每一寸土地都是神圣的——一封感人至深的信

我们熟悉树液流经树干，正如血液流经我们的血管一样。我们是大地的一部分，大地也是我们的一部分。芬芳的花朵是我们的姐妹，麋鹿、骏马、雄鹰是我们的兄弟，山岩、草地、动物和人类全属于一个家庭。大河小溪中闪闪发光的不仅仅是水，那也是我们祖先的血液。...



我在女神黛青塔娜所在的哈雅乐团的公众号里看到了这封催人泪下、洗涤心灵的文，美且真，素朴而有力，只有圣洁的土地才能孕育出这样的心灵和文字吧，它让我想起了瓦尔登湖畔的卢梭，想起了女神的"迷途的羔羊"、“疯马”，想起了席慕蓉老师写给哈斯和海日汗的信，想起了巴毕力格先生的画作，以及鄂温克玛利亚索老人的心声···所有的人和事都不尽相同，但对故乡，对大地的挚爱却如同对母亲的依恋，从未离开我们的心灵深处···

总统从华盛顿捎信来说，想购买我们的土地。但是，土地、天空、河流……怎能出卖呢？这个想法对我们来说，真是太不可思议了。正如不能说新鲜的空气和闪光的水波仅仅属于我们而不属于别人一样，又怎么可以买卖它们呢？

这里的每一寸土地，对我的人民来说都是神圣的。那怕是一根发亮的松针，一块海滩的砂砾，一片林中的云雾，一颗清晨的露珠，还是一只鸣唱的小虫，所有这一切，在我们人民的记忆和现实中都是神圣的。

我们熟悉树液流经树干，正如血液流经我们的血管一样。我们是大地的一部分，大地也是我们的一部分。芬芳的花朵是我们的姐妹，麋鹿、骏马、雄鹰是我们的兄弟，山岩、草地、动物和人类全属于一个家庭。 大河小溪中闪闪发光的不仅仅是水，那也是我们祖先的血液。

如果我们放弃这片土地，转让给你们。你们必须记住：土地是神圣的。清澈湖水中的每一个倒影，都反映着我们人民中的历史事件和生活历程。那潺潺的流水声，便是我们祖辈的亲切呼唤。 河流也是我们的兄弟，它解除我们的干渴，运载我们的独木舟，哺乳着我们和我们的子孙。因此你们必须像对待自几己的兄弟一样，给予河流以慈爱。

如果我们放弃这片土地，转让给你们。你们必须记住：就如同空气一样，对我们所有的生命都是宝贵的，它给了我们祖先的第一次呼吸，也接受了他的最后一声叹息；同样的，又将给我们每个子孙以及所有的生命以灵魂，因此你们必须保持土地的神圣性，任何人都可以享受土地上的百花争艳和扑鼻馨香。

你们会教诲自己的孩子，就如同我们教诲自己的孩子那样吗？即土地是我们的母亲，土地所赐予我们的一切，也会赐予我们的子孙。

我们知道，人类属于大地，而大地不属于人类。世界上的万物都是相互关联的，就像血液把我们身体的各个部分联结在一起一样。生命之网并非人类所编织。人类不过是这个网络中的一根线 一个结。但人类所做的一切，最终会影响到这个网络，也影响到人类本身。因为降临到大地上的一切，终将会降临到大地的儿女们身上。我们知道，我们的上帝也是你们的上帝。土地是上帝所创造的，也是上帝所宝贵的。我们伤害了大地，就是对造物主的亵渎。

你们的命运，对我们来说，是一个谜。可以设想一下，如果把所有的野牛杀光，把所有的野马驯化，那将是一种什么样的景象？如果原始森林中尽是人类的足迹，幽静的山谷中布满着横七竖八的电线，那将是一种什么样的景象？如果草丛灌木消失了，空中的雄鹰不见了，马匹和猎犬也失去了用场，那将是一种什么样的景象？这一切，只意味着真正生活的结束和苟延残喘的开始。

当最后一个印第安人与荒野一同消失，他们的记忆就像草原的云影一样在空中浮动的时候，这些湖岸和森林还会存在吗？我们的灵魂还会存在吗？

我们热爱大地，就像出生的婴儿热爱母亲心脏跳动的声音一样。所以，如果我们放弃这片土地，转让给你们，你们就要像我们一样地热爱它，照管它。为了子孙后代，你们要始终不渝地献出地自己全部的力量、精神和感情来保护大地，就像上帝对我们大家所做的那样。

正像我们是大地的一部分一样，你们也是大地的一部分。土地对我们是珍贵的，对你们也是珍贵的。我们懂得一点：世界上只有一个上帝。没有人能够分开，无论是印第安人，还是白人，我们终究是兄弟。 -- 西雅图

英文原文

Chief Seattle : 1855

Some of our most influential roots are the original cultures of this land. The following letter, sent by Chief Seattle of the Dwamish Tribe in Washington to President Pierce in 1855, illustrates the dignity, wisdom, and continuing relevance of this native continental vision.

THE GREAT CHIEF in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and good will. This is kind of him, since we know he has little need of our friendship in return. But we will consider your offer, for we know if we do not so the white man may come with guns and take our land. What Chief Seattle says you can count on as truly as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons. My words are like the stars - they do not set.

How can you buy or sell the sky - the warmth of the land? The idea is strange to us. Yet we do not own the freshness of the air or the sparkle of the water. How can you buy them from us? We will decide in our time. 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 every humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people.

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 and his children's birthright is forgotten. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the redman. But perhaps it is because the redman is a savage and does not understand.

There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to listen to the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps 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 lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around a pond at night? The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind itself cleansed by a mid-day rain, or scented by a pinõn pine: The air is precious to the redman. For all things share the same breath - the beasts, the trees, and the man. 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.

If I 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 I do not understand any other way. I have seen thousands of 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 more important than the buffalo that we kill only to stay alive. What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of spirit, for whatever happens to the beast also happens to the man.

All things are connected. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth.

Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have felt shame. And after defeat they turn their days in idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweet food and strong drink. It matters little where we pass the rest of our days - they are not many. A few more hours, a few more winters, and none of the children of the great tribes that once lived on this earth, or that roamed in small bands in the woods will remain to mourn the graves of the people once as powerful and hopeful as yours.

One thing we know that the white man may one day discover. Our God is the same God. You may think that you own him as you wish to own our land, but you cannot. He is the Body of man, and his compassion is equal for the redman and the white. This 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 other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste. When the buffalo are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret corners of the forest heavy with the scent of many men, and the view of the ripe hills blotted by the talking wires, where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. And what is it to say goodbye to the swift and the hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.

We might understand if we knew what it was the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what visions he burns into their minds, so they will wish for tomorrow. But we are savages. The white man's dreams are hidden from us. And because they are hidden, we will go our own way. If we agree, it will be to secure your reservation you have promised.

There perhaps we may live out our brief days as we wish. When the last redman has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only the shadow of a cloud passing over the prairie, these shores and forests will still hold the spirits of my people, for they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. If we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have cared for it. Hold in your memory the way the land is as you take it. And with all your strength, with all your might, and with all your heart - preserve it for your children, and love it as God loves us all. One thing we know - our God is the same. This earth is precious to him. Even the white man cannot escape the common destiny.

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