西雅图酋长的演说

西雅图酋长的演说
Chief Seattle's Oration
在我的人民看来，这儿的每一寸土地都是神圣的。

每一个山坡，每一条山谷，每一块平原和树林都由于一些在那早已消逝的岁月里的悲伤或愉快的事件，而变成了圣地。

________________________________________ 西雅图酋长是濒临太平洋的西北地区六个印地安部落的酋长。

1854年12月，他对包括准州州长，白人移民和大约一千名印地安人在内的集会发表演说。

他的讲话是针对州长伊萨克(艾(史蒂文斯的。

史蒂文斯州长刚从华盛顿特区来，带来了购买印地安人土地，设置印地安人保护区的指示。

在后来成爲西雅图市的地方，酋长发表了人们称之爲“葬礼演说”或者说是“天鹅临终之歌”的演说。

他表示他接受联邦政府的提议，不发动战争以反抗在力量上占绝对优势的政府，因爲那是注定要失败的。

早期历史常常反复刊载移民与印地安人之间的骇人听闻的战事。

但是，当大多数印地安人部落被驱赶到西部，被驯化或被摧残之后，印地安人成了人们同情或感伤的对象，成了“进步”或命定说的不可避免的受害者。

西雅图酋长的演说一再被重印，不是爲了感伤地看待他爲之辩护的人们，而是因爲他动人地描述了红种人与白种人之间的差异。

下文再现了西雅图酋长的演说。

该文系亨利(阿(史密斯博士所作。

他在1854年那个具有历史意义的事件中，是西雅图酋长的翻译。

________________________________________ ……说不清有多少世纪了，苍天爲我的人民洒下了多少动情的泪水，它在我们看来是水恒不变的，但却可能要变了。

今天晴空万里，明天却可能乌云密布。

不过，我的话却像那些星星，永世不变。

如同日落日出，四季周而复始是不容置疑的一样，西雅图酋长说的一切，华盛顿的大首领同样也无须置疑。

白人头领说，华盛顿的大头领向我们表示友谊和善意。

这是他的好意，因爲我们知道，他根本无需我们以友谊作爲回报。

他们人多，多得就像那
覆盖着广阔草原的青草。

我的人民人少力薄，就像风暴肆虐后零星留在平原上的树木。

白人大首领，我姑且认爲他是善良的首领，捎信给我们，说他希望购买我们的土地，不过愿意允许我们拥有足够我们安逸生活的土地。

这看来的确是公正、甚至是慷慨的，因爲红种人不再拥有他必须尊重的权利了;这可能也是明智的，因爲我们已不再需要辽阔的乡土了。

我们的人民曾一度像大风搅乱的大海覆盖着布满贝壳的海床一样覆盖着这片土地，但是，那时代早已同庞大的部落一道成爲过去，而那些部落现在只不过是一桩令人忧伤的回忆。

我不想细述或哀悼我们不合时宜的衰败;我也不想斥责那些加速了我们衰败过程的白脸兄弟，因爲我们对此可能也有责任。

青年是容易感情冲动的。

当我们的年轻人对某些真正的或臆想的冤屈而气愤的时候，他们用黑顔料来改变他们的面容。

这表明他们的心是黑的。

他们常常是残暴冷酷的，我们年迈的老头子和老太婆无法约束他们。

事情向来如此。

当白人最初将我们的祖先往西赶时，情况就是这样。

不过，让我们希望我们之间的敌意永远别再复生。

我们将丧失一切，而一无所获。

年轻人又琢磨着报仇了，即使牺牲他们自己的生命，也在所不辞。

但是，那些在战时留在家中的老年人，那些将失去儿子的母亲比较明智些，他们不会答应的。

我们在华盛顿的慈父??因爲我姑且承认他现在是我们的父亲，也是你们的父亲，既然乔治国王已经将他的边界往北移了??我们伟大的慈父捎信给我们，表示如果我们按照他说的话办，他就保护我们。

他英勇的战士对我们来说，将成爲严阵以待的铜墙铁壁，而他那顶刮刮的战舰将遍布我们的港口，这样，我们北方的宿敌??海达斯和茨姆先斯部落就不能吓唬我们的妇女、儿童和老人了。

那麽，实际上他将成爲我们的父亲，而我们将成爲他的孩子吗?这可能吗?你们的上帝不是我们的上帝～你们的上帝疼爱你们的人民，但却增恨我的人民。

你们的上帝用他有力的胳臂疼
爱地搂着白人，保护他，像父亲领着幼儿一样手把手地领着他??但是，他却遗忘了他的红种子女??如果他们真是他的子女的话，我们的上帝是伟大的神灵，但他似乎也遗忘了我们。

你们的上帝使你们的人口日益增长，很快他们就将充斥整个大地。

而我们的人口，却像迅速退去而且水不再涨的潮水一样，越来越少。

白人的上帝不可能疼爱我们的人民，不然他就会保护他们的。

他们就像无依无靠的婴儿。

这样，我们怎麽能成爲兄弟呢?你们的上帝怎麽会成爲我们的上帝呢?你们的上帝怎麽会再现我们的繁盛，唤醒我们心中要求重新强大起来的梦想呢?如果说我们同有一位天国之父，那麽他一定是偏心的??因爲他只看望他的白人子女。

我们从未见过他。

他赋予你们法律，可是对他的红种子女却没有片言只语，尽管他的这些子女曾人丁兴旺，一度充斥这片广衰的大陆，就像繁星充斥了太空一样。

不～我们是两个不同的种族，起源不同，命运也不同。

我们之间没有什麽共同之处。

祖先的骨灰对我们来说是神圣的，他们安息之场所是圣地。

你们远离祖先的墓地漫游，并且似乎毫无任何遗憾的感觉。

你们的宗教是你们的上帝用他铁一般的手指，书写在石碑上，这样你们就不会遗忘。

红种人永远无法理解，也无法记住你们的宗教。

我们的宗教是我们祖先的传统??是伟大神灵在深夜庄严的时刻交给我们老人的梦想，是我们酋长心中的幻象。

我们的宗教就写在我们人民的心中。

你们的死者一旦迈进坟墓的门坎，便远游星际，不再钟爱你们，不再钟爱养育了他们的故土。

他们很快便被遗忘，也永远不再回返。

我们的死者永远不会忘却那给予他们身心的美丽家园。

他们依旧留恋那碧绿的山谷，潺潺的流水，巍巍的丛山，与世隔绝的溪谷，镶着翠绿堤岸的湖泊和海湾。

他们甚至柔情脉脉地思慕那些仍然活在世间的心中寂寞的人们，常常从欢乐的狩猎场抽身回来探望、指引、抚问和安慰他们。

昼夜不能同在。

红种人一向在白种人来临时遁去，就像晨雾在晨曦前逃逸一样。

不过，你们的建议看来还公平。

我想，我的人民会接受，并且将退到你们爲我们提供的保护区内。

那时，我们就将分别生活在和平之中，因爲白人大首领的话似乎就是那冥冥无知的自然对我的人民说的一样。

我们的余生在何处度过没有多大关系。

反正所剩的时日也不多了。

印地安人的夜看来是漆黑一片。

地平在线连颗希望之星都没有。

凄风在远处呻吟。

冷酷无情的命运看来是跟定了红种人的足迹。

无论他走到哪里，都会听到凶残的杀手逼近的脚步声。

他木然地准备迎接死亡，就像受伤的母鹿听到猎人逼近的脚步声时一样。

再过几个月，再过几个冬天??昔日在伟大神灵庇佑下，驰骋在这片辽阔的土地上或安居在幸福家园的强大主人们，到头来将连一个在坟头哀悼的后人都不会留下??那是一度曾比你们更强大、更有希望的民族的坟家啊。

不过，爲什麽我要对我的人民过早天折的命运哀悼呢?一个部落取代另一个部落，一个民族取代另一个民族，就像大海的波浪，一浪接一浪。

这就是自然的法则，悔恨是无济于事的。

你们衰败的时日也许还很遥远，但是它终究会到来，因爲即使白人与他的上帝一道漫步、交谈，有如朋友，白人也逃脱不了相同的命运。

我们最终可能成爲兄弟。

我们等着瞧。

我们将考虑你们的建议，一旦我们作出了决定，便会通知你们。

不过，倘若我们接受了你们的建议，此时此地我要提出这个条件，我们将有权不受干扰地祭扫我们祖先、朋友和子女的坟墓。

在我的人民看来，这儿的每一寸土地都是神圣的。

每一个山坡，每一条山谷，每一块平原和树林都由于一些在那早已消逝的岁月里的悲伤或愉快的事件，而变成了圣地。

岩石貌似麻木、毫无生气，但却在那阳光普照的静悄悄的海岸边淌着汗水，颤栗着回想起那些与我的人民联系在一起的动人往事;那片就在你们脚底下的沙土响应他们脚步比起响应你们脚步来，要带着更多的爱与情，因爲它包含着我们祖先的鲜血，而我们赤裸的双足能感觉到它满怀同情的爱抚。

我们逝去的勇士、慈祥的母亲、欢快的少年，甚至还有孩童，他们曾在这儿生
活，曾在这儿庆祝过短暂的时光，他们将热爱这些幽暗僻静的地方。

当潮汐平息时，他们在这儿迎候返乡人的身影。

倘若最后一位红种人也泯灭了，关于我的部落的回忆将成爲白人之间的传说。

这些海岸将充满我部落中冥冥不可见的死者，当你们孩子的孩子以爲他们是独
自呆在田野上、商店里、店铺里、公路上或者寂静无径的树林里时，他们却并不孤单。

在这
地球上，没有僻静的地方。

深夜，当你们的城市、乡村的街道寂静无声的时候，你们以爲这
些街道已经被人舍弃了，而实际上，它们却熙熙攘攘挤满了那些还乡的主人。

他们曾经充斥
了这些街道。

他们仍然钟情于这片美丽的土地。

白人永远不会孤单的。

愿他公正善良地对待我的人民。

死去的并不是无能爲力的。

死去的,我这麽说
了吗,世上没
有死亡，只有转世。

________________________________________
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.。