|
Español
Science & Math
History
Art & Literature
GIS & Mapping
Gardening
Tools &
Resources
Electives
|
Current Classes & Activities
CHIEF SEATTLE: 1855 Letter to the
President
 Some of
our most influential roots are the original cultures of this land.
The following letter, sent by Chief Seattle of the Dwamish Tribe
in Washington to President Pierce in 1855, illustrates the dignity,
wisdom, and continuing relevance of this native continental vision.
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
if we do not so the white man may come with guns and take our land.
What Chief Seattle says you can count on as truly as our white brothers
can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars
- they do not set. How can you buy or sell the sky - the warmth
of the land? The idea is strange to us. Yet we do not own the freshness
of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from
us? We will decide in our time. 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 every humming insect
is holy in the memory and experience of my people.
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 and his children's
birthright is forgotten. The sight of your cities pains the eyes
of the redman. But perhaps it is because the redman is a savage
and does not understand.
There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to listen
to the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps
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 lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs
around a pond at night? The Indian prefers the soft sound of the
wind itself cleansed by a mid-day rain, or scented by a pinġn pine:
The air is precious to the redman. For all things share the same
breath - the beasts, the trees, and the man. 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.
If I 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 thousands of
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 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 great loneliness of spirit,
for whatever happens to the beast also happens to the man. All things
are connected. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the
earth.
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 food 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 roamed
in small bands in the woods will remain to mourn the graves of the
people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.
One thing we know that the white man may one day discover. Our God
is the same God. You may think that you own him as you wish to own
our land, but you cannot. He is the Body of man, and his compassion
is equal for the redman 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 other tribes. Continue
to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your
own waste. When the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses
all tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent
of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by the talking
wires, where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And
what is it to say goodbye to the swift and the hunt? The end of
living and the beginning of survival.
We might understand if we knew what it was the white man dreams,
what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what
visions he burns into their minds, so they will wish for tomorrow.
But we are savages. The white man's dreams are hidden from us. And
because they are hidden, we will go our own way. If we agree, it
will be to secure your reservation you have promised.
There perhaps we may live out our brief days as we wish. When the
last redman has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only
the shadow of a cloud passing over the prairie, these shores and
forests will still hold the spirits of my people, for they love
this earth as the newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. If we sell
you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have
cared for it. Hold in your memory the way the land is as you take
it. And with all your strength, with all your might, and 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. This earth is precious
to him. Even the white man cannot escape the common destiny
CHIEF SEATTLE: 1855 Letter to the President
Some of
our most influential roots are the original cultures of this land.
The following letter, sent by Chief Seattle of the Dwamish Tribe
in Washington to President Pierce in 1855, illustrates the dignity,
wisdom, and continuing relevance of this native continental vision.
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
if we do not so the white man may come with guns and take our land.
What Chief Seattle says you can count on as truly as our white brothers
can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars
- they do not set. How can you buy or sell the sky - the warmth
of the land? The idea is strange to us. Yet we do not own the freshness
of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from
us? We will decide in our time. 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 every humming insect
is holy in the memory and experience of my people.
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 and his children's
birthright is forgotten. The sight of your cities pains the eyes
of the redman. But perhaps it is because the redman is a savage
and does not understand.
There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to listen
to the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps
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 lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs
around a pond at night? The Indian prefers the soft sound of the
wind itself cleansed by a mid-day rain, or scented by a pinġn pine:
The air is precious to the redman. For all things share the same
breath - the beasts, the trees, and the man. 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.
If I 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 thousands of
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 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 great loneliness of spirit,
for whatever happens to the beast also happens to the man. All things
are connected. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the
earth.
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 food 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 roamed
in small bands in the woods will remain to mourn the graves of the
people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.
One thing we know that the white man may one day discover. Our God
is the same God. You may think that you own him as you wish to own
our land, but you cannot. He is the Body of man, and his compassion
is equal for the redman 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 other tribes. Continue
to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your
own waste. When the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses
all tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent
of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by the talking
wires, where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And
what is it to say goodbye to the swift and the hunt? The end of
living and the beginning of survival.
We might understand if we knew what it was the white man dreams,
what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what
visions he burns into their minds, so they will wish for tomorrow.
But we are savages. The white man's dreams are hidden from us. And
because they are hidden, we will go our own way. If we agree, it
will be to secure your reservation you have promised.
There perhaps we may live out our brief days as we wish. When the
last redman has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only
the shadow of a cloud passing over the prairie, these shores and
forests will still hold the spirits of my people, for they love
this earth as the newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. If we sell
you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have
cared for it. Hold in your memory the way the land is as you take
it. And with all your strength, with all your might, and 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. This earth is precious
to him. Even the white man cannot escape the common destiny
He died on the reservation after a brief illness.
|
