Speech of Chief Seattle Give at Seattle, Washington 1854

Chief Seattle’s speech is one he probably gave in 1854 to an audience including the first Governor of Washington Territory, Isaac Stevens. The full text of the speech itself is lost to history. What follows is a close recounting of the words spoken by the Chief, patriarch of the Duwamish and Suquamish Indians of Puget Sound, to Isaac Stevens, governor of the Washington Territory, in the year 1854 or 1855, at the site of the present metropolis of Seattle:

    “Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion on our fathers for centuries untold, and which, to us, appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today it is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never set…you can rely upon them, with as much certainty as our pale-face brothers can rely upon the return of the seasons.”

     “….There was a time when our people covered the whole land, as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor. But that time has long since passed away with the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten. I will not mourn over our untimely decay, nor reproach my pale face brothers with hastening it, for we, too, may have been somewhat to blame.”

    “Your God seems to us to be partial. He came to the white man. We never saw Him; never even heard His voice; He gave the white man laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming millions filled this vast continent as the stars fill the firmament. No, we are two distinct races and must ever remain so. There is little in common between us. The ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their final resting place is hallowed ground, while you wander away from the tombs of your fathers seemingly without regret. Your religion was written on tables of stone by the iron finger of an angry God, lest you might forget it. The red-man could never remember nor comprehend it.

    “Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors, the dreams of our old men, given them 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 homes of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb…Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its winding rivers, its great mountains and its sequestered vales, and they ever yearn in tenderest affection over the lonely hearted living and often return to visit and comfort them. Day and night cannot dwell together. The red man has ever fled the approach of the white man, as the changing mists on the mountainside flee before the blazing morning sun…”

    “They are not many. The Indian’s night promises to be dark. No bright star hovers about the horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Some grim Nemesis of our race is on the red man’s trail, and wherever he goes he will still hear the sure approaching footsteps of the fell destroyer and prepare 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 all the mighty hosts that once filled this broad land or that now roam in fragmentary bands through these vast solitudes will remain to weep over the tombs of a people once as powerful and hopeful as your own. But why should we repine? Why should I murmur at the fate of my people? Tribes are made up of individuals, and are no better than they. Men come and go like the waves of the sea. A tear, a tamanamus, a dirge, and they are gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him, as friend to of the sea. A tear, a tamanamus, a dirge, and they are gone from our longing eyes forever. Even the white man, whose God walked and talked with him, as friend to friend, is not exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see…Even the rocks that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent seashore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, and the very dust under your feet responds more lovingly to our footsteps than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch, for the soil is rich with the life of our kindred…  And when the last red man shall have perished from the earth and his memory among white men shall have become a myth, these shores shall swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children’s children shall think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway or in the silence of the 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 shall be silent, and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled 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 altogether powerless.”

    In a letter attributed to Chief Seattle he says… “But how can you buy or sell the sky? 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 meadow, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people….We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man all belong to the same family. The shining water that moves in the 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. Each glossy reflection in the clear waters of the lakes 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…So you must give the rivers the kindness that you would give any brother…”

    In the world today, we hear about how we must “save the planet. Yet when I look at the people who supposedly want to do the saving, I see nobody who is truly in touch with the spirituality that animates all, through our mother the earth, the very womb of Mankind, nourished by the loving rays of our Father the sun.  All of the governments of the West have been captured by  unelected megalomaniacs that despise “the Human” as much as they despise the One that upholds the universe and all that is in it. They despise the Human because we are a reflection of the One and they seek to remove from us; the Crown of God within us. The scripture, is in full agreement with what the Chief says, “For in him (God, the One) we live, and move, and have our being; as certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also his offspring.” Acts 17:28

     If they decide to let you live, O Human, you will be locked in a pod, in a 15 mile zone, where your thoughts, actions and purchases can be monitored through FedCoin, where everything is inverted, your reality is augmented, worshipping an AI god, never feeling the warmth of the sun, the wind blowing upon your face, birds flying in the sky or feet touching the earth. These are people who neither love “the Human” or the earth. They are destroying everything that is natural and manipulating the very fabric of the Universe. Chief Seattle must wonder at all this, as his spirit silently treads the earth.

Chief Seattle’s Speech