Endgame Volume I_ The Problem of Civilization - Derrick Jensen [98]
The Squamish people, who live near what is now Vancouver, British Columbia, tell this story: A long time ago, even before the time of the flood, the Cheakamus River provided food for the Squamish people. Each year, at the end of summer, when the salmon came home to spawn, the people would cast their cedar root nets into the water and get enough fish for the winter to come.
One day, a man came to fish for the winter. He looked into the river and found that many fish were coming home this year. He said thanks to the spirit of the fish for giving themselves as food for his family, and cast his net into the river and waited. In time, he drew his nets in and they were full of fish, enough for his family for the whole year. He packed these away into cedar bark baskets, and prepared to go home.
But he looked into the river and saw all those fish, and decided to cast his net again. And he did so, and it again filled with fish, which he threw onto the shore. A third time, he cast his net into the water and waited.
This time, when he pulled his net in, it was torn beyond repair by sticks, stumps, and branches which filled the net. To his dismay, the fish on the shore and the fish in the cedar bark baskets were also sticks and branches. He had no fish, his nets were ruined.
It was then he looked up at the mountain and saw Wountie, the spirit protecting the Cheakamus, who told him that he had broken the faith with the river and with nature, by taking more than he needed for himself and his family. And this was the consequence.
And to this day, high on the mountain overlooking the Cheakamus and Paradise Valley, is the image of Wountie, protecting the Cheakamus.
The fisherman? Well, his family went hungry and starved, a lesson for all the people.
Discourse under civilization is, as we see, a discourse of occupation, by which I mean there’s lots of talk of bread and circuses to keep us occupied while we’re systematically robbed of our landbase, our dignity, and our lives.
For example, I don’t know about you, but sometimes I have what I’ve taken to calling Angelina Jolie moments. I’ll be thinking about something else, and suddenly her image will pop up before me. I think it’s because I’m so upset with how she was treated by Billy Bob Thornton, and how scandalous their whole relationship was. I’m sure you’ve heard that each carried around the neck a vial of the other’s blood. And I’m sure you also heard that hubby Thornton sometimes said that when they were having sex he wanted to strangle her because he wanted them to be so close (see my previous discussion of the word fuck). But have you heard where she has his name tattooed? Ohmygosh, I’ll bet when it was being done she was wishing his name was Ed.
Speaking of genitals, did you know that Nicole Kidman doesn’t like to wear underwear? I read that in the newspaper, so it must be true. Nor did Marilyn Monroe. Nor, for that matter, did Tallulah Bankhead.
Stop.
Now, quick, what’s the indigenous name for the place you live? Who are the indigenous people whose land it is? What are five species of plants and animals who live (or lived) within one hundred yards of your home, and who have been harmed by civilization? What are ten species of edible plants within one hundred yards of your home?
I find it odd and horribly disturbing that I can tell you—not from direct experience, mind you—what is on Angelina Jolie’s genitals, and what is not on Nicole Kidman’s, yet it took me two years of living in Tu’nes before I learned there was a massacre of several hundred Indians a few miles from my home at a place called Yontocket, another massacre nearby at a place called Achulet, and yet another at a place called Howonquet. I wonder how long it will take to learn of them all. Although I live in a riot of wildlife, I cannot name—or find—ten edible