你們怎能買賣天空的蔚藍、土地的溫暖、羚羊的奔馳？我們怎能把這些賣給你們呢？你們又怎能買到這些呢？
西雅圖酋長的宣言
前言：這是一八五二年印第安酋長西雅圖寫給美國政府的一封信，也是留給全體人類最美麗，卻發人深省的故事。
在我的族人心中，大地的每一個部分都是神聖的。每一根閃亮的松針，每一處溫柔的海岸，每一抹森林中的薄霧，每一片森林間的草地，每一隻鳴叫的蟲兒，在我的族人的記憶與經驗中都是神聖的。樹幹中流動的汁液，承載著我們的記憶。
白人的魂魄在星辰之間遊蕩時，早已忘記他們出生的家園；我們的逝者永遠不會遺忘這美麗的土地，因為土地是紅人的母親。我們的逝者永遠懷念那湍急的河流、春日寂靜的跫音、池塘晶亮的漣漪和鳥兒斑斕的彩羽。我們與土地密不可分，芬芳的花朵是我們的姊妹，鹿兒、馬兒與禿鷹是我們的兄弟，怪石嶙峋的山峰、原野上的露珠與小馬溫暖的身軀，和我們都是一家人。
當華盛頓地區新任首長傳話來，表示要買我們的土地，這是多麼重大的一件事。我，西雅圖酋長說的話是可信的，正如白人相信季節的循環，我的話有如星辰，永不墜落。
前言：這是一八五二年印第安酋長西雅圖寫給美國政府的一封信，也是留給全體人類最美麗，卻發人深省的故事。
在我的族人心中，大地的每一個部分都是神聖的。每一根閃亮的松針，每一處溫柔的海岸，每一抹森林中的薄霧，每一片森林間的草地，每一隻鳴叫的蟲兒，在我的族人的記憶與經驗中都是神聖的。樹幹中流動的汁液，承載著我們的記憶。
白人的魂魄在星辰之間遊蕩時，早已忘記他們出生的家園；我們的逝者永遠不會遺忘這美麗的土地，因為土地是紅人的母親。我們的逝者永遠懷念那湍急的河流、春日寂靜的跫音、池塘晶亮的漣漪和鳥兒斑斕的彩羽。我們與土地密不可分，芬芳的花朵是我們的姊妹，鹿兒、馬兒與禿鷹是我們的兄弟，怪石嶙峋的山峰、原野上的露珠與小馬溫暖的身軀，和我們都是一家人。
當華盛頓地區新任首長傳話來，表示要買我們的土地，這是多麼重大的一件事。我，西雅圖酋長說的話是可信的，正如白人相信季節的循環，我的話有如星辰，永不墜落。
所以我們會考慮你們購買土地的提議。但這不容易，我們的土地是神聖的。我們在茂密的森林和飛舞的溪水中獲得歡樂，潺潺的流水不只是水，是我們祖先的血液。倘若我們把土地賣給你們，你們必須牢記，並且要不斷地教導你們的子孫—土地是神聖的。清澈湖水中的每一抹倒影，都訴說著族人生命中動人的故事與回憶。河水汨汨的低語是我先人的聲音；河川是我們的兄弟，解除我們的乾渴；奔流的河水，讓獨木舟載著我們到遙遠的地方。如果你們買了土地，必須仁慈地善待河流，正如善待你們的手足一般。你們能夠這麼做，我就會考慮你們的提議。
白人進逼之時，紅人總是撤退的，就如山坡上的晨霧，在太陽東昇之前隨風奔散。祖先的骨灰是神聖的，他們的墳墓是聖地，山丘、森林也是一樣，白人不能理解。對白人而言，每一塊土地都一樣，因為他們是流浪者，總是暗夜而來，對大地予取予求，土地不是他們的兄弟，而是敵人。攻占得勝之後，就繼續前進，無視於父祖的墳墓，還剝奪了子孫的土地，一點都不在乎祖先的勞苦與後代生存的權利。白人對待大地與天空，就視同溫馴的綿羊與耀眼的首飾，可以隨意地買賣。白人的貪婪將毀滅大地，而最後留下來的，將只是一片荒蕪。
白人如蛇一般，為了求存活而吞咬自己的尾巴，他的尾巴越來越短。紅人與白人的生活方式不同，你們的城市彷彿大地的黑瘤，我們無法安居其中。白人城市的景象刺痛我的眼睛，一如從幽黑的山洞走出來，被熾亮的陽光所灼傷。白人的城市裡，找不到一個寧靜的安歇處，可以聽到春天葉子舒展、昆蟲振翅飛鳴的聲音。倘若一個人不能聽到畫眉的歌聲、青蛙的爭鳴，那是什麼樣的生活呢？
但我是紅人，我不能理解。我寧可欣賞吹拂過池塘的微風，和午後驟雨洗潤過大地的氣息。對紅人而言，空氣是極為珍貴的，因為空氣是野獸、森林、人類與萬物共享的。白人不在乎他們呼吸的空氣多麼汙濁，就像纏綿病榻的久病者，對惡臭已無知覺。風賜給人們生命的第一口呼吸，也接受人臨終最後一聲的嘆息。倘若我們將土地賣給你們，你們要將它視為聖地，讓它成為白人可以去品味花香、享受和風的地方。
假如我們決定接受你們買地的提議，我有一個條件：白人必須把野獸當作兄弟。我曾聽說，白人在搭乘火車途中，射殺成千上萬的野牛，任其在草原上腐爛，我不能理解；至於我們，我們只為了生存而獵殺。假如我們賣地給你們，你們也須如此，因為野獸是我們的兄弟。如果野獸都滅絕，那麼人又算什麼呢？即使蚯蚓，也能使土壤鬆軟，讓人踩在大地上。如果所有的野獸都消失，人類將因寂寞而死。發生在野獸身上的，也將降臨到人類。
我們會考慮你們的提議，但不要催促我們，我們有自己的時程。倘若我必須接受，我還有一個條件：我們探視父母、朋友墳墓的權利，永遠不可被剝奪，白人絕不可褻瀆這些墓地。這些墳墓必須永遠在陽光與雨水之下，讓雨水可以輕輕落在綠草上，緩緩地滲入泥土中，滋潤著我們祖先焦乾的嘴唇，解除他們的乾渴。
日與夜是不能共存的。族人問我：「白人究竟想買什麼呢？」對我們而言，白人的想法是不可思議的。你們怎能買賣天空的蔚藍、土地的溫暖、羚羊的奔馳？我們怎能把這些賣給你們呢？你們又怎能買到這些呢？難道你們可以僅憑紅人的一紙簽約，就對土地為所欲為？假如清新的空氣與晶瑩的流水不屬於我們，你們又怎能買到呢？當最後一頭野牛死去，你們能再把牠們買回來嗎？
你們的提議似乎合理，我想我的族人會接受，遷往為我們設立的保留區，與白人隔離生活，靜度餘生。
神為著某個特別的目的，引領白人前來，讓你們統治這塊土地，這樣的命運神祕難解。當野牛被屠殺殆盡，野馬都被馴服，森林中幽深的角落充滿人們的汗臭味，這樣，人生將變成什麼呢？灌木叢哪裡去了？不見了！老鷹哪裡去了？不見了！向奔馳的野馬說再見、向狩獵的日子說再見，這又是怎樣的世界？美好的人生即將結束，也是劫後殘生的開始。
倘若我們把土地賣給你們，請記得：這土地上充滿勇敢的年輕人，有溫暖乳房的母親，心思敏銳的少女，還有快樂嬉戲的小孩。
(泰德‧佩瑞＜怎能出賣天空---西雅圖酋長的心靈宣言＞)
"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.
白人進逼之時，紅人總是撤退的，就如山坡上的晨霧，在太陽東昇之前隨風奔散。祖先的骨灰是神聖的，他們的墳墓是聖地，山丘、森林也是一樣，白人不能理解。對白人而言，每一塊土地都一樣，因為他們是流浪者，總是暗夜而來，對大地予取予求，土地不是他們的兄弟，而是敵人。攻占得勝之後，就繼續前進，無視於父祖的墳墓，還剝奪了子孫的土地，一點都不在乎祖先的勞苦與後代生存的權利。白人對待大地與天空，就視同溫馴的綿羊與耀眼的首飾，可以隨意地買賣。白人的貪婪將毀滅大地，而最後留下來的，將只是一片荒蕪。
白人如蛇一般，為了求存活而吞咬自己的尾巴，他的尾巴越來越短。紅人與白人的生活方式不同，你們的城市彷彿大地的黑瘤，我們無法安居其中。白人城市的景象刺痛我的眼睛，一如從幽黑的山洞走出來，被熾亮的陽光所灼傷。白人的城市裡，找不到一個寧靜的安歇處，可以聽到春天葉子舒展、昆蟲振翅飛鳴的聲音。倘若一個人不能聽到畫眉的歌聲、青蛙的爭鳴，那是什麼樣的生活呢？
但我是紅人，我不能理解。我寧可欣賞吹拂過池塘的微風，和午後驟雨洗潤過大地的氣息。對紅人而言，空氣是極為珍貴的，因為空氣是野獸、森林、人類與萬物共享的。白人不在乎他們呼吸的空氣多麼汙濁，就像纏綿病榻的久病者，對惡臭已無知覺。風賜給人們生命的第一口呼吸，也接受人臨終最後一聲的嘆息。倘若我們將土地賣給你們，你們要將它視為聖地，讓它成為白人可以去品味花香、享受和風的地方。
假如我們決定接受你們買地的提議，我有一個條件：白人必須把野獸當作兄弟。我曾聽說，白人在搭乘火車途中，射殺成千上萬的野牛，任其在草原上腐爛，我不能理解；至於我們，我們只為了生存而獵殺。假如我們賣地給你們，你們也須如此，因為野獸是我們的兄弟。如果野獸都滅絕，那麼人又算什麼呢？即使蚯蚓，也能使土壤鬆軟，讓人踩在大地上。如果所有的野獸都消失，人類將因寂寞而死。發生在野獸身上的，也將降臨到人類。
我們會考慮你們的提議，但不要催促我們，我們有自己的時程。倘若我必須接受，我還有一個條件：我們探視父母、朋友墳墓的權利，永遠不可被剝奪，白人絕不可褻瀆這些墓地。這些墳墓必須永遠在陽光與雨水之下，讓雨水可以輕輕落在綠草上，緩緩地滲入泥土中，滋潤著我們祖先焦乾的嘴唇，解除他們的乾渴。
日與夜是不能共存的。族人問我：「白人究竟想買什麼呢？」對我們而言，白人的想法是不可思議的。你們怎能買賣天空的蔚藍、土地的溫暖、羚羊的奔馳？我們怎能把這些賣給你們呢？你們又怎能買到這些呢？難道你們可以僅憑紅人的一紙簽約，就對土地為所欲為？假如清新的空氣與晶瑩的流水不屬於我們，你們又怎能買到呢？當最後一頭野牛死去，你們能再把牠們買回來嗎？
你們的提議似乎合理，我想我的族人會接受，遷往為我們設立的保留區，與白人隔離生活，靜度餘生。
神為著某個特別的目的，引領白人前來，讓你們統治這塊土地，這樣的命運神祕難解。當野牛被屠殺殆盡，野馬都被馴服，森林中幽深的角落充滿人們的汗臭味，這樣，人生將變成什麼呢？灌木叢哪裡去了？不見了！老鷹哪裡去了？不見了！向奔馳的野馬說再見、向狩獵的日子說再見，這又是怎樣的世界？美好的人生即將結束，也是劫後殘生的開始。
倘若我們把土地賣給你們，請記得：這土地上充滿勇敢的年輕人，有溫暖乳房的母親，心思敏銳的少女，還有快樂嬉戲的小孩。
(泰德‧佩瑞＜怎能出賣天空---西雅圖酋長的心靈宣言＞)
"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.
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