Walter Miranda
Plastic Artist

Letter of Chief Seattle

November/1996 and September/2007
Walter  Miranda
In the middle of the 70’s, I knew the letter of the native Chief Seattle (1790/1866) answering the USA president offer, Franklin Pearce, who wanted to buy the native land  in change  of a reservation in 1855.

During 20 years, I have been fascinated by the poetic and philosophic beauty of the words of this human being (who led the tribes of the Duwamish, Samanish, Skopamish, Stakmish  and Suquamish) and tortured by the prophetical evidence of his words. 

In the course of time and updating my researches, I discovered that the Chief Seattle did a speech during a peace treaty which indigenous lands were sold in exchange for a reservation in 1855. That speech was witnessed by his admirer, Henry A. Smith, that published it in a local newspaper in 1887, based on his memories on the speech. In 1971, the speech suffered alterations done by a scriptwriter, Ted Perry, for a documentary with ecological theme. Since then, the text of that documentary became known as the letter answer of Chief Seattle to the North American president. 

Although, the authorship is ambivalent, that communion of texts, in my opinion, presents a message for the humankind which is completely up to date.

November/1996 and September/2007

Walter  Miranda  
The Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. He also sends words of friendship and cordiality. It is kind of him, even knowing that he has little need of our friendship in return. 

But, we will consider his offer, because we know that if we do not sell it, the white man may appear with guns and take our land.

Is it possible to buy or to sell the sky and the heat of the land? This 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 is holy in the memory 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 crest, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and the man, all belong to the same family.

So,  when the Great Chief sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The Great Chief sends word that he will reserve us a place so that we can live happily. 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. This land is sacred to us. The shining water that moves in 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, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The waters 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 to teach your children that the rivers are our brother and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness that you would give to any brother.

The red man always feared the white man advance, as the mountain mist runs before the morning sun. But our parents’ ashes are sacred. Their graves are sacred ground, and therefore, these hills, these trees, that portion of world, are sacred to us. We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next. 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 he does not care. He kidnaps the earth from his children, and he does not care. His father’s grave and his children’s birthright are forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, and 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 yours 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 an 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 a 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 the 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 him, 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 an animal 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 life it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also receives his last sigh. 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 meadow’s flowers. So we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we decide to accept, I 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 savage and do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be made 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 the spirit. Whatever happens to the beasts, soon happen 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 - befall 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  that you have for my people. We will live isolated and in peace. It does not matter where we pass the end of our lives. Our children saw their fathers humiliated in defeat. Our warriors felt disgrace after the defeat and made their days lazy, contaminating their bodies with sweets and strong drinks. It does not matter where we pass our final days. There will not be many. Some more hours, some more winters. And we will not let the children of the great tribes that lived in that land or that now walk about in small groups in the forests, complain of grave of a people, once so strong and hopeful as yours. But why must I complain the passing of my people? Tribes are made of men, nothing else. Men come and go like the waves of the sea. Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as a 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 red man and the white. The earth is precious to Him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator. 

The white too shall pass, perhaps sooner than all tribes. Continue contaminating your beds, and in a certain night you will be suffocated by your own ruin. 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 do not understand when the buffaloes are slaughtered, the wild horses tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with 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. The end of living and the beginning of survival.

Therefore, we will consider your offer to buy our land. If we agree, it will be to ensured the reservation you promised us. There, perhaps, we will be able to live our last days as we wish. When the last red man disappears from this land, and his memory be only the shadow of cloud moving over the prairie, these beaches and forests will still be keeping the spirits of my people. For my people love this land as the newborn baby loves the beat of his mother’s heart. 

Therefore if we sell you our land, try to love it as we do. Take care of it as we do. Keep in your souls’ memory how was this land when you took it. And with all yours strengths, with all yours souls will all yours hearts preserve this earth for your children and love it as God loves everyone. One thing we know - our God is the same God. The earth is precious to Him.  Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny. Despite all, we can be brothers. We shall see.
Walter Miranda
Ateliê Oficina FWM de Artes
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