시애틀 추장의 편지

소중한 ......

 

■ 시애틀 추장의 편지 (Chief Seattle's speech of 1854)

     “우리는 모두 형제들이다”

 

1854년 워싱턴에서 파견한 미합중국 백인 대표단은 지금의 워싱턴 주에 해당하는 이 지역 토착민들의 터전을 차지하는 대신에 그들의 보존지구를 만들어 주겠다고 제안했다.

이에 인디언 추장은 당시 대통령 피어스에게 편지를 부쳤는데 이것을 120년 동안이나 공개하지 않던 미국 정부가 독립 200주년 행사의 일환으로 공개한 것이다.

 

(Version 1)

 

워싱턴의 대추장이 우리 땅을 사고 싶다는 전갈을 보내왔다. 대추장은 우정과 선의의 말도 함께 보냈다. 그가 답례로 우리의 우의를 필요로 하지 않는다는 것을 잘 알고 있으므로 이는 그로서는 친절한 일이다. 하지만 우리는 그대들의 제안을 진지하게 고려해볼 것이다. 우리가 땅을 팔지 않으면 백인이 총을 들고 와서 우리 땅을 빼앗을 것임을 우리는 알고 있다.

 

그대들은 어떻게 저 하늘이나 땅의 온기를 사고 팔 수 있는가? 우리로서는 이상한 생각이다. 공기의 신선함과 반짝이는 물을 우리가 소유하고 있지도 않은데 어떻게 그것들을 팔 수 있다는 말인가? 우리에게는 이 땅의 모든 부분이 거룩하다. 빛나는 솔잎, 모래 기슭, 어두운 숲 속 안개, 맑게 노래하는 온갖 벌레들, 이 모두가 우리의 기억과 경험 속에서는 신성한 것들이다. 나무 속에 흐르는 수액은 우리 홍인(紅人)의 기억을 실어 나른다. 백인은 죽어서 별들 사이를 거닐 적에 그들이 태어난 곳을 망각해 버리지만, 우리가 죽어서도 이 아름다운 땅을 결코 잊지 못하는 것은 이것이 바로 우리 홍인의 어머니이기 때문이다. 우리는 땅의 한 부분이고 땅은 우리의 한 부분이다. 향기로운 꽃은 우리의 자매이다. 사슴, 말, 큰 독수리, 이들은 우리의 형제들이다. 바위산 꼭대기,풀의 수액, 조랑말과 인간의 체온 모두가 한 가족이다.

 

워싱턴 대추장이 우리 땅을 사고 싶다는 전갈을 보내온 것은 곧 우리의 거의 모든 것을 달라는 것과 같다. 대추장은 우리만 따로 편히 살 수 있도록 한 장소를 마련해 주겠다고 한다. 그는 우리의 아버지가 되고 우리는 그의 자식이 되는 것이다. 그러니 우리 땅을 사겠다는 그대들의 제안을 잘 고려해보겠지만, 우리에게 있어 이 땅은 거룩한 것이기에 그것은 쉬운 일이 아니다. 개울과 강을 흐르는 이 반짝이는 물은 그저 물이 아니라 우리 조상들의 피다. 만약 우리가 이 땅을 팔 경우에는 이 땅이 거룩한 것이라는 걸 기억해 달라. 거룩할 뿐만 아니라, 호수의 맑은 물 속에 비추인 신령스러운 모습들 하나하나가 우리네 삶의 일들과 기억들을 이야기해 주고 있음을 아이들에게 가르쳐야 한다. 물결의 속삭임은 우리 아버지의 아버지가 내는 목소리이다.강은 우리의 형제이고 우리의 갈증을 풀어준다. 카누를 날라주고 자식들을 길러준다. 만약 우리가 땅을 팔게 되면 저 강들이 우리와 그대들의 형제임을 잊지 말고 아이들에게 가르쳐야 한다. 그리고 이제부터는 형제에게 하듯 강에게도 친절을 베풀어야 할 것이다.

 

아침 햇살 앞에서 산 안개가 달아나듯이 홍인은 백인 앞에서 언제나 뒤로 물러났지만 우리 조상들의 유골은 신성한 것이고 그들의 무덤은 거룩한 땅이다. 그러니 이 언덕, 이 나무, 이 땅 덩어리는 우리에게 신성한 것이다. 백인은 우리의 방식을 이해하지 못한다는 것을 우리는 알고 있다. 백인에게는 땅의 한 부분이 다른 부분과 똑같다. 그는 한밤중에 와서는 필요한 것을 빼앗아가는 이방인이기 때문이다. 땅은 그에게 형제가 아니라 적이며, 그것을 다 정복했을 때 그는 또 다른 곳으로 나아간다. 백인은 거리낌 없이 아버지의 무덤을 내 팽게 치는가 하면 아이들에게서 땅을 빼앗고도 개의치 않는다. 아버지의 무덤과 아 이들의 타고난 권리는 잊혀지고 만다. 백인은 어머니인 대지와 형제인 저 하늘을 마치 양이나 목걸이처럼 사고 약탈하고 팔 수 있는 것으로 대한다. 백인의 식욕은 땅을 삼켜 버리고 오직 사막만을 남겨놓을 것이다.

 

모를 일이다. 우리의 방식은 그대들과는 다르다. 그대들의 도시의 모습은 홍인의 눈에 고통을 준다. 백인의 도시에는 조용한 곳이 없다. 봄 잎새 날리는 소리나 벌레들의 날개 부딪치는 소리를 들을 곳이 없다. 홍인은 미개하고 무지하기 때문인지 모르지만, 도시의 소음은 귀를 모욕하는 것만 같다. 쏙독새의 외로운 울음소리나 한밤중 못 가에서 들리는 개구리 소리를 들을 수가 없다면 삶에는 무엇이 남겠는가? 나는 홍인이라서 이해할 수가 없다. 인디언은 연못 위를 쏜살같이 달려가는 부드러운 바람소리와 한낮의 비에 씻긴 바람이 머금은 소나무 내음을 사랑한다. 만물이 숨결을 나누고 있으므로 공기는 홍인에게 소중한 것이다. 짐승들, 나무들, 그리고 인간은 같은 숨결을 나누고 산다. 백인은 자기가 숨쉬는 공기를 느끼지 못하는 듯하다. 여러 날 동안 죽어가고 있는 사람처럼 그는 악취에 무감각하다.

 

그러나 만약 우리가 그대들에게 땅을 팔게 되더라도 우리에게 공기가 소중하고, 또한 공기는 그것이 지탱해 주는 온갖 생명과 영기(靈氣)를 나누어 갖는다는 사실을 그대들은 기억해야만 한다. 우리의 할아버지에게 첫 숨결을 베풀어준 바람은 그의 마지막 한숨도 받아준다. 바람은 또한 우리의 아이들에게 생명의 기운을 준다. 우리가 우리 땅을 팔게 되더라도 그것을 잘 간수해서 백인들도 들꽃들로 향기로워진 바람을 맛볼 수 있는 신성한 곳으로 만들어야 한다.

 

우리는 우리의 땅을 사겠다는 그대들의 제의를 고려해보겠다. 그러나 제의를 받아들일 경우 한 가지 조건이 있다. 즉 이 땅의 짐승들을 형제처럼 대해야 한다는 것이다. 나는 미개인이니 달리 생각할 길이 없다. 나는 초원에서 썩어가고 있는 수많은 물소를 본 일이 있는데 모두 달리는 기차에서 백인들이 총으로 쏘고는 그대로 내버려둔 것들이었다. 연기를 뿜어대는 철마가 우리가 오직 생존을 위해서 죽이는 물소보다 어째서 더 중요한지를 모르는 것도 우리가 미개인이기 때문인지 모른다. 짐승들이 없는 세상에서 인간이란 무엇인가? 모든 짐승이 사라져버린다면 인간은 영혼의 외로움으로 죽게 될 것이다. 짐승들에게 일어난 일은 인간들에게도 일어나기 마련이다. 만물은 서로 맺어져 있다.

 

그대들은 아이들에게 그들이 딛고 선 땅이 우리 조상의 뼈라는 것을 가르쳐야 한다. 그들이 땅을 존경할 수 있도록 그 땅이 우리 종족의 삶들로 충만해 있다고 말해주라. 우리가 우리 아이들에게 가르친 것을 그대들의 아이들에게도 가르치라. 땅은 우리 어머니라고, 땅 위에 닥친 일은 그 땅의 아들들에게도 닥칠 것이니, 그들이 땅에다 침을 뱉으면 그것은 곧 자신에게 침을 뱉는 것과 같다. 땅이 인간에게 속하는 것이 아니라 인간이 땅에 속하는 것임을 우리는 알고 있다. 만물은 마치 한 가족을 맺어주는 피와도 같이 맺어져 있음을 우리는 알고 있다. 인간은 생명의 그늘을 짜는 것이 아니라 다만 그 그물의 한 가닥에 불과하다. 그가 그 그물에 무슨 짓을 하든 그것은 곧 자신에게 하는 짓이다.

 

그러나 우리는 우리 종족을 위해 그대들이 마련해준 곳으로 가라는 그대들의 제의를 고려해보겠다. 우리는 떨어져서 평화롭게 살 것이다. 우리가 여생을 어디서 보낼 것인가는 중요하지 않다. 우리의 아이들은 그들의 아버지가 패배의 굴욕을 당하는 모습을 보았다. 우리의 전사들은 수치심에 사로잡혔으며 패배한 이후로 헛되이 나날을 보내면서 단 음식과 독한 술로 그들의 육신을 더럽히고 있다. 우리가 어디서 우리의 나머지 나날을 보낼 것인가는 중요하지 않다. 그리 많은 날이 남아있지도 않다. 몇 시간, 혹은 몇 번의 겨울이 더 지나가면 언제가 이 땅에 살았거나 숲 속에서 조그맣게 무리를 지어 지금도 살고 있는 위대한 부족의 자식들 중에 그 누구도 살아남아서 한때 그대들만큼이나 힘세고 희망에 넘쳤던 사람들의 무덤을 슬퍼해 줄 수도 없을 것이다. 그러나 내가 왜 우리 부족의 멸망을 슬퍼해야 하는가? 부족이란 인간들로 이루어져 있을 뿐 그 이상은 아니다. 인간들은 바다의 파도처럼 왔다가는 간다. 자기네 하나님과 친구처럼 함께 걷고 이야기하는 백인들조차도 이 공통된 운명에서 벗어날 수는 없다. 결국 우리는 한 형제임을 알게 되리라.

 

백인들 또한 언젠가는 알게 되겠지만 우리가 알고 있는 한가지는 우리 모두의 하나님은 하나라는 것이다. 그대들은 땅을 소유하고 싶어하듯 하느님을 소유하고 있다고 생각하는지 모르지만 그것은 불가능한 일이다. 하느님은 인간의 하느님이며 그의 자비로움은 홍인에게나 백인에게나 꼭 같은 것이다. 이 땅은 하느님에게 소중한 것이므로 땅을 헤치는 것은 그 창조주에 대한 모욕이다. 백인들도 마찬가지로 사라져 갈 것이다. 어쩌면 다른 종족보다 더 빨리 사라질지 모른다. 계속해서 그대들의 잠자리를 더럽힌다면 어느 날 밤 그대들은 쓰레기 더미 속에서 숨이 막혀 죽을 것이다. 그러나 그대들이 멸망할 때 그대들을 이 땅에 보내주고 어떤 특별한 목적으로 그대들에게 이 땅과 홍인을 지배할 권한을 허락해 준 하느님에 의해 불태워져 환하게 빛날 것이다. 이것은 우리에게는 불가사의한 신비이다. 언제 물소들이 모두 살육되고 야생마가 길들여지고 은밀한 숲 구석구석이 수많은 인간들의 냄새로 가득 차고 무르익은 언덕이 말하는 쇠줄 (電話線)로 더럽혀질 것인지를 우리가 모르기 때문이다. 덤불은 어디에 있는가? 사라지고 말았다. 독수리는 어디에 있는가? 사라지고 말았다. 날랜 조랑말과 사냥에 작별을 고하는 것은 무엇을 의미하는가? 삶의 끝이자 죽음의 시작이다.

 

우리 땅을 사겠다는 그대들의 제의를 고려해보겠다. 우리가 거기에 동의한다면 그대들이 약속한 보호구역을 가질 수 있을 것이다. 아마도 거기에서 우리는 얼마 남지 않은 날들을 마치게 될 것이다. 마지막 홍인이 이 땅에서 사라지고 그가 다만 초원을 가로질러 흐르는 구름의 그림자처럼 희미하게 기억될 때라도, 기슭과 숲들은 여전히 내 백성의 영혼을 간직하고 있을 것이다. 새로 태어난 아이가 어머니의 심장의 고동을 사랑하듯이 그들이 이 땅을 사랑하기 때 문이다. 그러므로 우리가 땅을 팔더라도 우리가 사랑했듯이 이 땅을 사랑해 달라. 우리가 돌본 것처럼 이 땅을 돌보아 달라. 당신들이 이 땅을 차지하게 될 때 이 땅의 기억을 지금처럼 마음속에 간직해 달라. 온 힘을 다해서, 온 마음을 다해서 그대들의 아이들을 위해 이 땅을 지키고 사랑해 달라. 하느님이 우리 모두를 사랑하듯이.

 

한가지 우리는 알고 있다. 우리 모두의 하나님은 하나라는 것을. 이 땅은 그에게 소중한 것이다. 백인들도 이 공통된 운명에서 벗어날 수는 없다. 결국 우리는 한 형제임을 알게 되리라.

 

 

///////////

 

(시애틀 추장의 편지)

 

미국 14대 대통령 프랭클린 피어스(1853~1857년 재임)는 1854년 두아미쉬 수쿠아미쉬 족의 시애틀 추장에게 “평화로운 보호 구역”을 제공하는 대가로 그들의 땅을 팔라는 제안을 한다. 미정복지로 남아 있던 대륙의 북서부 일대(현재의 워싱턴 주)를 새로 편입하기 위해서였다.

 

당시 여론이 저항하던 원주민들을 사살하고 땅을 빼앗던 것에 호의적이지 않았기에, 워싱턴 정부는 '선제안, 후공격'으로 방침을 바꾸게 된 것이다. 어쨌든 땅을 빼앗길 걸 예상한 추장은 피어스 대통령에게 자신의 모국어로 된 긴 글을 보낸다.

 

 

그대들은 이 땅에 와서 이 대지 위에 무엇을 세우고자 하는가?

어떤 꿈을 그대들의 아이들에게 들려주고자 하는가?

땅을 파헤치고 나무들을 쓰러뜨리는 것이 행복한가?

연어 떼를 바라보며 다가올 겨울의 행복을 짐작하는 우리들만큼이나 행복한가?

 

결국 백인들은 자신들의 뜻을 이뤘지만 시애틀 추장의 선지자적이며 친환경적인 정신을 기려 워싱턴 주의 행정 소재지를 '시애틀 시'라 명명했다.

 

 

///////////

 

There is a great deal of controversy surrounding Chief Seattle's speech of 1854. There are many sources of information, various versions of the speech, and debates over its very existence. Please see the links at the end of the speech.

 

Version 1 appeared in the Seattle Sunday Star on Oct. 29, 1887, in a column by Dr. Henry A. Smith. He makes it very clear that his version is not an exact copy, but rather the best he could put together from notes taken at the time. There is an undecided historical argument on which native dialect the Chief would have used, Duwamish or Suquamish. Either way all agree the speech was translated into the Chinook Jargon on the spot, since Chief Seattle never learned to speak English.

 

[Version 1 begins: Yonder sky has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and which, to us, looks eternal, may change. To-day it is fair, to-morrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never set. ...]

 

Version 2 was written by poet William Arrowsmith in the late 1960s. This was an attempt to put the text into more current speech patterns, rather than Dr. Smith's more flowery Victorian style. Except for this modernization, it is very similar to Version 1.

[Version 2 begins: Brothers: That sky above us has pitied our fathers for many hundreds of years. To us it looks unchanging, but it may change. Today it is fair. Tomorrow it may be covered with cloud. ...]

 

Version 3 is perhaps the most widely known of all. This version was written by Texas professor Ted Perry as part of a film script. The makers of the film took a little literary license, further changing the speech and making it into a letter to President Franklin Pierce, which has been frequently reprinted. No such letter was ever written by or for Chief Seattle.

[Version 3 begins: The Great Chief in Washington sends word that 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. ...]

 

Version 4 appeared in an exhibit at Expo '74 in Spokane, Washington, and is a shortened edition of Dr. Perry's script (Version 3).

[Version 4 begins: The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. Buy our land! But how can you buy or sell the sky? the land? The idea is strange to us. ...] ...

 

 

Version 3   ///////////

 

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.

 

 

Version 1  ///////////

 

Version 1 (below) appeared in the Seattle Sunday Star on Oct. 29, 1887, in a column by Dr. Henry A. Smith.

 

"CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1

AUTHENTIC TEXT OF CHIEF SEATTLE'S TREATY ORATION 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.