原载《山茶·人文地理杂志》第100期
作者：印第安索瓜米西族酋长·西雅图
这篇动人心弦的演说，是1851年，印第安索瓜米西族酋长西雅图所发表的，地点在美国华盛顿州的布格海湾。是时，美国政府要求签约，要以15万美元买下印第安人的200万英亩土地。华盛顿州的州政府便以他的名字定名。
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你怎能把天空、大地的温馨买下？我们不懂。
若空气失去了新鲜，流水失去了晶莹，你还能把它买下？
我们红人，视大地每一方土地为圣洁。在我们的记忆里，在我们的生命里，每一根晶亮的松板，每一片沙滩，每一撮幽林里的气息，每一种引人自省、鸣叫的昆虫都是神圣的。树液的芳香在林中穿越，也渗透了红人自亘古以来的记忆。
白人死后漫游星际之时，早忘了生他的大地。红人死后永不忘我们美丽的出生地。因为，大地是我们的母亲，母子连心，互为一体。绿意芬芳的花朵是我们的姊妹，鹿、马、大鹰都是我们的兄弟，山岩峭壁、草原上的露水、人身上、马身上所散发出的体热，都是一家子亲人。
华盛顿京城的大统领传话来说，要买我们的地。他要的不只是地。大统领说，会留下一块保护地，留给我们过安逸的日子。这么一来，大统领成了我们的父亲，我们成了他的子女。
我们会考虑你的条件，但这买卖不那么容易，因为，这地是圣洁的。
溪中、河里的晶晶流水不仅是水，是我们世代祖先的血。若卖地给你，务请牢记，这地是圣洁的，务请教导你的子子孙孙，这地是圣洁的。湖中清水里的每一种映象，都代表一种灵意，映出无数的古迹，各式的仪式，以及我们的生活方式。流水的声音不大，但它说的话，是我们祖先的声音。
河流是我们的兄弟，它解我们的渴，运送我们的独木舟，喂养我们的子女。若卖地给你，务请记得，务请教导你的子女，河流是我们的兄弟，你对它，要付出爱，要周到，像爱你自己的兄弟一样。
白人不能体会我们的想法，这点，我知道。
在白人眼里，哪一块地都一样，可以趁夜打劫，各取所需，拿了就走。对白人来说，大地不是他的兄弟，大地是他的仇敌，他要一一征服。
白人可以把父亲的墓地弃之不顾。父亲的安息之地，儿女的出生之地，他可以不放在心上。在他看来，天、大地、母亲、兄弟都可以随意买下、掠夺，或像羊群或串珠一样卖出。他贪得无厌，大口大口吞食土地之后，任由大地成为片片荒漠。
我不懂。
你我的生活方式完全不同。红人的眼睛只要一看见你们的城市就觉疼痛。白人的城里没有安静，没地方可以听到春天里树叶摊开的声音，听不见昆虫振翅作乐的声音。城市的噪音羞辱我们的双耳。晚间，听不到池塘边青蛙在争论，听不见夜鸟的哀鸣。这种生活，算是活着？
我是红人，我不懂。
清风的声音轻轻扫过地面，清风的芳香，是经午后暴雨洗涤或浸过松香的，这才是红人所愿听愿闻的。
红人珍爱大气：人、兽、树木都有权分享空气，靠它呼吸。白人，似从不注意人要靠空气才能存活，像坐死多日的人，已不能辨别恶臭。若卖地给你，务请牢记，我们珍爱大气，空气养着所有的生命，它的灵力，人人有份。
风，迎着我祖父出生时的第一口气，也送走它最后一声的叹息。若卖地给你，务请将它划为圣地，使白人也能随着风尝到牧草地上加强的花香。
务请教导你的子女，让他们知道，脚下的土地，埋着我们祖骨骸；教你子弟尊崇大地，告诉他们，大地因我们亲族的生命而得滋润；告诉他们，红人怎样教导子女，大地是我们的母亲，大地的命运，就是人类的命运，人若唾弃大地，就是唾弃自己。
我们确知一事，大地并不属于人；人，属于大地，万物相互效力。也许，你我都是兄弟。等着看，也许，有一天白人会发现：他们所信的上帝，与我们所信的神，是同一位神。
或许，你以为可以拥有上帝，象你买一块地一样。其实你办不到，上帝，是全人类的神，上帝对人类怜恤平等，不分红、白。上帝视大地为至宝，伤害大地就是亵渎大地的创造者。白人终将随风消失，说不定比其他种族失落的更快，若污秽了你的床铺，你必然会在自己的污秽中窒息。
肉身因岁月死亡，要靠着上帝给你的力量才能在世上灿烂发光，是上帝引领你活在大地上，是上帝莫明的旨意容你*纵白人。
为什么会有这种难解的命运呢？我们不懂。
我们不懂，为什么野牛都被戮杀，野马成了驯马，森林里布满了人群的异味，优美的山景，全被电线破坏、玷污。
丛林在哪里？没了！
大老鹰在哪里？不见了！
生命已到了尽头，
是偷生的开始。
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 the Earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clear and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memory of 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 crests, 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 in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us. The Great White 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 land. But it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water that moves in 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 ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events in the life of my people. The waters murmur is the voice of my father‘s father.
The rivers of 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 brothers, and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness that you would give my 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 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, the same, 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 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 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 shares its spirit with all the 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 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 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 a 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. 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. 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 - 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 red man and the white. The Earth is precious to Him, and to harm the Earth is to heap contempt on 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 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.
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