Te Aru Kōura — by Deena Zhang
Runner-up of the QWC Youth Writing Competition 2026.
Soft dirt and emerald green grass squish under my feet as I take gentle steps across the muddy field. The sounds of birds chirping in harmony, rustling leaves and people chattering fill the air. The smell of fresh water and dirt lingers in my nose. Tall trees tower over me as I reach my tent. This is my home now.
People do not bother to give me a second glance and carry on digging for gold. My Papa has brought me here to pan for gold while my mother stays home to look after my siblings. I miss my home. Everything I ever loved was in Aotearoa, and the day feels like it is going on forever.
I smell my Papa’s special rimurapu sizzling in the stove and the hiss of the tap as he fills the wooden cups. As the beautiful sun sets, I pull my slippery nightdress over my head and bundle myself into my blanket, pulling it tight.
The morning sun shines like golden ribbons into my rusty tent. Papa is sick to his stomach, lying in his bed wearily. His coughs are like little bombs exploding in his lungs. His cold hands stroke my hands slowly, his eyes filling with tears.
I hear his voice in my mind. Ata paî, take taonga! Good morning, my treasure!
I talk to Papa slowly and calmly for some hours. “I am s-sorry that y-you h-have to b-be on y-your own today, honey …” Papa’s voice trails off.
My heart drops. Today Papa was supposed to help me pan for gold and explore the field with me, but now I must do it myself. I am going to be invisible again.
I open my window to let in fresh air, get dressed in my favourite dress, and stroll out carefully. A group of girls are playing nearby. I take slow steps towards them, hoping.
One of them glances at me and says something to the others. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the way they turn their backs. I stand there for a moment and then squat back down onto my rock. Speaking a different language from others is hard to bear. An angry knot tightens in my chest as I stare at the girls playing.
The sun shines brightly like a golden flame in the morning sky. Life out here is quite different from living in Aotearoa. There are plants and animals I have never seen before. I sit down on a rock. Thoughts swirl in my head.
I may not be from the same country as the other people, and they may not understand my words or where I come from, but my voice is still mine. I carry my language, my stories, and my home in the world inside me, and no one can take that away.
Deena Zhang is a youth member of Queensland Writers Centre.
