[DL] Chief Seattle

["Erik Weissengruber" <epweissengruber@hotmail.com>]

If anyone wants a nice speech to use for a leader of any of the Indian 
factions, feel free to quote from Chief Seattle's speech to the Federal 
agents at a tribal council



The Indian Speech
By Chief Seattle (1854)

The Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The
Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and good will. This is kind of
him, since we know he has little need of our friendship in return. But we
will consider your offer. For we know that if we do not sell, the white man
may come with guns and take our land.
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 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 perfume flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle,
these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices of 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 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.
The red man has always retreated before the advancing white man, as the mist
of the mountains runs before the morning sun. But the ashes of our fathers
are sacred. Their graves are holy ground, and so these hills, these trees,
this portion of the earth is consecrated to us. We know that the white man
does not understand our ways. One portion of the land is the same to him as
the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes whatever he
needs. The earth is not his brother, but his enemy, and when he has
conquered
it, he moves on. He leaves his fathers’ graves behind, and he does not 
care.
His fathers’ graves 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 from your ways. The sight of your
cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man
is a savage and does not understand.
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 insect’s wings. But perhaps
it
is because I am a savage and do not understand. 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 a 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,
cleansed by a midday rain or scented with the pinon pine.
The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath-
the
beasts, 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 the wind must also give our children the spirit of life.
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 I do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand
rotting buffalos on the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a
pa
ssing train. I am a savage and I do not understand how the smoking iron
horse
can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive. What
is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from a
great loneliness of 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 what
we
have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the
earth befalls the sons of the 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. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the
sons
of the earth. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand on
it.
Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
But we will consider your offer to go to the reservation you have for my
people. We will live apart, and in peace. It matters little where we spend
the rest of our days. Our children have seen their fathers humbled in
defeat.
Our warriors have felt shame, and after defeat they turn their days in
idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweet foods and strong drink. It
matters little where we pass the rest of our days. They are not many. A few
more hours, a few more winters, and none of the children of the great tribes
that once lived on this earth or that roam now in small bands in the woods
will be left to mourn the graves of a people once as powerful and hopeful as
yours. But why should I mourn the passing of my people? Tribes are made of
men, nothing more. Men come and go, like the waves of the sea.
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 as the white. This 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. Continue to 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 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 the Thicket? Gone.
Where is the eagle? Gone.
And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt?
The end of living and the beginning of survival.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we agree it will be to
secure the reservation you have promised. There, perhaps, we may live out
our
brief days as we wish. When the last red man has vanished from this earth,
and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie.
These
shores and forests will still hold the spirits of my people. For they love
this earth as the new-born loves its mother’s heartbeat. So if we sell you
our land, love it as we’ve loved it. Care for it as we’ve cared for it.
Hold
in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you take it. And with all
your strength, with all your mind, with all your heart, preserve it for your
children and love it... as God loves us all.
One thing we know. Our God is the same God. This earth is precious to him.
Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be
brothers after all.
We shall see.

Chief Sealth (Known as Seattle)


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