轉貼：老鷹哪兒去了？

回應《蔚藍的天》。

當白人大肆掠奪北美的土地，將印第安人趕向白人看不上眼的荒蕪之地時，美國白人發現原來他們還可以再要一些。美國政府與印第安西雅圖酋長商議再購買一些印第安人的保留地。以下是西雅圖在1854年3月11日發表的講話，作為對美國政府的答複。華盛頓州首府西雅圖市後來以該酋長的名字命名。

不知道是哪位翻譯的，譯得真好！謝謝他/她。

   西雅圖酋長的塑像                西雅圖酋長

您怎麼能夠買賣穹蒼與土地的溫馨？多奇怪的想法啊！ 假如我們並不擁有空氣的清新與流水的光彩，您怎能買下它們呢？

對我的人民而言， 大地的每一部份都是聖潔的。每一枝閃亮的鬆針、 每一處沙洲、每一片密林中的薄靄、 每一隻嗡嗡作響的蟲兒，在我人民的記憶與經驗中都是神聖的。 樹中流動著的汁液，載負著紅人們的記憶。

當白人的鬼魂在繁星之中遊蕩時， 早已忘卻他們出生的家園。 但我們的靈魂從不曾忘記這片美麗的土地，因為她是紅人的母親。 我們屬於大地，而大地也是我們的一部份。 芬芳的花朵是我的姊妹，鹿兒、 馬兒和巨鵰都是我們的兄弟。 怪石嶙峋的山峰、 草原上的露水、小馬溫暖的身體、 及我們人類，都是一家人。

所以， 當偉大的白人領袖自華盛頓傳話來，說他想要買我們的土地時， 他要求的實在太多了。他說， 他會為我們保留一片土地， 讓我們得以舒服地過日子。 他將成為我們的父兄，而我們將是他的子民。

因此， 我們得考慮你們的要求。但實際上， 那是多麼不可能啊！ 因為這是我們神聖的土地。 小溪河川裡波光粼粼的流水，對我們而言， 不隻是水， 而是先祖們的血液。 倘若我們把土地賣給你們，你們必需記住， 這是神聖的土地。 而你們也必定要告訴你們的子孫， 它是聖潔的，每一片清澈湖水的朦朧倒影裡， 都埋藏著我們生活中的點點滴滴。河水喃喃的彽迴， 是我袓先的聲音。

河水就如同我們的兄弟， 滿足了我們的乾渴。 河水載運了我們的獨木舟，並養育了我們的子孫。 如果我們將土地賣給你們，你們必定要教導你們的子孫， 它是我們的手足，也是你們的弟兄， 因此，你必需對它付出關懷， 一如你對待你的兄弟一樣。

我們知道， 白人不能體會我們的想法。他們就像夜晚到訪的異鄉客， 對大地予取予求，每一吋大地對他們而言，看來都是一樣的。 他們將大地視為敵人，一步一步地加以征服，而非以兄弟之禮對待。 他無視於父祖的墳地，他剝奪了子孫的土地， 一點都不在乎祖先們的勞苦與後代生存的權力。他對待他的故土及兄弟， 就如同綿羊與耀眼的首飾一樣，可以隨意地買賣與掠奪。 他的貪婪將毀滅大地，而最後留下來的， 將隻是一片荒蕪。

我真的不懂。 我們之間的生活方式是如此不同。你們城市的景象刺痛了紅人們的眼睛。 但也許因為紅人們是野蠻人而無法理解吧！在白人的城鎮裡找不到寧靜。 聽不到春天枝葉迎風招展的聲音，或是蟲兒挀翅的歡鳴。 但也許因為我是個野蠻人而無法理解吧！這些喧鬧聲看來隻會汙損我們的耳朵。 假如不能聽到夜鷹孤寂的叫聲，或是夜晚池畔青蛙的爭鳴。 那會是怎麼樣的生活呢？我是紅人， 所以不明白。 印地安人喜歡微風拂過池麵的輕柔細語， 以及午後陣雨所洗淨、或是被矮鬆所薰香的風的味道。

大氣對紅人而言是珍貴的， 因為野獸、 森林、 人類及萬物都分享著同樣的氣息。白人似乎不在意他們所呼吸的空氣。 就好像死了幾天的人，已經對惡臭毫無知覺。 但是，倘若我們將土地賣給你們， 您們必需記得，大氣對我們而言是珍貴的， 衪與衪所養育的萬物共享著這份靈氣。

風，送來了我們祖先的第一口氣， 也帶走了他們最後一聲的嘆息。 假如我們將土地賣給了你，你們必需維持祂的獨特與莊嚴， 使祂成為一塊即使是白人也可以品嘗被花草所薰香的風的地方。因此， 我們得考慮你們的要求。 假如我們接受的話， 我有一個條件，那就是白人必需對待大地上的野獸如自已的兄弟一般。 我隻是個野人，並不瞭解其它的想法。 我曾經目睹被路過火車上的白人所射殺的千萬頭野牛，牠們的屍體被棄置於大草原之上任其腐敗。 我隻是個野人，無法明白這冒著煙的鐵馬居然會比我們為了生存而殺死的野牛更為重要。 人沒有了野獸會變得怎麼樣呢？ 倘若所有的動物都消失了，人類將死於心靈最深處的空虛寂寞。 現在發生在野獸身上的事，很快地就會應驗到人類來。 所有的一切都是相互有著關連的。

你們務必教導你們的孩子， 他們腳下的土地， 是我們先民的遺蹟。因此， 他們才會尊敬土地， 告訴你的孩子們， 因為有著我們生命的存在，才使得大地更加地豐富。 讓你們的孩子知道，大地是我們的母親， 我們向來如此教育著我們的子孫。任何發生在大地上的， 必將同樣地降臨在祂的子民身上。假如人們唾棄了大地， 其實他們就是唾棄了自己。

我們知道， 大地不屬於人類，而人類屬於大地。 我們知道，每一件事物都是有關連的， 就好像血緣緊緊結合著一家人。所有的一切都是相互有著關連的。 現在發生在大地的事，必將應驗到人類來。 人類並不主宰著生命，他隻不過是其中的一小部份而已。 他對大地做了什麼，都會回應到自己身上。 即使與他們的上帝能如同朋友一般相處的白人，也無法免於相同的命運。 畢竟，我們都是兄弟。 我們知道一件事：終有一天我們會看到， 白人必將發現我們的上帝是同一位！

你們現在也許認為， 因為你們擁有神，所以也可以占有我們的土地， 但是不能這樣。祂是眾人的神， 祂的慈悲平等地分享給紅人與白人。 大地對祂是珍貴的， 對大地的傷害，是對造物主的輕蔑。 白人也終將滅絕，甚至有可能比其它種族還快。 如果你弄髒了自己的環境，總有一天會窒息在你所丟棄的垃圾之中。

但即使您們死了， 上帝也會給你們榮耀，因為祂帶領你們到這片土地來， 又不知為何給了你們統治紅人與土地的權力。

這樣的命運對我們來說真是難解。 尤其當野牛被屠殺， 野馬被訓服，當森林中最隱密的角落也充滿了人味， 原始的山陵景觀被電話線所破壞時，我們真是不明白啊！

叢林哪兒去了？ 消失了！

老鷹哪兒去了？ 不見了！

美好的生活已經結束， 殘喘求生的日子開始！


原文：

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. Then 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.