Chief Seattle: Beautiful Environmental Statement

In 1854, President Franklin Pierce made an offer for a large area of land in Washington State that was occupied by the Puget Sound Indians, and promised a reservation for the Indian people. Chief Seattle’s reply, in full below, has been described as the most beautiful and profound statement on the environment ever made.

“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 the 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 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, 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 shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that 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 no understand any other way. I save seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who shot them from a passing train. I am a savage an I do not understand how the smoking iron horse can be 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 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.”

Chief Seattle
1854

The Next "Greatest Generation"

It is Memorial Day weekend and everyone is piling into their cars and SUVs to enjoy the first holiday of the summer. Memorial Day is meant to honor all service men and women who have served in all wars & conflicts but many of our minds turn to my parent’s generation, The Greatest Generation, those that served in WWII.

Today, as we lose the last of The Greatest Generation we have a new Greatest Generation, the men and women (and their families) who have served three and four tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. We remember and honor all those who have experienced the horror of war, the stress of prolonged separation, and the compound effects of our recession.

I recall a story related to me of a son in his early twenties on patrol in Iraq. Insurgents would frequently booby-trap women and children and force them to sit in the path of (rapidly) oncoming military vehicles. If the victim stood up the booby-trap was rigged to explode. If the vehicles stopped to assist the victim the booby-trap would be detonated by remote control to kill American soldiers. Our soldiers had to make split second decisions on whether to stop their vehicles and expose themselves to a predictable ambush – or run them over.

One day there was a young girl, maybe 10, sitting in the middle of a bridge. On this occasion the young man driving the Humvee decided to stop a safe distance away. They waited in the vehicle for a moment to assess the situation. They watched as the little girl looked at them, stood up, and disappeared into a pink mist. She had saved their lives.

The horror of war has not changed. The courage to go out and face a faceless enemy has not changed. The strength needed to uphold our honor and values in the face of mindless violence has not changed.

Today I remember and honor all those who serve, and their families. I salute you. You have my undying gratitude and my deepest respect.

You are our new, the next, Greatest Generation.

Fool Me Twice

They’re back and ready to do it again. The same credit rating agencies, Standard & Poor’s, Moody’s, and Fitch, which did such a fine job of rating the risk of mortgage backed securities now have a monopoly on rating collateral being used in the Fed’s commercial paper lending program and Term Asset-Backed Securities Loan Facility. The Fed has determined that it will only accept collateral that has been appraised by the one of the “major” (read big three) rating agencies. This leaves out seven rating agencies that have recently been recognized by the SEC.

The banks and their managers have been raked over the coals for bad business decisions based on the ratings that the big three provided but I haven’t heard of rating agency executives being held to account for their disastrous risk assessments. I also haven’t heard of any justification why the leaders of our most critical financial regulatory bodies now believe in the assessments from the very people who drove the economy over a cliff.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me…