Amazing Save the Earth Speech by the Indian Chief Seattle -Written in 1854

Talk about the destruction of our planet, global warming, etc. read the shocking following post!

American Indian, Chief Seattle letter (Tradução para o português abaixo!)

American Indian, Chief Seattle, wrote to President Franklin Pierce in 1854. How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of 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 this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories 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 a part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and 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 much of us. The Great Chief sends word he will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves. 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. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghastly reflection in the clear water of the lake 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. 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, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness you would give any brother. We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for 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 fathers' graves and his children's birthright is forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth, and his brother, 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 your 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 the 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 a pond, and the smell of the wind itself, cleansed by rain or scented with the pine cone. The air is precious to the red man, for all things share the same breath: the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white men, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man 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 gave our grandfather his first breath also received 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 the 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 savage and I 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 a savage and I do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be more important that 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 spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens 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. 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.

Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as 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 the red man and the white. The earth is precious to him, and to harm the earth is to heap contempt upon its Creator. The Whites, too, shall pass; perhaps sooner than all other tribes. Contaminate your bed and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.

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 buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses are tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted out by talking wires. Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone.

Carta do Chefe Índio Seattle
Trechos da carta escrita, em 1854, pelo Chefe índio Seattle ao então Presidente dos EUA, Franklin Pierce, "o grande chefe branco de Washington", que pretendia comprar uma imensa faixa territorial de sua tribo prometendo em troca "uma reserva".


Como podereis vós comprar ou vender o céu, o calor, a terra? Se nós possuíssemos a frescura do ar, e a frescura da água, de que maneira poderia Vossa Excelência comprá-los? Cada pedaço dessa terra é sagrado para o meu povo. Cada espinho do pinheiro, cada rio murmurante, cada bruma nos bosques, cada clareira, cada zumbido de inseto é sagrado na lembrança e na vivência do meu povo.

A seiva que corre nas árvores lembra o meu povo. Nós somos uma parte da terra, e ela faz parte de nós. As flores perfumadas são nossas irmãs; o cervo, o cavalo, a grande água, são nossos irmãos.

As rochas escarpadas, o aroma das pradarias, o ímpeto de nossos cavalos e o homem, todos são da mesma família.

Assim, o Grande Chefe de Washington, mandando dizer que quer comprar nossa terra, está pedindo demais a nós índios. Manda o Grande Chefe dizer que nos reservará lugares onde poderemos viver confortavelmente entre nós. Ele será nosso pai e nós, seus filhos.

Prometemos pensar na vossa idéia de comprar nossa terra. Mas não será fácil, pois essa terra para nós é sagrada. A água cintilante que corre nos riachos e rios não é só água, mas, também, o sangue de nossos ancestrais. Os rios são nossos irmãos.

Eles saciam nossa sede, levam nossas canoas e alimentam nossos filhos. Se nós vendermos nossa terra, vós deveis vos lembrar e ensinar vossos filhos que os rios são nossos irmãos e também vossos, e vós deveis doravante dar aos rios a ternura que mostrais para um irmão.

Sabemos que o homem branco não entende nossos costumes. Um pedaço de terra para ele é igual ao pedaço da terra vizinha, pois é um estranho que chega, às escuras, e se apossa da terra de que tem necessidade.

A terra não é sua irmã, mas sua inimiga, e uma vez conquistada, o homem branco vai mais longe. Seu apetite arrasará a terra e não deixará nela mais que um deserto.

Não sei, nossos costumes são diferentes dos vossos. A imagem de vossas cidades faz mal aos olhos do homem vermelho. Mas, isso talvez seja porque o homem vermelho é um selvagem e não entende.

Não há mais lugar calmo nas cidades do homem branco; a barulheira parece estourar os ouvidos. O índio prefere o doce assobio do vento lançando-se como uma flecha sobre o espelho de um lago, e o aroma do vento molhado pela chuva do dia ou perfumado pelo pinheiro.

O ar é precioso ao homem vermelho, pois todas as coisas participam do mesmo sopro - o animal, a árvore, o homem. Eles dividem todos o mesmo sopro. O homem branco parece não se lembrar do ar que respira. O vento, que deu ao nosso avô o primeiro fôlego, recebeu, também, seu último suspiro.

Pensaremos, portanto, na vossa oferta de comprar as nossas terras.

Mas, se decidirmos aceitá-la, eu porei uma condição: o homem branco deverá tratar os animais selvagens como irmãos. Vi mais de mil bisontes apodrecendo nos campos, abandonados pelo homem branco, que os abateu de um trem que passava.

O que é o homem sem os animais? Se os animais desaparecerem, o homem morrerá dentro de uma grande solidão.

Ensinai também a vossos filhos aquilo que ensinamos aos nossos: que a terra é nossa mãe. Dizei a eles que a respeitem, pois tudo o que acontecer à terra, acontecerá aos filhos da terra. Seus homens cospem no chão, eles cospem sobre eles mesmos. Ao menos sabemos isto: a terra não é do homem; o homem pertence à terra. Todas as coisas são dependentes. Não foi o homem que teceu a teia de sua vida, ele não passa de um fio desta teia. Tudo o que ele fizer para esta teia, estará fazendo para si mesmo.

Há uma coisa que sabemos, e que o homem branco descobrirá, talvez um dia: é que nosso Deus é o mesmo Deus, e sua piedade é igual, para o homem vermelho e o homem branco. Esta terra lhe é preciosa, e danificá-la é acumular de desprezo seu Criador.