The "Alternate Statement" of Chief Seattle

西雅图酋长/Chief Seattle

西雅图酋长（1786—1866），杜瓦米许族印第安人，勇武且善于领导，以酋长身份统治德奥米什和苏卡米什等6个部落。西雅图早年受法国传教士的影响，信仰天主教。他的父亲与当地白人建立了友好关系，而他多年来一直维护着这种关系。1855年他与白人签订了《埃利澳特港条约》，并建立印第安人保留地，当时美国政府要将当地土人驱逐到“保留地”定居。本文就是西雅图在美国政府压力下所给予的答复。

无数个世纪以来，浩渺苍天曾为我的族人洒下同情之泪；这人们看似永恒不易的苍天，实际上是会改变的：今天和风煦日，明日则可能乌云密布。但我的话却犹如天空亘古的恒星，永不变更。华盛顿的大酋长可以像信赖日月季节更替一般，相信西雅图所说的话。

华盛顿的大酋长托白人酋长向我们致以友好的问候与祝愿。我们应该感谢他们的好意，因为我们知道他不需要我们的友情作为回报。他的子民众多，如广袤平原上无边的青草；我的族人寥寥，如风雨狂虐过后平原上稀拉树木。这位了不起的——我想也是仁慈的——白人酋长传话给我们，他愿意在为我们保留足够的土地过安逸生活的前提下，购买我们的土地。这看起来的确很合理，甚至该说是慷慨的，因为红种人已经没有要求受尊重的权利了；这个提议也许还是英明的，因为这么辽阔的国土对我们来说已经没有意义了。

曾几何时，我们的族人曾密密麻麻地布满了整片土地，就像随风涌浪的海水掩盖着满是贝壳的海底。但那个时代早已一去不复返了，部族曾经的辉煌只留给我们忧伤的回忆。我不愿再纠缠于我们部落过早的衰落，不愿再为此哀叹，也不愿将此归咎于白种兄弟，因为我们自己多少也有值得埋怨的地方。

年青一代总是容易冲动。我们年轻的族人被或真实或虚幻的冤屈所激怒，用黑漆把脸涂黑，其实同时他们也抹黑了自己的心，变得残酷无情，而我们这些上了岁数的老人们又无力约束他们。然而，尽管一直都是如此，尽管自从白人把我们往西驱逐以来一直都是如此，但还是让我们寄希望于彼此之间的仇恨能够永远泯灭。仇恨能让我们失去一切，却毫无所得。对年轻人来说，可能复仇本身就是一种收获，即使那会让他们失去生命，但是那些在战时固守家园的老人，以及可能在战争中失去儿子的母亲们，懂得更多事情的真相。

我们在华盛顿的好父亲——自从乔治国王将他的边界线向北大举推进之后，我已经把他当成我们的，也是你们的父亲了——我说，我们了不起的好心肠的父亲传话来说，他会保护我们，唯一的条件就是我们要按他说的去做。他神武的勇士将为我们筑起护卫之墙，他神奇的战舰会驻满我们的港口。这样一来，我们北边的宿敌——海达人和辛姆希人——再也不能威胁到我们的妇孺老弱。如此这般，他作为父亲，我们作为孩子就成了事实了。

但这可能吗？你们的上帝并不是我们的上帝；你们的上帝爱护你们的子民，却憎恨我的族人。他以他那有力的臂弯慈爱地环绕保护着白人，就像父亲指引新生儿般指引着他们，但是他却遗弃了他的红皮肤的孩子——如果我们真的能称作他的孩子的话。

我们的上帝，那伟大的神灵，好像也已经遗弃了我们。你们的神让你们的人民一天天强大起来，很快就能占据整个大地，而我的族人却衰落得如急退的潮水一去不回了。白人的神不会爱护我们的同胞，不然他为何不保护他们，而让他们像孤儿一样求助无门？既然如此，我们怎能成为兄弟呢？你们的神又怎能成为我们的神，让我们重振雄风并唤醒我们重返昔日鼎盛时期的梦想呢？

假如我们真的有着同一位天父的话，那他也必定偏心，因为他只照看着他那白皮肤的儿子，我们却从来见不到他；他教给你们律法，对他红皮肤的儿子却无话要说，尽管他们曾经如繁星占满苍穹般遍布着整个大陆。不，我们是两个截然不同的种族，起源不同，命运也各异。我们之间几乎毫无共同点。

在我们看来，祖先的骨灰是神圣的，他们的安息之所也是圣地，而你们却似乎可以毫无哀痛感地远离祖先墓地。

你们的宗教，是你们的神恐怕你们遗忘，以铁指书写在石板之上的。红种人对此既不能领会也难以记住；我们的宗教传自我们的祖先——伟大的神灵于夜晚的神圣时刻，以梦的方式赐予我们族中长者，经过酋长们的洞察，铭刻在我们族人的心底。

你们的亡者一旦踏上墓地的大门，便不再爱护你们，也不再爱护曾经的故国家园。从此飘忽于群星之外，很快就被生者遗忘，也永不再回来。我们的逝者却永远不会遗忘这个曾赐予他生命的美丽世界。他们依然爱恋着青翠的峡谷，潺潺的河流，雄伟的大山，以及幽静的溪谷和碧绿的湖泊海湾，并且以最温柔体贴的情感牵挂着内心孤寂的生者，一次次地从他们极乐的狩猎之地回来，探望他们，指引他们，安抚他们……

……

我们已逝的勇士，多情的母亲，欢欣的少女，甚至还有仅仅在这里生长嬉戏过一段短短的美好岁月的孩子们，都热恋着这一片黯淡荒寂的土地，并在夜幕降临之时，迎接那些蒙蒙的族人之魂飘然而归。

当最后一个红种人逝去，我们部落的回忆在白人心中已经成为神话之时，这里的海岸仍将聚集着我们族人无形的灵魂；当你们的后代以为他们是独自在田野、库房、商店、公路或者寂静的树林之中流连时，他们也绝非孤身一人。大地之上没有任何地方是真正孤寂的，夜深人静，当你们城镇或村庄的街道悄然入梦，也许你会以为此刻它们都是荒无生命的。其实不然，街上将挤满了回归故园的亡魂。他们曾生活在这里，至今仍然热爱这片美丽的故土。有他们相伴，白人永远不会感到孤单。

愿他公正友善地对待我的族人，因为死者并不是无能为力的。我说他们是死者吗？不，世上并没有“死亡”一说——他们只是去了另外一个世界。

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.

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 enoughto live comfortably.This indeed appears just， even generous， for the Red Man no longer has rights that he needs 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 Man began to push our forefathers ever 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 in 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 Haidas and Tsimshians， will cease to frighten our women， children and old men.He in reality he will be our father and we will be 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 paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an 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 stronger 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 andseparate 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 tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it.Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors—the dreams of our old men， given them in solemn hours of the 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 this 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…

…

Our departed braves， fond mothers， glad， happy hearted maidens， and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a 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 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.