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. We appreciate this kindness, for we know he has little need of our friendship in return. We shall consider his offer, for we know that if we do not, the white man may come with his firearms and take our land regardless. The Great Chief in Washington can trust what Chief Seattle says with the same certainty that our white brothers can trust the turning of the seasons. My words are unchangeable, like the stars.
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? The idea seems strange to us. We do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How could you buy them from us? We say this to you now: every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining leaf, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing, and every humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap that flows through the trees carries the memories of the red man.
The dead of the white man forget their native land 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 fragrant flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew-covered meadows, the body heat of the pony and of 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 a great deal of us. The Great Chief sends word that he will set aside a place where we can live comfortably among ourselves. He will be our father, and we will be his children. So we will consider his offer to buy our land. But it will not be easy, for this land is sacred to us. The sparkling water that runs in the rivers and streams is not merely water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you this land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred, and that every ghostly reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The murmur of the water 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 as well, and that from now on you must give the rivers the kindness you would give any brother.
We know that the white man does not understand our way of life. One piece of land is the same as another to him, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the earth whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother but his enemy, and once he has conquered it, he moves on. He leaves his fathers’ graves behind without a second thought. He takes the land from his children without a second thought. He forgets his father’s grave and his children’s birthright. He treats his mother the earth, and his brother the sky, as things that can be bought, plundered, and sold—like sheep or bright glass beads. His insatiable appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert.
I do not understand it. Our way is different from yours. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps that is because the red man is a savage and does not understand such things. There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities, no place to hear the leaves unfurl in spring or the wings of insects. But perhaps this too is because I am a savage and cannot understand. The noise of the city seems only to insult the ears. And what kind of life is it, if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the heron or the nighttime argument of the frogs around a pond? I am a red man, and I do not understand. We Indians prefer the soft sound of wind skimming the face of a lake, and the smell of that same wind, cleansed by a midday rain or scented with the fragrance of pine.
Air is a precious thing to the red man, for all things share the same breath—the animal, the tree, and the man. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying by slow degrees, he has grown 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 sustains. And if we sell you our land, you must set it apart and keep it sacred, as a place where even the white man may go to taste the wind made sweet by the flowers of the meadow.
We will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept it, I will set one condition: that the white man treat the animals of this land as his brothers. I am a savage and know no other way. I have seen a thousand rotting buffalo on the prairie, left there 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, which we kill only that we might live. What is man without the animals? If all the animals were gone, man would die of a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the animals soon happens to man also. All things are connected.
You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of their grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our ancestors. Teach your children what we have taught ours: that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the children of the earth. When men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.
This we know: the earth does not belong to man; man belongs to 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. Whatever happens to the earth will happen to the children of the earth. We know this. All things are connected, like the blood that unites a family.
Man did not weave the fabric of life; he is but one thread within it. Whatever he does to the fabric, he does to himself. Not even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to friend, is exempt from the common destiny. Perhaps, after all, we are brothers. 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 He belongs to you, just as you wish our land to belong to you; but it is not so. He is the God of all men, and His compassion is shared equally between the red man and the white man. This earth is of inestimable worth to Him, and to harm it is to provoke the Creator’s wrath. The white man, too, will pass away—perhaps before the other tribes.
Contaminate your own bed, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. But even in your final hour you will feel comforted by the thought that God brought you to this land and gave you dominion over it, and over the red man, for some special purpose. Such a destiny is a mystery to us, for we do not understand what will happen when the buffalo have all been slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the green hills closed off by a swarm of talking wires. Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And so life ends, and mere survival begins.