西雅圖酋長的演說
Chief Seattle's Oration

在我的人民看來，這兒的每一寸土地都是神聖的。每一個山坡，每一條山谷，每一塊平原和樹林都由於一些在那早已消逝的歲月裏的悲傷或愉快的事件，而變成了聖地。

西雅圖酋長是瀕臨太平洋的西北地區六個印地安部落的酋長。1854年12月，他對包括准州州長，白人移民和大約一千名印地安人在內的集會發表演說。他的講話是針對州長伊薩克‧艾‧史蒂文斯的。史蒂文斯州長剛從華盛頓特區來，帶來了購買印地安人土地，設置印地安人保護區的指示。在後來成為西雅圖市的地方，酋長發表了人們稱之為「葬禮演說」或者說是「天鵝臨終之歌」的演說。他表示他接受聯邦政府的提議，不發動戰爭以反抗在力量上佔絕對優勢的政府，因為那是註定要失敗的。早期歷史常常反覆刊載移民與印地安人之間的駭人聽聞的戰事。但是，當大多數印地安人部落被驅趕到西部，被馴化或被摧殘之後，印地安人成了人們同情或感傷的物件，成了「進步」或命定說的不可避免的受害者。西雅圖酋長的演說一再被重印，不是為了感傷地看待他為之辯護的人們，而是因為他動人地描述了紅種人與白種人之間的差異。下文再現了西雅圖酋長的演說。該文系亨利‧阿‧史密斯博士所作。他在1854年那個具有歷史意義的事件中，是西雅圖酋長的翻譯。

……說不清有多少世紀了，蒼天為我的人民灑下了多少動情的淚水，它在我們看來是水恆不變的，但卻可能要變了。今天晴空萬里，明天卻可能烏雲密佈。不過，我的話卻像那些星星，永世不變。如同日落日出，四季週而復始是不容置疑的一樣，西雅圖酋長說的一切，華盛頓的大首領同樣也無須置疑。白人頭領說，華盛頓的大頭領向我們表示友誼和善意。這是他的好意，因為我們知道，他根本無需我們以友誼作為回報。他們人多，多得就像那覆蓋著廣闊草原的青草。我的人民人少力薄，就像風暴肆虐後零星留在平原上的樹木。白人大首領，我姑且認為他是善良的首領，捎信給我們，說他希望購買我們的土地，不過願意允許我們擁有足夠我們安逸生活的土地。這看來的確是公正、甚至是慷慨的，因為紅種人不再擁有他必須尊重的權利了；這可能也是明智的，因為我們已不再需要遼闊的鄉土了。

我們的人民曾一度像大風攪亂的大海覆蓋著佈滿貝殼的海床一樣覆蓋著這片土地，但是，那時代早已同龐大的部落一道成為過去，而那些部落現在只不過是一樁令人憂傷的回憶。我不想細述或哀悼我們不合時宜的衰敗；我也不想斥責那些加速了我們衰敗過程的白臉兄弟，因為我們對此可能也有責任。

青年是容易感情衝動的。當我們的年輕人對某些真正的或臆想的冤屈而氣憤的時候，他們用黑顏料來改變他們的面容。這表明他們的心是黑的。他們常常是殘暴冷酷的，我們年邁的老頭子和老太婆無法約束他們。事情向來如此。當白人最初將我們的祖先往西趕時，情況就是這樣。不過，讓我們希望我們之間的敵意永遠別再復生。我們將喪失一切，而一無所獲。年輕人又琢磨著報仇了，即使犧牲他們自己的生命，也在所不辭。但是，那些在戰時留在家中的老年人，那些將失去兒子的母親比較明智些，他們不會答應的。

我們在華盛頓的慈父──因為我姑且承認他現在是我們的父親，也是你們的父親，既然喬治國王已經將他的邊界往北移了──我們偉大的慈父捎信給我們，表示如果我們按照他說的話辦，他就保護我們。他英勇的戰士對我們來說，將成為嚴陣以待的銅牆鐵壁，而他那頂呱呱的戰艦將遍佈我們的港口，這樣，我們北方的宿敵──海達斯和茨姆先斯部落就不能嚇唬我們的婦女、兒童和老人了。那麼，實際上他將成為我們的父親，而我們將成為他的孩子嗎?這可能嗎?你們的上帝不是我們的上帝！你們的上帝疼愛你們的人民，但卻增恨我的人民。你們的上帝用他有力的胳臂疼愛地摟著白人，保護他，像父親領著幼兒一樣手把手地領著他──但是，他卻遺忘了他的紅種子女──如果他們真是他的子女的話，我們的上帝是偉大的神靈，但他似乎也遺忘了我們。你們的上帝使你們的人口日益增長，很快他們就將充斥整個大地。而我們的人口，卻像迅速退去而且水不再漲的潮水一樣，越來越少。白人的上帝不可能疼愛我們的人民，不然他就會保護他們的。他們就像無依無靠的嬰兒。這樣，我們怎麼能成為兄弟呢?你們的上帝怎麼會成為我們的上帝呢?你們的上帝怎麼會再現我們的繁盛，喚醒我們心中要求重新強大起來的夢想呢?如果說我們同有一位天國之父，那麼他一定是偏心的──因為他只看望他的白人子女。我們從未見過他。他賦予你們法律，可是對他的紅種子女卻沒有片言隻語，儘管他的這些子女曾人丁興旺，一度充斥這片廣衰的大陸，就像繁星充斥了太空一樣。不！我們是兩個不同的種族，起源不同，命運也不同。我們之間沒有什麼共同之處。

祖先的骨灰對我們來說是神聖的，他們安息之場所是聖地。你們遠離祖先的墓地漫遊，並且似乎毫無任何遺憾的感覺。你們的宗教是你們的上帝用他鐵一般的手指，書寫在石碑上，這樣你們就不會遺忘。紅種人永遠無法理解，也無法記住你們的宗教。我們的宗教是我們祖先的傳統──是偉大神靈在深夜莊嚴的時刻交給我們老人的夢想，是我們酋長心中的幻象。我們的宗教就寫在我們人民的心中。

你們的死者一旦邁進墳墓的門檻，便遠遊星際，不再鍾愛你們，不再鍾愛養育了他們的故土。他們很快便被遺忘，也永遠不再回返。我們的死者永遠不會忘卻那給予他們身心的美麗家園。他們依舊留戀那碧綠的山谷，潺潺的流水，巍巍的叢山，與世隔絕的溪穀，鑲著翠綠堤岸的湖泊和海灣。他們甚至柔情脈脈地思慕那些仍然活在世間的心中寂寞的人們，常常從歡樂的狩獵場抽身回來探望、指引、撫問和安慰他們。晝夜不能同在。紅種人一向在白種人來臨時遁去，就像晨霧在晨曦前逃逸一樣。

不過，你們的建議看來還公平。我想，我的人民會接受，並且將退到你們為我們提供的保護區內。那時，我們就將分別生活在和平之中，因為白人大首領的話似乎就是那冥冥無知的自然對我的人民說的一樣。

我們的餘生在何處度過沒有多大關係。反正所剩的時日也不多了。印地安人的夜看來是漆黑一片。地平線上連顆希望之星都沒有。淒風在遠處呻吟。冷酷無情的命運看來是跟定了紅種人的足跡。無論他走到哪裡，都會聽到兇殘的殺手逼近的腳步聲。他木然地準備迎接死亡，就像受傷的母鹿聽到獵人逼近的腳步聲時一樣。

再過幾個月，再過幾個冬天──昔日在偉大神靈庇佑下，馳騁在這片遼闊的土地上或安居在幸福家園的強大主人們，到頭來將連一個在墳頭哀悼的後人都不會留下──那是一度曾比你們更強大、更有希望的民族的墳家啊。不過，為什麼我要對我的人民過早天折的命運哀悼呢?一個部落取代另一個部落，一個民族取代另一個民族，就像大海的波浪，一浪接一浪。這就是自然的法則，悔恨是無濟於事的。你們衰敗的時日也許還很遙遠，但是它終究會到來，因為即使白人與他的上帝一道漫步、交談，有如朋友，白人也逃脫不了相同的命運。我們最終可能成為兄弟。我們等著瞧。

我們將考慮你們的建議，一旦我們作出了決定，便會通知你們。不過，倘若我們接受了你們的建議，此時此地我要提出這個條件，我們將有權不受干擾地祭掃我們祖先、朋友和子女的墳墓。在我的人民看來，這兒的每一寸土地都是神聖的。每一個山坡，每一條山谷，每一塊平原和樹林都由於一些在那早已消逝的歲月裏的悲傷或愉快的事件，而變成了聖地。岩石貌似麻木、毫無生氣，但卻在那陽光普照的靜悄悄的海岸邊淌著汗水，顫慄著回想起那些與我的人民聯繫在一起的動人往事；那片就在你們腳底下的沙土回應他們腳步比起回應你們腳步來，要帶著更多的愛與情，因為它包含著我們祖先的鮮血，而我們赤裸的雙足能感覺到它滿懷同情的愛撫。我們逝去的勇士、慈祥的母親、歡快的少年，甚至還有孩童，他們曾在這兒生活，曾在這兒慶祝過短暫的時光，他們將熱愛這些幽暗僻靜的地方。當潮汐平息時，他們在這兒迎候返鄉人的身影。倘若最後一位紅種人也泯滅了，關於我的部落的回憶將成為白人之間的傳說。這些海岸將充滿我部落中冥冥不可見的死者，當你們孩子的孩子以為他們是獨自呆在田野上、商店裏、店舖裏、公路上或者寂靜無徑的樹林裏時，他們卻並不孤單。在這地球上，沒有僻靜的地方。深夜，當你們的城市、鄉村的街道寂靜無聲的時候，你們以為這些街道已經被人捨棄了，而實際上，它們卻熙熙攘攘擠滿了那些還鄉的主人。他們曾經充斥了這些街道。他們仍然鍾情 於這片美麗的土地。白人永遠不會孤單的。

願他公正善良地對待我的人民。死去的並不是無能為力的。死去的？我這麼說了嗎？世上沒有死亡，只有轉世。

Chief Seattle's Oration

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 lands 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 men first began to push our forefathers further 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 at 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 Hydas and Tsimpsians, will cease to frighten our women, children and old men. Then in reality will he 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 pale face and leads him by the hand as a father leads his 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 strong 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 tables of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend nor remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors--the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of 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 the 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 Indians' 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 goes 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 with 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 they 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 to 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 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.