Though captivatingly beautiful, the Chief Settle speech is
not actually authentic. Rather than issuing from the very real Chief Seattle in
1854, those moving words were written by a screenwriter in 1971.
"Chief Seattle is probably our greatest manufactured
prophet," said David Buerge, a Northwest historian. The real Chief Seattle
did give a speech in 1854, but he never said "The earth is our
mother." Nor did he say "I have seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on
the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train."
There were no bison within 600 miles of the chief's home on Puget Sound in the
Pacific Northwest, and trains to the West were years away.
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 the Earth is sacred
to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the
dark woods, every clear and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience
of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries 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 the 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 White
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 land. But it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us.
This shining water that moves in 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 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 in the life of my people. The waters murmur is the voice of my
father's father.
The rivers of our brothers they quench our thirst. The
rivers carry our canoes and feed our children. If we sell you our land, you
must remember to teach your children that the rivers are our brothers, and
yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness that you would give
my 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 graves 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 same, 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 yours 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 an 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 a 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 the 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 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 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 in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. 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 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.
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 slaughtered, the
wild horses tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with 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.
By North Utsire
