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Chief Seattle's Thoughts
by Chief Seattle of the Suquamish
"In
1851 Seattle, chief of the Suquamish and other Indian tribes
around Washington's Puget Sound, delivered what is considered
to be one of the most beautiful and profound environmental
statements ever made. The city of Seattle is named for the
chief, whose speech was in response to a proposed treaty under
which the Indians were persuaded to sell two million acres of
land for $150,000." -- Buckminster Fuller in
Critical Path
Chief Seattle's Thoughts:
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The
idea is strange to us.
If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of
the water, how can you buy them?
Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining
pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods,
every clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and
experience of my people. The sap which courses through the
trees carries the memories of the red man.
The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when
they go to walk among the stars. Our dead never forget this
beautiful earth, for it is the mother of the red man. We are
part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers
are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these
are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows,
the body heat of the pony, and man --- all belong to the same
family.
So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he
wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The Great Chief
sends word he will reserve us a place so that we can live
comfortably to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be
his children.
So, we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will
not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water
that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water but the
blood of our ancestors. If we sell you the land, you must
remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children
that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the
clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the
life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my
father's father.
The rivers are our brothers, they quench our thirst. The
rivers carry our canoes, and feed our children. If we sell you
our land, you must remember, and teach your children, that the
rivers are our brothers and yours, and you must henceforth
give the rivers the kindness you would give any brother.
We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One
portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a
stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land
whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother, but his
enemy, and when he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves
his father's grave behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps
the earth from his children, and he does not care. His
father's grave, and his children's birthright are forgotten.
He treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, the sky, as
things to be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright
beads. His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind
only a desert.
I do not know. Our ways are different than your ways. The
sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. There is
no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the
unfurling of leaves in spring or the rustle of the insect's
wings. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is
there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the
whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around the pond at
night? I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian
prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a
pond and the smell of the wind itself, cleaned by a midday
rain, or scented with pinon pine.
The air is precious to the red man for all things share the
same breath, the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the
same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he
breathes. Like a man dying for many days he is numb to the
stench. But if we sell you our land, you must remember that
the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with
all the life it supports.
The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also
receives his last sigh. And if we sell you our land, you must
keep it apart and sacred as a place where even the white man
can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow's
flowers.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide
to accept, I will make one condition - the white man must
treat the beasts of this land as his brothers.
I am a savage and do not understand any other way. I have seen
a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white
man who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage and do
not understand how the smoking iron horse can be made more
important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive.
What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone,
man would die from a great loneliness of the spirit. For
whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All
things are connected.
You must teach your children that the ground beneath their
feet is the ashes of our grandfathers. So that they will
respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich
with the lives of our kin. Teach your children that we have
taught our children that the earth is our mother. Whatever
befalls the earth befalls the sons of earth. If men spit upon
the ground, they spit upon themselves.
This we know; the earth does not belong to man; man belongs to
the earth. This we know. All things are connected like the
blood which unites one family. All things are connected.
Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as
friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We
may be brothers after all. We shall see. One thing we know
which the white man may one day discover; our God is the same
God.
You may think now that you own Him as you wish to own our
land; but you cannot. He is the God of man, and His compassion
is equal for the red man and the white. The earth is precious
to Him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its
creator. The whites too shall pass; perhaps sooner than all
other tribes. Contaminate your bed and you will one night
suffocate in your own waste.
But in your perishing you will shine brightly fired by the
strength of the God who brought you to this land and for some
special purpose gave you dominion over this land and over the
red man.
That destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand when
the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed,
the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many
men and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wires.
Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone.
The end of living and the beginning of survival.
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