A thorough historical analysis of the speech (or letter) may
be found in the National Archives, but the writer concludes that because we
cannot prove who said them, the words are meaningless.
We disagree. This speech, in all of its versions, has been
accepted by Native Americans everywhere as truth. For it accurately and
eloquently represents their feelings about our government and our Mother Earth.
Buckminster Fuller calls it ”one of the most profound environmental statements
ever made.”
The version that follows can be found on the website of the
Suquamish tribe, and we have chosen it for that reason. So please read these
words with the understanding that their truth has perhaps transcended
historical considerations. And listen with your heart.
(from http://spiritofmaat.com/magazine/april-2013-the-firewalk-issue/chief-seattles-speech/)
(from http://spiritofmaat.com/magazine/april-2013-the-firewalk-issue/chief-seattles-speech/)
The Speech
Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon our
fathers for centuries untold, and which to us looks eternal, may change. Today
is fair, tomorrow may be overcast with clouds.
My words are like the stars that never set. What Seattle
says the Great Chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as our
paleface brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons.
The son of the White Chief says his father sends us
greetings of friendship and good will. This is kind, for we know he has little
need of our friendship in return because his people are many. They are like the
grass that covers the vast prairies, while my people are few and resemble the
scattering trees of a storm-swept plain.
The Great, and I presume, also good, White Chief sends us
word that he wants to buy our lands but is willing to allow us to reserve
enough to live on comfortably. This indeed appears generous, for the Red Man no
longer has rights that he need respect, and the offer may be wise, also for we
are no longer in need of a great country.
There was a time when our people covered the whole land as
the waves of a wind-ruffled sea covers its shell-paved floor. But that time has
long since passed away with the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten. I
will not mourn over our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers for
hastening it, for we, too, may have been somewhat to blame.
When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary
wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, their hearts, also, are
disfigured and turn black, and then their cruelty is relentless and knows no
bounds, and our old men are not able to restrain them.
But let us hope that hostilities between the Red Man and his
paleface brothers may never return. We would have everything to lose and nothing
to gain.
True it is, that revenge, with our young braves is
considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives, but old men who stay at
home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.
Our great father Washington, for I presume he is now our
father as well as yours, since George has moved his boundaries to the North –
our great and good father, I say, sends us word by his son, who, no doubt, is a
great chief among his people that if we do as he desires he will protect us.
His brave armies will be to us a bristling wall of strength,
and his great ships of war will fill our harbors so that our ancient enemies
far to the northward – the Simsiams and Hyas, will no longer frighten our women
and old men. Then he will be our father and we will be his children.
But can that ever be? Your God is not our God! Your God
loves your people and hates mine! He folds His strong arms lovingly around the
white man and leads him as a father leads his infant son – but He has forsaken
his red children, He makes your people wax strong every day and soon they will
fill all the land; while my people are ebbing away like a fast receding tide
that will never flow again. The white man’s God cannot love his red children or
He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help.
How, then, can we become brothers? How can your Father
become our Father and bring us prosperity, and awaken in us dreams of returning
greatness?
Your God seems to us to be partial. He came to the white
man. We never saw Him, never heard His voice. He gave the white man laws, but
had no word for His red children whose teeming millions once filled this vast
continent as the stars fill the firmament.
No. We are two distinct races, and must remain ever so,
there is little in common between us.
The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their final
resting place is hallowed ground, while you wander away from the tombs of your
fathers seemingly without regrets.
Your religion was written on tablets of stone by the iron
finger of an angry God, lest you might forget it. The Red Man could never
remember nor comprehend it.
Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors – the dreams
of our old men, given to them by the Great Spirit, and the visions of our
Sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the homes of their nativity
as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb. They wander far away beyond the
stars, are soon forgotten and never return.
Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them
being. They still love its winding rivers, its great mountains and its
sequestered vales, and they ever yearn in tenderest affection over the
lonely-hearted living, and often return to visit and comfort them.
Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever
fled the approach of the white man, as the changing mist on the mountain side
flees before the blazing morning sun.
However, your proposition seems a just one, and I think that
my folks will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them, and
we will dwell apart and in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem
to be the voice of Nature speaking to my people out of the thick darkness that
is fast gathering around them like a dense fog floating inward from a midnight
sea.
It matters little where we pass the remainder of our days.
They are not many. The Indian’s night promises to be dark. No bright star
hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim
Nemesis of our race is on the Red Man’s trail, and wherever he goes he will
still hear the sure approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare to
meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of
the hunter.
A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of all the
mighty hosts that once filled this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary
bands through these vast solitudes or lived in happy homes, protected by the
Great Spirit, will remain to weep over the graves of a people once as powerful
and as hopeful as your own!
But why should I repine? Why should I murmur at the fate of
my people? Tribes are made up of individuals and are no better than they. Men
come and go like the waves of a sea. A tear, a tamanamus, a dirge and they are
gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and
talked with him as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We
may be brothers after all. We shall see.
We will ponder your proposition, and when we have decided we
will tell you. But should we accept it, I here and now make this first
condition, that we will not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of
visiting the graves of our ancestors and friends.
Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every
hillside, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond
memory or some sad experience of my tribe. Even the rocks, which seem to lie
dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent shore in solemn grandeur
thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, the
very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our footsteps than to
yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious
of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with the life of our kindred.
The sable braves, and fond mothers, and glad-hearted
maidens, and the little children who lived and rejoiced here and whose very
names are now forgotten, still love these solitudes and their deep fastnesses
at eventide grow shadowy with the presence of dusky spirits.
And when the last Red Man shall have perished from the earth
and his memory among white men shall have become a myth, these shores will
swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe and when your children’s children
shall think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the
highway, or in the silence of the woods, they will not be alone. In all the
earth there is no place dedicated to solitude.
At night, when the streets of your cities and villages shall
be silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning
hosts that once filled and still love this beautiful land.
The white man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal
kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless.
No comments:
Post a Comment