--| THE EARTH IS PRECIOUS |-----




In 1854, the "Great White Chief" in Washington made an offer for a large
area of Indian land and promised a 'reservation' for the Indian people.
Chief Seattle's reply, published here in full, has been described as the
most beautiful and profound statement on the environment ever made.


--| Chief Seattle Speaks (1971 Revision) |-----

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?


All Sacred

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 ßowers 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 Ñ all belong to the same
family.


Not Easy

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 reßection in the clear water of the lakes tell of events and
memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my
father's father.


Kindness

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 your, 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, 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 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 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 the whipoorwhill 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, cleaned by a midday
rain, or scented with the pinion pine.


Precious

The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath Ñ
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 Þrst
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 ßowers.


One Condition

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 buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white
man who shot them from a passing 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, man would die from a great loneliness of
spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All
things are connected.


The Ashes

You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet are the
ashes of your 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 Ñ 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. 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. Contaminate your bed, and you will one night
suffocate in your own waste. But in your perishing you will shine
brightly, Þred 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 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.


(Chief Seattle's speech was submitted by Dr. Glenn T. Olds
 at Alaska's Future Frontiers conference in 1979).



--| Authentic Text Of Chief Seattle's Treaty Oration 1854 |-----

Source: "Four Wagons West," by Roberta Frye Watt, Binsford & Mort,
Portland Ore., 1934. Originally published in the Seattle Sunday Star,
October 29, 1887.

The text was produced by one "Dr." Smith, an early settler in Seattle, who
took notes as Seattle spoke in the Suquamish dialect of central Puget
sound Salish (Lushootseed), and created this text in English from those
notes. Smith insisted that his version "contained none of the grace and
elegance of the original" The last two sentences of the text here given
have been considered for many years to have been part of the original, but
are now known to have been added by an early 20th C. historian and
ethnographic writer, A. C. Ballard.

There are many versions and excerpts from this text, including a wholly
fraudulent version mentioning buffalo and the interconnectedness of all
life which was written by a Hollywood screenwriter in 1971 and which has
gained wide currency. The bogus version (above) has been quoted by individuals
as prominent and diverse as former U.S. President Bush and Joseph Campbell.

At the time this speech was made it was commonly believed by whites and as
well by many Indians that Native americas would inevitalby become extinct.

--

The "Alternate Statement" of Chief Seattle ...

Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries
untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today
is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds.

My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the
great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can
upon the return of the sun or the seasons.

The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of
friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him for we know he has little
need of our friendship in return. His people are many. They are like the
grass that covers vast prairies. My people are few. They resemble the
scattering trees of a storm-swept plain. The great, and I presume -- good,
White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land but is willing to
allow us enough to live comfortably. This indeed appears just, even
generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect, and
the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive
country.

There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-
ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed
away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I
will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my
paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to
blame.

Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or
imaginary wrong, and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes
that their hearts are black, and that they are often cruel and relentless,
and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them. Thus it has
ever been. Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers
ever westward. But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never
return. We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain. Revenge by
young men 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 good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well
as yours, since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our
great and good father, I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he
will protect us. His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of
strength, and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbours, so that
our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians,
will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. He in reality he
will be our father and we 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 protecting arms lovingly about the
paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But,
He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the
Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people
wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land.

Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never
return. The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect
them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help. How then can
we be brothers? How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity
and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness? If we have a common
Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children.

We never saw Him. He gave you laws but had no word for His red children
whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the
firmament. No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and
separate destinies. There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is
hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and
seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone
by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget.

The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the
traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in
solemn hours of the night 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 land of their nativity as soon as they
pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are
soon forgotten and never return.

Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They
still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent
mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever
yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often
return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort
them.

Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the
approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning
sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will
accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will
dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be
the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be
many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope
hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate
seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the
approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly 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 the descendants of
the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy
homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves
of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours.

But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows
tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the
order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant,
but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and
talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common
destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know.
But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will
not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time
the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil
is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley,
every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in
days long vanished.

Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun
along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected
with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand
responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich
with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the
sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted
maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for
a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they
greet shadowy returning spirits.

And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe
shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with
the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think
themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or
in the silence of the pathless 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 are silent and you think them deserted, they
will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them 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. Dead, did I say? - There is no death, only a change of worlds.

-- 

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