Chief Seattle letters Las cartas del Jefe Seattle"Only after the last tree has been cut down. Only after the last river has been poisoned. Only after the last fish has been caught. Only then will you find that money cannot be eaten.”

“Solo despues de que el ultimo arbol haya sido cortado.Solo despues de que el ultimo rio haya sido enveneneado.Solo despues de que el ultimo pez haya sido cazado.Solo despues se daran cuenta de que el dinero no se puede comer"--Cree Indian prophecy

Chief Seattle's Letter To All

THE PEOPLE

Chief Seattle, Chief of the Suquamish Indians allegedly wrote to the American Government in the

1800's - In this letter he gave the most profound understanding of God in all Things. Here is his letter,

which should be instilled in the hearts and minds of every parent and child in all the Nations of the

World:

CHIEF SEATTLE'S LETTER

"The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or

sell the sky? 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 the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore,

every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and

experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our

veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the

deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, the body heat

of the pony, and man all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our

ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each glossy reflection in the

clear waters 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. They carry our canoes and feed our children.

So you must give the rivers the kindness that you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all

the life that it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh.

The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So if we sell our land, you must keep it apart and

sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.

Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our mother?

What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.

This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are

connected like the blood that unites us all. 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.

One thing we know: our God is also your God. The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth

is to heap contempt on its creator.

Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild

horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of

many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted with talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone!

Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and then hunt? The end

of living and the beginning of survival.

When the last red man has vanished with this wilderness, and his memory is only the shadow of a

cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here? Will there be any of the

spirit of my people left?

We love this earth as a newborn 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 receive it. Preserve the land for all children, and love it, as God loves us.

As we are part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also

precious to you.

One thing we know - there is only one God. No man, be he Red man or White man, can be apart.

We ARE all brothers after all."

La carta del jefe seattle

"El presidente en Washington manda decir que el desea comprar nuestra tierra. Pero como

podemos comprar o vender el cielo? la tierra? La idea es extrana para nosotros. Si nosotros no somos

duenos de la frescura del aire y el brillo del agua, como podemos comprarlos?

Cada parte de la tierra es sagrada para mi gente. Cada espina brillante de pino, Cada rivera con

arena, cada niebla en los bosques negros, every meadow, cada insecto murmurante. Todos son

sagrados en la memoria y la experiencia de mi gente.

Nosotros conocemos cada espacio que corre entre los arboles como conocemos la sangre que

corre en nuestras venas. Somos parte de la tierra y ella es parte de nosotros. Las flores perfumadas

son nuestras hermana. El oso, el venado, La gran aguila , Ellos son nuestros hermanos. Las puntas

rocosas, el rocio en los bosques, el calor del cuerpo del pony, y el hombre todos somos de la misma

familia.

El agua brillante que corre en los rios y arrollos no es solo agua, sino la sangre de nuestros

ancestros. Si vendemos nuestra tierra, Debes recordar de que es sagrada. Cada refleccion pinturesca

de los lagos recuerdan memorias y eventos en la vida de mi gente. El murmullo del agua es la voz del

padre de mi padre.

Los rios son nuestros hermanos. Ellos calman nuestra sed. Ellos acarrean nuestras canoas y

alimentan nuestros ninos. Asi que debes dar al rio el buen trato que le darias a cualquier hermano.

Si vendemos nuestra tierra, recuerda que el aire es precioso para nosotros, que el aire comparte

el espiritu con la vida que soporta. El viente que dio el primer respiro a nuestro abuelo tambien lo dio

su ultimo suspiro. El viento tambien le da a nuestros ninos la vida . Asi que si vendemos nuestra tierra,

debes de mantenerla sagrada y aparte, como un lugar donde el hombre pued eir a probar el aire que

es endulsado con el olor de las flores del bosque .

Ensenaras a tus hijos lo que le ensenamos a nuestros hijos? Que la tierra es nuestra madre? Lo

que cae contra a la tierra cae contra los hijos de la tierra.

Esto sabemos: La tierra no pertenece al hombre, el hombre pertenece a la tierra. Todas la cosas

estan conectadas como la sangre que nos une a todos. El hombre no hiso la red de la vida, el solo es

un nudo en ella. Lo que el haga a la red , El se lo hace a si mismo.

Una cosa sabemos: nuestro dios es tambien tu dios. La tierra es preciosa para el y el lastimar la

tierra es hacer mal en contra de su creador.

Tu destino es un misterio para nosotros. Que pasara cuando los bufalos sean todos asesinados?

Los caballos salvajes amanzados? Que pasara cuando loas esquinas secretas de los bosques esten

pesados con las esencias de muchos hombres y las vistas de los cerros cargados y amontonados con

los alambres que hablan?(telegrafos) Adonde estaran los grillos? No estaran! Adonde las aguilas

estaran? No estaran! Y que es el decir adios al veloz pony y entonces cazar? El fin a vivir y el principio

a sobrevivir.

Cuando el hombre rojo se marche de estos bosques, y su memoria sea solo la sombra de una

nube que se mueva sobre los pastizales , Estaran las riveras y los bosques todabia aqui? Quedaran

los espiritus de algunas de mis gentes todabia?

Nosotros amamos la tierra como un recien nacido ama el sonido del corazon de su madre. Asi,

Que si vendemos nuestra tierra, Amala como nosotros la amamos. Cuidala como nosotros la hemos

cuidado. Manten en tu mente la memoria de la tierra como la recibistes. Preserva la tierra para todos

los ninos , y amala, Como dios nos ama.

Como somos parte de la tierra, tu tambien eres parte de la tierra. Esta tierra es preciosa para

nosotros. Es tambien preciosa para ti.

Una cosa sabemos- hay solo un dios. No hombre, Ser el hombre rojo o l hombre blanco, pueden

estar separados. Nosotros SOMOS hermanos despues de todo."

I have found that the text above is not historically accurate, nor even something that Chief

Seattle said. I am not going to change the text above because of its impact, but these links will give

better historical accuracy and proper context.

Please check them out to Educate Yo'self.

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

Chief Seattle on the Internet

"Thus Spoke Chief Seattle: The Story of An Undocumented Speech"

By Jerry L. Clark, National Archives and Records Administration.

EarthMother

by Èlan Michaels

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.

Part of a multimedia presentation, interpreted and narrated by Wes Felty:

Chief Seattle's reply to a Government offer to purchase the remaining Salish lands. (737k MP3)

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.

* http://www.archives.gov/publications/prologue/1985/spring/chief-seattle.html

Detailed research calling into question the very existence of the speech, based on the Bureau of

Indian Affairs records at the National Archives, by Jerry L. Clark.

* http://www.geocities.com/Athens/2344/chiefs3.htm

Research by Per-Olof Johansson in Denmark

* http://www.kyphilom.com/www/seattle.html

"Chief Seattle's Thoughts" - two versions of the speech, by Duane Bristow

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