رئیس قبیله سیاتل
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چگونه مي‌توانيد آسمان و گرمای زمين را بخريد يا بفروشيد؟ بنظر ما اين فکر شگفت مي آيد. اگر ما مالک شادابي هوا و درخشش آب نيستيم، پس چگونه مي‌توانيد آنها را بخريد؟

هر تکه اين زمين نزد مردم من مقدس است. هر برگ سوزني تابناک کاج، هرساحل ريگزار، هر پاره ميغ در دل جنگل‌های تيره و تار، هر سبزه‌زار و هر وزوز حشره‌ي شبتاب در ياد و در تجربه‌ مردم من مقدس است. شيره‌ای که در آوندهای درختان جاری است ياد انسان سرخ‌پوست را با خود همراه دارد.

مردگان انسان‌های سفيد‌پوست هنگامي که برای گردش به ميان ستارگان ميروند، زادوبوم خويش را از ياد مي‌برند، مردگان ما هرگز اين زمين تابناک را فراموش نمي‌کنند زيرا که زمين مادر انسان سرخ‌پوست است. ما جزئي از زمين و زمين جزئي از ماست.

گل‌های عطرآگين خواهران ما هستند، گوزن و آب و عقاب بزرگ برادران ما، ستيغ سنگي کوه‌ها، شيره گياهان درمرغزارها، گرمای تن کره اسب‌ها و نيز انسان، همه ازيک تيره‌اند.

از اين رو هنگامي که سرکرده بزرگ واشنگتن فرستاده‌ای روانه مي‌کند تا به ما بگويد که مي‌خواهد زمين ما را بخرد، درخواستي بس بزرگ از ما مي‌کند.

سرکرده بزرگ مي‌گويد که سرزمين ويژه‌ای برای ما در نظر خواهد گرفت تا بتوانيم در آنجا زندگي کنيم؛ او پدر ما خواهد بود و ما فرزندان او. باری ما پيشنهاد شما را برای خريد زمين‌مان بررسي مي‌کنيم؛ اما اين کار چندان آسان نخواهد بود. زيرا که اين زمين برای ما مقدس است.

اين آب درخشنده که بر بستر جوی‌ها و رودها جاری است تنها آب نيست بلکه خون نياکان ماست. اگر ما زمين‌مان را بفروشيم بايد به ياد داشته باشيد که اين زمين مقدس است و هر فروغ خيال‌انگيز در آب روشن درياچه‌ها سخن از يادها و رويداد‌های زندگاني مردم من مي‌گويد، زمزمه آب صدای نياکان ماست.

رودها برادران ما هستند. آن‌ها تشنگي ما را فرو مي‌نشانند، زورق‌هامان را باخود مي‌برند و به کودکانمان خوراک مي‌د‌‌هند، اگر زمين‌مان را به شما بفروشيم بايد از اين پس به ياد داشته باشيد و به فرزندان خود بياموزيد که رودها برادران ما هستند همچنان که برادران شما نيز؛ و به آن‌ها چنان بايد مهر بورزيد که به برادران خود مي‌ورزيد.

مي دانيم که انسان سفيدپوست آداب و رسوم مارا در‌نمي‌يابد. در نگاه او يک تکه زمين مانند هر تکه ديگر آن است. زيرا او بيگانه‌اي است که شباهنگام از راه مي‌رسد و آنچه را که نياز دارد از زمين مي‌گيرد. زمين نه برادر او که دشمن اوست؛ و هنگامي که برآن چيره مي‌شود ديگر مرز نمي‌شناسد. او آرامگاه نياکان‌اش را رها مي‌کند و اين کار آزارش نمي‌دهد؛ زمين را از چنگ فرزندان آن بيرون مي‌کشد و اين کار آزارش نمي‌دهد؛ آرامگاه نياکان او و داروندار و فرزندا‌ن‌اش به بوته فراموشي سپرده مي‌شوند؛ او به مادرش، زمين و به برادرش آسمان چنان مي‌نگرد که گوئي مي‌توان آنها را خريد و تاراج کرد، يا همچون گوسفندان و مرواريدهای رخشان فروخت. او با اشتهای سيری ناپذيرش زمين را درکام خود فرو خواهد کشيد و در پس پشت خويش چيزی جز بيابان بر جای نخواهد گذاشت.

نمی‌دانم آداب و رسوم ما از آداب و رسوم شما جداست، چشم‌انداز شهرهای شما چشم انسان سرخ‌پوست را مي‌آزارد ولي شايد اين از آن رو باشد که انسان سرخ‌پوست وحشي است و نمي‌فهمد.

در شهرهای انسان سفيدپوست جای آرامي نمي‌توان يافت. جائي نيست که بتوان درآن صدای باز شدن برگ‌ها را دربهار يا لرزش بال‌های حشره‌ای را به گوش شنيد، ولي اين شايد از آن رو باشد که من وحشي‌ام و نمي‌فهمم، چنين مي‌نمايد که شور و هياهوی شهرهای شما تنها برای آن است که به گوش‌ها ناسزا گفته شود. و زندگي چه سودی دارد اگر آدمي نتواند تک فرياد توکا يا بگو مگوی غوکان را درکنار تالاب، در شب بشنود؟ من انساني سرخ‌پوستم و نمي‌فهمم؛ سرخ‌پوست آهنگ دلنواز باد را برفراز آبگير و بوی باد شسته به باران نيمروز و عطرآگين شده با کاج را بسي بيش دوست مي‌دارد.

انسان سرخ‌پوست به هوا ارج مي‌نهد، زيرا هر آنچه بر روی زمين مي‌بينيم از يک دم بهره مي‌گيرد، جانور، درخت و انسان، همگي از دم يگانه‌ای بهره‌ور مي‌شوند. چنين مي‌نمايد که انسان سفيدپوست به هوایي که تنفس ميکند اعتنایي ندارد، مانند آدمي که مردن‌اش چندين روز به درازا کشد بوی بد را احساس نمي‌کند ولي ما اگر زمين مان را به شما بفروشيم بايد به ياد داشته باشيد که هوا برای ما ارزشمند است و روح‌اش را با هرآنچه از اوزندگي مي‌گيرد بخش مي‌کند. بادی که نخستين دم را به نيای ما بخشيد واپسين بازدم او را نيز گرفت، و اگر ما زمين مان را به شما بفروشيم بايد آنرا مقدس و ارجمند بداريد چونان جایي که حتي انسان سفيدپوست نيز بتواند به آنجا رود و باد عطرآگين شده با گل‌های سبزه زار را ببويد.

باري، ما پيشنهاد شما را برای خريد زمين‌مان بررسي مي‌کنيم، ولي اگر اين پيشنهاد را بپذيريم يک شرط را بايد بجا آوريد و آن اينکه انسان سفيدپوست مي‌بايد با جانوران اين زمين همچون برادران خويش رفتار کند.

من وحشي‌ام و راهي ديگر برای زندگي نمي‌شناسم، هزاران گاو وحشي را به چشم ديدم که به دست انسان سفيدپوست از درون قطاری که مي‌گذشت کشتار شدند تا بر مرغزار رها شوند و بپوسند، من وحشي‌ام و نمي‌فهمم که چگونه يک اسب آهنين دودکن مي‌تواند جايگاهي برتر از گاو وحشي داشته باشد که ما او را نمي‌کشيم مگر از برای ماندگاری خويش.

انسان بي وجود جانوران چه مي‌تواند باشد؟ اگر همه جانوران ناپديد شوند آدمي از يک تنهایي بزرگ روحي خواهد مرد، زيرا آنچه بر سر جانوران مي‌آيد بزودی بر سر انسان نيز خواهد آمد، همه چيز درهم تنيده وبهم پيوسته است.

شما بايد به فرزندان خود بياموزيد که خاک زير پايشان خاکستر نياکان ماست. برای آنکه زمين را ارجمند بدارند به آنان بگویيد که اين زمين از زندگاني‌های تبار ما پربار گشته است. به فرزندان خود آنچه را ما به فرزندان خود آموخته‌ايم بياموزيد و به آنان بگویيد که زمين مادر ماست. هر آنچه برسر زمين بيايد بر سر فرزندان او خواهد آمد. اگر آدمي آب دهان بر خاک بيفکند آن را بر خويشتن خويش افکنده است.

ما دست کم اين را مي‌دانيم که زمين از آن انسان نيست؛ انسان از آن زمين است، اين را نيک مي‌دانيم، همه چيز درهم تنيده است مانند خانواده‌ای که با خون يکي شده باشد.

هرآنچه بر سر زمين بيايد بر سر فرزندان او نيز خواهد آمد، تاروپود زندگاني را انسان بهم نبافته است؛ او تنها يکي از تارهای آن است. هرکاری که او با تاروپود زندگاني نمايد با خويشتن خويش کرده است.

حتي انسان سفيدپوست که خدايش همراه وی به گردش مي‌رود و همچون دوستي با او سخن مي‌گويد نمي تواند از سرنوشت همگاني بگريزد، گذشته از اين، شايد ما برادر هم باشيم؛ اين را در آينده خواهيم ديد؛ ولي يک چيز برای ما روشن است و آن اينکه روزی از روزها انسان سفيدپوست در خواهد يافت که خدای ما همه يکي است.

ممکن است امروز شما بر اين گمان باشيد که بر خدا همچون زمين ما چيرگي داريد. اما نمي توانيد بر او چيره شويد، زيرا که او خدای انسان هاست و رحمتش بر انسان سرخ و سفيد يکسان ميرسد. اين زمين برای او ارزشمند است و آسيب رساندن به زمين خوار شمردن آفريننده آن است. روزی خواهد رسيد که سفيدپوستان نيز ناپديد خواهند شد؛ و شايد زودتر ازقبائل ديگر، بسترتان را بيالایيد تا شبي در ميان تفاله‌هايتان از خفگي بميريد؛
ولي به هنگام مرگ با درخششي ناگهاني خواهيد درخشيد، سوزان از توانایي خدایي که شما را با نيت خاصي به اين سرزمين آورد و خواست که بر اين زمين و انسان سرخ پوست چيره شويد؛ اين سرنوشت رازناک ماست؛ زيرا ما نمي‌فهميم هنگامي که مي‌بينيم همه گاوهای وحشي شکار می‌شوند، اسبان وحشي رام ميگردند، گوشه-کنار اسرارآميز جنگل‌ها از بوی انبوه آدميان آکنده مي‌شود و چشم انداز تپه‌های انباشته از سبزه و گل با سيم‌های سخن‌گو تيره و تار مي‌گردد، بيشه‌ها از ميان رفته‌اند و عقاب ناپديد شده است و اين همه نشانه‌ي پايان زندگي است و آغاز پايندگي پس از مرگ.

The Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land.

The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. 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 from us[?]

We will decide in our time.

What Chief Seattle says, the Great Chief in Washington 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.

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 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 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 Chief sends word he will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortable to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children.

But can that ever be? God loves your people, but has abandoned his red children. He sends machines to help the white man with his work, and builds great villages for him. He makes your people stronger every day. Soon you will flood the land like the rivers which crash down the canyons after a sudden rain. But my people are an ebbing tide, we will never return.

No, we are separate races. Our children do not play together and our old men tell different stories. God favors you, and we are orphans.

So we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. We take our pleasure in these woods. I do not know. Our ways are different from your ways.

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 that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water’s murmur is the voice of my father’s father.

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 yours, and you must henceforth give rivers the kindness you would give any brother.

The red man has always retreated before the advancing white man, as the mist of the mountain runs before the morning sun. But the ashes of our fathers are sacred. The graves are holy ground, and so these hills, these trees, this portion of the earth is consecrated to us. 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 fathers' graves behind, and he does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children. He does not care. His fathers' graves 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 a 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 the white man’s cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring or the rustle of 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 whipporwill 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, cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with 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 many dying for many days, he is numb to the stench. But if we sell 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 the wind must also give our children the spirit of life. 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 I do not understand any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffalos 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, men would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever, happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected.

Whatever befalls the earth, befalls the sons of the earth.

You must teach you 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.

No, day and night cannot live together.

Our dead go to live in the earth’s sweet rivers, they return with the silent footsteps of spring, and it is their spirit, running in the wind, that ripples the surface of the ponds.

We will consider why the white man wishes to buy the land. What is it that the white man wishes to buy, my people ask me. The idea is strange to us. How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? [sic] ―the swiftness of the antelope? How can we sell these things to you and how can you buy them? Is the earth yours to do with as you will, merely because the red man signs a piece of paper and gives it to the white man? If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them from us[?]

Can you buy back the buffalo, once the last one has been killed? 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. But we are primitive, and in his passing moment of strength the white man thinks that he is a god who already owns the earth. How can a man own his mother?

But we will consider your offer to buy our land. Day and night cannot live together. 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 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 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. 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 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, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the 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. And what is it to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.

God gave you dominion over the beasts, the woods, and the red man, and for some special purpose, but that destiny is a mystery to the red man. We might understand if we knew what it was that the white man dreams―what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights―what visions he burns onto their minds so that 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. For above all else, we cherish the right of each man to live as he wishes, however different from his brothers. There is little in common between us.

So we will consider your offer to buy our 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 red man has vanished from this earth, and his memory is only the shade 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 the newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat.

If we sell you 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.

Ted Perry, film script for Home (prod. by the Southern Baptist Radio and Television Commission, 1972), reprinted in Rudolf Kaiser, “Chief Seattle’s Speech(es): American Origins and European Reception,” in Recovering the Word: Essays on Native American Literature, ed. Brian Swann and Arnold Krupat (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 525-30.

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