這裡先說明一下：我看到的《西雅圖的宣言》主要有兩個版本，關於這兩個版本，這個網頁：http://www.kyphilom.com/www/seattle.html介紹得很詳盡。我的校譯也是根據這個網站顯示的文章進行的。之所以是校譯是因為在網上也看到了兩個版本的中文翻譯。中譯文都較簡短，相對於英文版有缺失和不確的地方。 多少世紀以來，渺渺蒼天一直為我族暗抹同情之淚，這個在我們看來像是永恆不變的蒼天還是會變的。今天天色晴朗，明天又陰雲密布。但我說的話卻像天空的星辰，永遠不變。不管我說的是什麼，華盛頓的大酋長可以確信，西雅圖說的話，正如日自東出，春去秋來。 白人酋長說，華盛頓的大酋長向我們致意，表示友好。我們感謝他的好意，因為我知道他無所求於我們，不用我們以友情回報。他的人民眾多，猶如覆蓋着廣闊原野的青草。我的人民稀少，像風暴席捲後平原上稀疏的樹木。那位偉大的——我還假定他是善良的——白人酋長派人告訴我們，想買下我們的土地，但同時也願意留下足夠的土地讓我們舒適地生活。這看來確實很公道，甚至很慷慨，因為紅人已經再也沒有什麼需要得到他尊重的權利了，他的交易可能也是合宜的，因為我們現在已經不再需要這麼遼闊的疆土了。 我們曾經也象風涌的海水漫過海灘一樣遍布大地。但是，那個輝煌的時代早已經一去不復返了，現在留下的只是令人感傷的回憶。我不願再詳述我們民族過早的衰微，也不再為此哀嘆，不責備白人兄弟加速了我們的衰敗，因為我們或許多少也應該責怪自己。 年輕人是衝動的。當我們的年輕人被一些錯誤的現實或想象激怒，將自己的臉塗黑的時候，他們的心也黑了，往往會冷酷無情，我們老人也說服不了他們。一直就是這樣，在白人趕我們西遷的時候就是這樣。但是，讓我們祈禱我們之間的敵對永遠不要再出現。為此，我們願意放棄一切。年輕人認為復仇是一種獲得，即使為此失去生命。但是在戰爭的時候，留在家裡的老人、將失去兒子的母親知道得更多。 我們在華盛頓的好父親－－假設他現在是我們共同的父親，因為喬治國王已經將他的邊界北移了－－我們偉大的好父親，派人來告訴我們說，如果我們按照他的願望去做，他就會保護我們。他的勇士象銅牆鐵壁，他的軍艦布滿海灣，我們在北方的世敵－－Haidas和Tsimshians就不會來侵略我們了。他，在事實上，將成為我們的父親，我們將成為他的孩子。 但是可能會這樣嗎？你的上帝不是我們的上帝！你的上帝愛護你們，憎恨我們！他伸出強壯的雙手慈愛地呵護白人，引領他們象父親對待他的嬰孩。可是，他拋棄了他的紅人孩子，如果紅人真是他的孩子的話。我們的上帝、大神，好象也拋棄了我們。你的上帝讓你的人民一天天變得更加強壯，不久，他們將遍布所有的土地。 我們的人民象迅速後退的潮水一樣消失了，不再回來。白人的上帝不會愛護我們的人民，否則，他也該保護他們的。我們的人民象孤兒一樣無助。那麼，我們怎麼能成為兄弟呢？你的上帝怎麼能成為我們的上帝、讓我們重新繁榮起來並且夢想曾經的輝煌呢？如果我們有一個共同的上帝，那他是偏心的，他只向着他的白人孩子。 我們從沒有見過上帝。他制定規則，但對他的孩子、曾經象星星布滿天空一樣布滿這塊遼闊土地上的孩子，卻沒有片言隻語。不，我們是完全不同的兩個民族，有着不同的命運。我們沒有什麼共同之處。 我們視祖先的骨灰為神聖，將他們的安息之所視為聖地。你們白人遠離祖先，似乎毫無遺憾。上帝用他的鐵指將你們的宗教刻在石板上，讓你們不會忘記。 紅人不懂你們的宗教，也不會去牢記。我們的宗教是祖先的傳統－－在夜晚的肅穆時刻大神賜予老年人的夢。我們的世界觀，寫在我們人民的心裡。 你們的逝者走過墓地飄向星辰之時就不再愛你們、不再愛自己曾經生活過的土地了。他們很快就被遺忘，不再回來。 我們的逝者從未忘記這個生養他們的美麗世界。他們依然熱愛她青青的山谷、低唱的河流、巍峨的山脈、深邃的溝壑和散布的湖泊與港灣。他們渴望呵護孤獨的心靈，常常從狩獵之地回來給予指引和安慰。 白晝與黑夜不能並行。紅人曾經逃離白人，就象晨霧在太陽升起時消散一樣。然而，你的建議看來是公道的，我想我的人民會接受，退居到你給他們的保留地中。這樣我們就能分處兩地、和平共存，因為白人大酋長對我的人民所說的話，有如大自然從沉沉黑暗中發出來的聲音。 我們在什麼地方度過餘年已經無關重要了。我們的來日不多了。印第安人的夜晚將漆黑無比，天邊不會有一顆希望之星，哀風在遠處哭泣。殘酷的命運尾隨紅人，讓他無論在哪裡都會聽見摧殘者在一步步逼近，象受傷的母鹿等待着獵人的到來一樣，麻木地等待着自己的宿命。 再過一些日子，再過幾個冬天，這原來比你們更強大、更有希望的民族，曾經人口興旺、受大神庇護、在這廣闊的土地上安居樂業的民族，再也不會有一個後裔留下在他的墓前致哀了。 但我又何必為我民族的夭折哀嘆呢？一個部落沒落，另一個部落就會振興；一個民族衰亡，另一民族便會崛起，像海潮一樣，後浪逐前浪。這是自然的法則，悲嘆惋惜是無用的。你們衰落的時間可能還很遙遠，卻必定到來。因為即使是能夠同上帝像朋友一樣親密無間的白人，也不能免於同樣的命運。我們終究會成為兄弟的，等着瞧吧。 我們會考慮你的建議，等我們做出決定，就會通知你。但是如果要我們接受這項建議，我現在在這裡就要提出一個條件：我們要求有權隨時不受干擾地掃謁我們祖先、朋友和子孫的墳墓。這裡每一寸土地對於我的人民都是神聖的。每一片山坡，每一個河谷，每一塊平原，每一叢小樹都因往日的哀愁與歡樂而變得無比聖潔。 即使是岩石、在寂靜的海邊呆於酷熱的岩石，也會因我們民族的生存故事而顫慄。地上的塵土在我們腳下比在你們腳下更柔軟舒適，因為那上面浸滿我們祖先的鮮血，我們赤裸的腳踩上土地之時更覺其上充滿深情。甚至只是在這裡短暫地居住、嬉戲過的幼童也會熱愛這憂鬱的荒地。在暮色降臨之時，他們會迎接那些幽暗朦朧的陰魂歸來。 當最後一個紅種人死去，白人對這個部落的回憶已經成為神話之時，我部落的那些看不見的亡靈，仍將密密地聚集在這片土地上。當你們的子孫以為他們獨自在田野、倉庫、商店、公路或寂靜的、無路可通的森林中時，他們也不是四周無人。夜深人靜，你以為城鎮村落了無一人時，街上將滿是歸來的故主。他們過去曾住在這裡，他們仍然熱愛這塊美麗的土地。白人永遠不會獨占這個地方。 願他公平、正直、善意地對待我的人民，因為死者並沒有失去力量。我在說死亡嗎？不，並沒有什麼死亡，只是世界改變了。 The "Alternate Statement" of Chief Seattle ... 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 land 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 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 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 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 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. 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 Indian's 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 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 to 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 the 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 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 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'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.