ECOLOGICA | Educacao Ambiental

Cacique Seatlle

Em 1855, o cacique Seattle, da tribo Suquamish, do Estado de Washington, enviou esta carta ao presidente dos Estados Unidos (Francis Pierce), depois de o Governo haver dado a entender que pretendia comprar o território ocupado por aqueles índios. Faz mais de um século e meio. Mas o desabafo do cacique tem uma incrível atualidade. A carta tem uma fantastica profundidade:

Cacique Seattle 1787-1866

Carta do Cacique SEATTLE - ESPANHOL

El hombre y la tierra El cacique Seattle, jefe de la tribu Suwamish del noroeste de los Estados Unidos remitió en 1855 una carta al presidente Franklin Pierce en respuesta a su oferta de comprar sus territorios. En tiempos de alerta por la preservación del medio ambiente, traducida y, adaptada, la presento para compartir su belleza y su vigente mensaje. (Felipe de Lucio Pezet)

El Gran jefe de Washington manda comprar nuestros prados y nos asegura su fraternidad y bene-volencia. Eso es gentil de su parte, sabemos que él no precisa de nuestra amistad pero puede fiarse en lo que le dice el jefe Seattle con la misma certeza con la que puede confiar en el cambio de las estaciones. Si no somos dueños de la pureza del aire o del resplandor del agua, ¿cómo entonces podríamos venderlos?. Cada parcela de este sitio es sagrada para mi pueblo. Toda hoja reluciente de pino, las playas blancas, el velo de neblina en la floresta obscura, un claro de bosque y todo insecto que zumba, son sublimes en las tradiciones y en la conciencia de mi pueblo. La savia circulando los arboles porta las memorias del hombre de la piel roja. Somos parte de la naturaleza y ella es parte de nosotros. Las flores perfumadas son nuestras hermanas, el ciervo, el caballo, el águila majestuosa, son nuestros hermanos. Las crestas rocosas, el zumo de las campiñas, el calor emanando del cuerpo de un potrillo, todos pertenecen a la misma familia. El agua brillante discurriendo por los ríos y riachuelos no es meramente agua, es la sangre de nuestros antepasados. Si te vendemos la tierra, habrás de recordar que ella es bendita y así le enseñarás a tus hijos. Y al caer una hoja en la superficie límpida de un lago, verás abrirse orlas como un reflejo espectral, y en cada anillo podrás contar los eventos y las recordaciones de la vida de mi gente. El rumor del agua es la voz del padre de mi padre. Los ríos son nuestros hermanos, apagan nuestra sed, transportan nuestras canoas y alimentan a nuestros hijos. Si te vendiéramos nuestros entornos, recordad y enseñad a los vuestros que los ríos son hermanos de todos. Nuestros modos difieren de los tuyos. La visión de tus ciudades causa tormento a los ojos del hombre de la piel roja. No hay donde se pueda oír el desplegar del follaje en la primavera o el zumbido de las alas de un insecto. Pero tal vez así sea por ser yo un salvaje que nada entiende. ¿Y qué vida es aquella si un hombre no puede escuchar la voz solitaria de la garza o, de noche, la conversación de los sapos alrededor de un estanque?. Soy un hombre rojo y nada comprendo. Prefiero el suave susurro del viento acariciando la sobrefaz de un lago y el tenue olor del viento purificado por una lluvia de un mediodía oliendo a pino. Si te vendiésemos nuestra tierra, habrás de recordar que el aire es precioso para nosotros, reparte su espíritu con toda la vida que generosamente sustenta. El viento dio a nuestro antepasado su primer soplo de vida, también recibió su último suspiro. Deberíais hacer de ella un santuario donde el propio hombre blanco pueda ir a saborear el viento endulzado con la fragancia de las flores silvestres. Vamos a considerar tu oferta, pero pondré una condición: el hombre blanco deberá tratar a los animales de este suelo como si fuesen sus hermanos. ¿Qué es el hombre sin ellos?. Si todos los animales acabasen, el hombre moriría de una gran soledad de espíritu, porque todo cuanto acontece a los animales, luego le acontece a el. Enseña a tus hijos que el suelo debajo de sus pies es la ceniza de sus abuelos y deben respetarla. Cuéntales que su riqueza es la vida de nuestros antepasados y diles aquello que les hemos dicho a los nuestros: La tierra es nuestra madre, todo cuanto la hiere ofende a sus hijos. Si los hombres escupen sobre ella, escupen sobre ellos mismos. Una cosa sabemos: la tierra no pertenece al hombre, es el hombre quién pertenece a ella. Todas las cosas están entrelazadas como la sangre que une a una familia. Todo cuanto agrede a la naturaleza, hiere a los hijos de ella. No fue el hombre quién tejió la trama de la vida, él es simplemente un hilo de la misma. Todo lo que él haga a la trama, a si mismo se lo hará. Si continuas ensuciando tu lecho morirás sofocado en tus propios desperdicios. Te venderemos nuestra tierra porque sabemos que de no hacerlo lo tomarán por las armas. Cuando la tengan, ámenla como nosotros la amábamos. Nunca olviden de cómo era cuando de ella tomaron posesión. Consérvenla para sus hijos y ténganla al igual a como el firmamento nos tiene a todos.

http://www.asociacion.ciap.org/img

Carta do Cacique SEATTLE – ESPANHOL II

Publicada en el Seattle Sunday Star, el 29 octubre de 1887.

?Que el cielo que lloró lágrimas de compasión sobre mi pueblo durante siglos mudos, y que para nosotros luce como inmodificable y eterno, pueda cambiar. Hoy el día está bueno. Puede ser que mañana aparezca cubierto con nubes. Mis palabras son como las estrellas que nunca cambian. En lo que Seattle diga, puede fundarse el Gran Cacique, Washington, con tanta certeza como puede hacerlo en el retorno del sol o de las estaciones.

El jefe blanco nos dice que el Gran Cacique Washington nos envía saludos de amistad y buena voluntad. Esto es gentil de su parte, pues sabemos que tiene poca necesidad de nuestra amistad a cambio. Mis gentes son pocas. Parecen árboles dispersos en una planicie barrida por la tormenta.

El Gran -y yo presumo- buen Cacique Blanco, nos manda decir que quiere comprar tierras nuestras pero que desea permitirnos la suficiente para que podamos vivir confortablemente. Sin duda, esto parece justo, y hasta generoso, pues el Hombre Piel Roja ya no tiene derechos que él necesite respetar, y la oferta podría ser sabia, también, pues ya no necesitamos un país tan extenso.?

?Hubo una época en la que nuestro pueblo cubría la tierra como las ondas con que un mar rizado por el viento cubre su fondo revestido de conchillas, pero esa época pasó hace mucho tiempo, y la grandeza de las tribus no pasa ahora de ser un recuerdo luctuoso.?

?No ostentaré ni lamentaré nuestra prematura decadencia, ni haré reproches a mis hermanos carapálidas por acelerarla, pues también nos cabe a nosotros una parte de la culpa.?

?La juventud es impulsiva. Cuando nuestros jóvenes se enfurecieron por una injusticia real o imaginaria, y desfiguraron sus rostros con pintura negra, ello denotó que sus corazones son negros, que a menudo son crueles e implacables, y que nuestros ancianos y ancianas no son capaces de refrenarlos.??Así ha sido siempre. Así ocurrió cuando el hombre blanco empezó a empujar a nuestros antecesores hacia el Oeste. Pero tengamos la esperanza de que las hostilidades entre nosotros jamás retornen.

Tenemos todo para perder y nada para ganar.??Cierto es que la venganza, para nuestros bravos jóvenes, es considerada una victoria, aun al precio de sus propias vidas. Pero los ancianos que permanecen en sus casas en tiempos de guerra, y las ancianas que tienen hijos para perder, saben mejor la cosa.??Nuestro gran padre, Washington, pues supongo que ahora es también nuestro padre así como lo es de vosotros, puesto que George (se refiere al rey Jorge de Inglaterra) ha mudado sus fronteras hacia el Norte, digo, nos manda decir por su hijo -quien, sin duda, es un gran jefe entre su gente- que si actuamos como él desea, va a protegernos.??Sus bravíos ejércitos serán para nosotros un erizado muro de fortaleza, y sus grandes buques de guerra llenarán nuestros puertos para que antiguos enemigos del Norte, los Simsiams y los Hydas, no aterroricen más a nuestras mujeres y a nuestros mayores. Entonces, él será nuestro padre y nosotros seremos sus hijos. ¿Pero esto podrá acontecer? Vuestro Dios ama a su pueblo y odia al mío. Envuelve amorosamente con sus poderosos brazos al hombre blanco y lo conduce así como un padre conduce a su hijo pequeño, pero se ha olvidado de sus hijos de piel roja.

??Cada día hace que su pueblo se vuelva más fuerte y muy pronto ellos llenarán la tierra, mientras la marea de mi gente retrocede a gran velocidad y nunca refluirá de nuevo.??El Dios del hombre blanco no puede amar a sus hijos pieles rojas, pues si no los protegería. Parecen ser como huérfanos y no tienen hacia dónde procurar auxilio. Entonces ¿cómo es que podemos ser hermanos?

¿Cómo puede vuestro padre volverse nuestro padre y traernos prosperidad y estimular en nosotros sueños de una grandeza que regresa?

A nosotros, vuestro Dios nos parece parcial. El advino para el hombre blanco. Jamás Lo vimos: nunca siquiera escuchamos Su voz. él le dio leyes al hombre blanco pero no tuvo palabra alguna para sus hijos pieles rojas cuyos rebosantes millones llenaban este vasto continente así como las estrellas llenan el firmamento. No, somos dos razas diferentes y deberemos seguir así para siempre. Hay poco en común entre nosotros. Las cenizas de nuestros antepasados son sagradas, y su lugar final de reposo es el suelo consagrado; mientras vosotros deambuláis lejos de las tumbas de vuestros padres, aparentemente sin lamentarlo.??Vuestra religión fue escrita sobre tabletas de piedra por el dedo de hierro de un Dios iracundo, y con miedo de que vosotros lo olvidéis, el hombre de piel roja no podrá nunca recordarlo ni comprenderlo.??Nuestra religión consiste en las tradiciones de nuestros antecesores y en el sueño de nuestros ancianos, dada a ellos por el Gran Espíritu y las visiones de nuestros caciques, y está escrita en los corazones de nuestro pueblo.??Vuestros muertos dejan de amarles y de amar los hogares de su natalicio cuando traspasan los portales de la tumba. Deambulan lejos, más allá de las estrellas...pronto son olvidados, y jamás regresan. Nuestros muertos nunca olvidan el hermoso mundo que les dio su ser. Siguen amando sus ríos sinuosos, sus grandes montañas y sus valles apartados, y siempre añoran con tierno afecto a los vivientes de corazón solitario, y a menudo regresan para visitarlos y reconfortarlos.??El día y la noche no pueden morar juntos. El hombre de piel roja jamás rehuyó la proximidad del hombre blanco, mientras las cambiantes brumas de las laderas de las montañas se esfuman ante el ardiente sol de la mañana. Sin embargo, vuestra propuesta me parece justa y pienso que mi gente va a aceptarla y se retirará a la reservación que les ofrece, donde viviremos apartados y en paz, pues las palabras del Gran Jefe Blanco parecen ser la voz de la naturaleza hablándole a mi pueblo desde la espesa tiniebla que velozmente se acumula alrededor de ella como una densa neblina que flota tierra adentro desde el mar a medianoche. Importa muy poquito dónde pasaremos el resto de nuestras vidas, porque ya no somos muchos.??La noche del Indio promete ser oscura. Ninguna estrella brillante asoma sobre el horizonte. Vientos de voz triste gimen a la distancia. Alguna fea Némesis (justicia o venganza) de nuestra raza se encuentra en la huella del piel roja, y donde quiera que vaya escuchará con seguridad cómo se aproximan los pasos de la fuerza destructora y se preparará para encontrarse con su perdición, así como el gamo herido oye que se acercan los pasos del cazador. Algunas pocas lunas más, algunos pocos inviernos más, y ninguno de todos los poderosos huéspedes que alguna vez llenaron esta inmensa tierra y que ahora vagan en bandadas fragmentarias por las vastas soledades permanecerá para llorar sobre las tumbas de un pueblo alguna vez tan poderoso y tan esperanzado como el vuestro.??¿Pero por qué deberíamos afligirnos? ¿Por qué debo yo murmurar sobre la suerte de mi pueblo? Las tribus están hechas de individuos y no son mejores de lo que ellos son. Los hombres vienen y van como las olas del mar. Una lágrima, una mortaja, un funeral, y se van de nuestros anhelantes ojos para siempre. Hasta el hombre blanco, cuyo Dios caminó y conversó con él, de amigo a amigo, no está eximido de este futuro común. Tal vez seamos hermanos, después de todo. Ya lo veremos.??Estudiaremos vuestra propuesta, y cuando tomemos una decisión, la comunicaremos. Pero en caso de que la aceptemos, aquí y ahora establezco esta primera condición: que no se nos negará el privilegio, sin ser molestados, de visitar a voluntad las tumbas de nuestros antecesores y amigos. Cada porción de este país es sagrada para mi pueblo. Cada colina, cada valle, cada llanura y cada arboleda ha sido reverenciada por algún recuerdo afectuoso o por alguna experiencia triste de mi tribu.??Hasta las rocas que parecen yacer como idiotas mientras se achicharran bajo el sol a lo largo de las costas del mar con solemne grandeza, se estremecen con recuerdos de eventos pasados conectados con el destino de mi pueblo, y el mismísimo polvo bajo vuestros pies responde más amorosamente a nuestras pisadas que a las vuestras, porque son las cenizas de nuestros antepasados, y nuestros pies descalzos están conscientes del roce benévolo, pues el suelo está enriquecido con la vida de nuestros parientes.??Los difuntos guerreros, las afables madres, las muchachas de corazón alegre, y los niños que vivieron y se regocijaron aquí, y cuyos nombres propios ahora se olvidaron, todavía aman estas soledades, y su honda rapidez en el crepúsculo crece sombríamente con la presencia de espíritus morenos.??Y cuando el último piel roja haya sucumbido en la tierra y su memoria entre los hombres blancos se haya vuelto un mito, estas costas tendrán enjambres de los invisibles muertos de mi tribu, y cuando los hijos de vuestros hijos se crean solos en el campo, en la tienda, en los negocios, por los caminos o en el silencio de los bosques, no estarán solos.

En ningún lugar de la tierra hay sitio alguno dedicado a la soledad. De noche, cuando las calles de vuestras ciudades y aldeas estén silenciosas y piensen que están desiertas, se hallarán atestadas por huéspedes que regresan, los que alguna vez colmaron y todavía aman esta hermosa tierra. El hombre blanco jamás estará solo. Dejemos que sea justo y trate bondadosamente a mi pueblo, pues los muertos no son impotentes...??¿Muertos, dije? No existe la muerte: se trata apenas de un cambio de mundos....?

http://www.tlahui.com/medic/medic15/jefe_polemica.htm

Carta do Cacique SEATTLE – INGLES

Seattle has given his name to the town, but perhaps it should be spelled Seea-ath. He lived from around 1786/1787 until 1866. He gave in connection with negociations with USA 1854 a speech, which Dr. Henry Smith, who were on the spot, reproduced in Seattle Sunday Star many years later in fact 1887, based on his own notes. In the 1970´s the speech became very famous in enviroments circles for its profetic sayings on the white mans destroying of nature, a fame which is only increased. UN spread it the world all over, its word is quoted on everything, from eucolocigal tea-packs to T-shirts. In Denmark too it came as book. Unfortunately, the famous speech is not what was reproduced by Dr. Henry A. Smith i 1887. This is the truth, and then why not admit, that we had been seduced. Why not then throw the wrong text aside and concentrate the interest on the text by Smith? The Danish translaters words maybe represents the common excuse: I knew very well, that the speech could be a falsification, but I saw no problems in that. It is reasonable things, you read in that speech, and some people maybe should be a little more gentle in their hearts reading them, he said.

CHIEF SEATTLE'S SPEECH

http://www.geocities.com/rainforest/andes/8032/page16.html

Seattle Sunday Star, October 29, 1887

His Native Eloquence, Etc., Etc. by Henry A. Smith Scraps from a Diary: Chief Seattle - A gentleman By Instinct 10th article in the series Early Reminiscences. Old Chief Seattle was the largest Indian I ever saw, and by far the noblest-looking. He stood 6 feet full in his moccasins, was broad-shouldered deep-chested, and finely proportioned. His eyes were large, intelligent, expressive and friendly when in repose, and faithfully mirrored the varying moods of the great soul that looked through them. He was usually solemn, silent, and dignified, but on great occasions moved among assembled multitudes like a Titan among Lilliputians, and his lightest word was law. When rising to speak in council or to tender advice, all eyes were turned upon him, and deep-toned, sonorous, and eloquent sentences rolled from his lips like the ceaseless thunders of cataracts flowing from exhaustless fountains, and his magnificent bearing was as noble as that of the most cultivated military chieftain in command of the forces of a continent. Neither his eloquence, his dignity, or his grace were acquired. They were as native to his manhood as leaves and blossoms are to a flowering almond. His influence was marvelous. He might have been an emperor but all his instincts were democratic, and he ruled his loyal subjects with kindness and paternal benignity. He was always flattered by marked attention from white men, and never so much as when seated at their tables, and on such occasions he manifested more than anywhere else the genuine instincts of a gentleman. When Governor Stevens first arrived in Seattle and told the natives he had been appointed commissioner of Indian affairs for Washington Territory, they gave him a demonstrative reception in front of Dr. Maynard's office, near the waterfront on Main Street. The bay swarmed with canoes and the shore was lined with a living mass of swaying, writhing, dusky humanity, until old Chief Seattle's trumpet-toned voice rolled over the immense multitude, like the startling reveille of a bass drum, when silence became as instantaneous and perfect as that which follows a clap of thunder from a clear sky. The governor was then introduced to the native multitude by Dr. Maynard, and at once commenced, in a conversational, plain, and straightforward style, an explanation of his mission among them, which is too well understood to require capitulation. When he sat down, Chief Seattle arose with all the dignity of a senator, who carries the responsibilities of a great nation on his shoulders. Placing one hand on the, governor's head and slowly pointing heavenward with the index finger of the other, he commenced his memorable address in solemn and impressive tones. "Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and which, to us, looks eternal, may change. Today it is fair, tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like stars that never set. What Seattle says, the great chief, Washington [1], 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 cover 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 old women, 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 Hydas, will no longer frighten our women and old men. Then he will be our father and we will be his children. "But can this ever be? 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 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 and 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 Hirn; never even heard His voice; He gave the white man laws but He had no word for His red children whose teeming millions filled this vast continent as the stars fill the firmament. No, we are two distinct races and must ever remain 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 regret. "Your religion was written on tables 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 dream of our old men, given 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 off 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 mists on the mountainside flee before the blazing morning sun. "However, your proposition seems a just one, and I think 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 but 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 about the 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 will remain to weep over the tombs of a people once as powerful and as hopeful as your own. "But why should be 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 the sea. A tear, a tamanawus, 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 the first condition: That we will not be denied the privilege, without molestation, of visiting at will the graves of our ancestors and friends. Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every valley, ever plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe, "Even the rocks that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent seashore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, and 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 fastness 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 shall 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 altogether powerless." Other speakers followed, but I took no notes. Governor Stevens' reply was brief. He merely promised to meet them in general council on some future occasion to discuss the proposed treaty. Chief Seattle's promise to adhere to the treaty, should one be ratified, was observed to the letter, for he was ever the unswerving and faithful friend of the white man. The above is but a fragment of his speech, and lacks all the charm lent by the grace and earnestness of the sable old orator, and the occasion. - H.A. Smith. H.A.Smith´s own remarks: [1]. The Indians in early times thought that Washington was still alive. They knew the name to be that of a president, and when they heard of the president at Washington they mistook the name of the city for the name of the reigning chief. They thought, too, that King George was still England's monarch, because the Hudson Bay traders called themselves "King George's Men." This innocent deception the company was shrewd enough not to explain away, for the Indians had more respect for them than they would have had, had they known England was ruled by a woman. Some of us have learned better.

CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854

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 harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward -- the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men. Then 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. Letter of Chief Seathl Letter of Chief Seathl (Seattle) of the Suwamish Tribe to the President of the United States of America, Franklin Pierce, 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 sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing, and every 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. So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us… 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. 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 drinks. It matter little where we spend the rest of our days. They are not many. A few more hours, a few more winters, and none 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. 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 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. 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 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, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by talking wire. Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And what is it 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 the 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 read 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 a newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat. So, if we sell 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…

Carta do Cacique SEATTLE VERSAO II INGLES

A SUQUAMISH REPLY Chief Seattle, 1786 - June 7, 1866

Chief Sealth or Seattle was head of the Suquamish and Duwamish tribes near the city that now bears his name in what is now the state of Washington. Shortly after the Washington Territory was organized in 1853 the first post office was put into use in this new town of Seattle. Governor Stevens soon visited and addressed the settlers and Indians gathered in the small community. Dr. Henry Smith, who had mastered the Suwamish language, wrote down the reply which was given by Chief Seattle through an interpreter to the crowd. Various portions of the reply have appeared in many abbreviated and altered forms in recent years. Taken from a collection of historical pieces which appear in INDIAN AMERICA: A Traveler's Companion, by Eagle Walking Turtle, I believe this to be the most complete and closest to original version possible. In addition to such pieces as this and wonderful historic portraits of this noble people, INDIAN AMERICA is a tremendous guide to travelling the festivals and museums of Native America whether you use it on your vacation or in your favorite chair at home.

CHIEF SEATTLE'S REPLY

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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