin (Neuseeland). Am liebsten verbringt sie ihre Zeit mit ihren Freund:innen und einem guten Buch.

Mariam Rietveld is a teenager from Dunedin, New Zealand. She loves spending time with her friends and reading a good book.

Thresholds
I write with trembling—
not fear but the echo of too many voices
      trying to fit
      into the same silence

A door creaks open
  not wide,
  just enough
for hope
to slip its golden wrist through

I come from land that speaks
even when we don't—
tūī in the morning flax
singing resistance
in languages we almost lost

Sometimes democracy
feels like my grandmother’s hands
      quiet
      but always doing
plaiting rope, not noise

You,
reading this,
might not believe in
change
not anymore
     but I do
if only because
we're still here
arguing
breathing not finished

There are days
I press my ear to the ground
and hear
        protest in the dirt
roots growing towards
something better

We all live
somewhere between
what is and what could be

       Bless you Word
       for choosing my tongue
       instead of silence

I write
because I must
because democracy is a pulse
      faint
      but still there

We Shape What Listens

A river remembers the hands that carved it; land doesn’t forget footsteps, even when the walkers do.

Language is a pattern in air, not just sound, and the quietest person still changes the shape of the room.

My ancestors did not write constitutions,
but they knew how to wait for the moon to rise through mist,
how to listen before speaking.

I think of democracy not as structure but as rhythm—
a marae of thought,
where every voice must be accounted for,
even the ones that hurt.

I cannot separate myself from the girl I was
when I first saw a protest and didn’t know what it meant,
only that it looked like a heartbeat on pavement.

I speak, now, and I am aware
that not everyone gets to.
That silence is sometimes survival.
That speech can be a risk, and also a rebirth.

At school, we read about rights—
but in my friend's kitchen, we practice them:
taking turns, disagreeing kindly, naming the unnamed.

The sky doesn't care if we’re right—
but it stays long enough
for us to come back to each other.

Sometimes, I think democracy
isn’t about winning arguments,
but keeping the table set
even when no one’s hungry yet.

I offer this writing
not as an answer
but as proof that I was here,
thinking,
in relation.

Democracy Looks Like This

Should I speak up in class?
Reply hazy, try again

Will they call me dramatic if I do?
Signs point to yes

Was that teacher’s joke racist?
Most likely

Should I say something?
Better not tell you now

Is land ownership a myth?
Without a doubt

Should I keep saying kia ora even when they blink at me weird?
Yes definitely

Ko wai au?
Better ask the mountains

Will they ever teach us our real history?
Outlook not so good

Should I be the one to remind them again?
You may rely on it

Is whenua just soil to them?
It is decidedly so

Should I wear my kākahu with pride, even if no one else does?
Yes definitely

Will I ever feel tino rangatiratanga in my bones?
My reply is no
Wait—
Ask again later

Do they only listen when we're quiet?
Most likely

Will my voice shake when I speak?
Yes—but do it anyway

Is democracy more than elections?
As I see it, yes

Is it in karakia, in whānau, in waiata, in walking home safe?
Without a doubt

Will they ever listen?
My sources say no

Will I keep speaking anyway?
Āe. Always.