His Appetite Will Devour the Earth

In 1855, President Franklin Pierce made a “request” to the Suwamish tribe of Indians (who lived in what is now the State of Washington) to “sell” their land to the government. This, in part, was the reply:

The great chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The great chief also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of him, since we know that he has little need of our friendship in return. But we will consider your offer, for we know that if we do not do so, the white man may come with guns and take our land.

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? 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.

We know that the white man does not understand our ways. One portion of the 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. His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert....

One thing we know which 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 God of men. And His compassion is equal for the red man 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 buffaloes are all slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the sacred corner of the forest heavy with the scent of men... where is the thicket? Where is the eagle?

There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities. No place to hear the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings.... And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lovely cry of the whippoorwill or the argument of the frogs around a pond at night?

We might understand if we know what the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children on long winter nights, what visions he burns into their minds, so that 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 on our own way. When the last red man has vanished from the earth, and the memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across 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 loved 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. The earth is precious to Him. Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny.

Chief Seathl (Seattle) of the Suwamish tribe of Indians