This column will be devoted to some inspiring articles or touching
stories that will spur us on towards the work of justice and peace.
OF
THE
SAME
EARTH
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In 1854, the 'Great White Chief' in Washington made an offer for
a large area of Indian land and promised a 'reservation' for the
Indian people. Chief Seattle's reply, published here in full,
has been described as the most beautiful and profound statement
on the environment ever made.
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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 humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my
people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memory
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. So, the Great Chief sends word
that he will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably
to ourselves. He will be our father and we will be his children.
So we will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not
be easy. For this land is sacred to my people.
This
shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just
water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you land, you
must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children
that it is sacred, and that each ghostly reflection in the clear
water of the lake 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 the 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. Their graves are holy ground,
and so these hills, these trees; this portion of earth is consecrated
to us. We know that the white man does not understand our ways.
One portion of the land is 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
behind, and does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children.
He does not care. His father's 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 whippoorwill 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 the 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 man dying for many days, he is numb to the stench. But
if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious
to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports.
The wind that gave our grandfather his 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,
we will make one condition: The white man must treat the beasts
of this land as his brothers. I am a savage and do not understand
any other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the
prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train.
I am a savage and I do not understand how the smoking iron horse
can be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay
alive. What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were
gone, man would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever
happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected.
You
must teach your 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.
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 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 roam 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 don't 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.
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 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 new born loves its mother's heartbeat. So 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 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 this common destiny.
We may be brothers after all. We shall see.
*
* * * * * * ** * *
(Please
pass it on, if you find it inspiring…… and help maintain
the Integrity of Creation - Bro. P.J. Philip)
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