I love The Lion King. Let's start off by getting that out in the open. I grew up on The Lion King. I still cry when Mufasa dies, I know every song by heart, and "Hakuna Matata" has been the basis for many important decisions in my life. I can even recite "Be Prepared" in German. The narrative of the young, exiled lion who returns to save his homeland is so deep in me, it is very much a part of my soul. Simba lives in me, and his songs live in my iPod.
"Not One of Us" from the second Lion King movie came up on shuffle just before I started writing this, and I was suddenly very unsettled as I sang along. In the scene, King Simba passes judgment on young Kovu from atop Pride Rock: exile. Immediately, the masses of animals rally behind Simba's decision, crying, "He is not one of us. He will never be one of us," and Kovu is quite literally chased out of the Pride Lands.
The scene, and the movie itself, is blatant social commentary on xenophobia, but as the words of the xenophobic, animal populace left my mouth, I suddenly understood the scene as much more than a slap on the wrist to some distant xenophobia. The xenophobia was here, is here. Let's watch, shall we?
After King Simba has been ambushed by Kovu's former pride (the "Outsiders"), a plot which Kovu sincerely had nothing to do with—in fact, he attempts to protect Simba and is exiled by his former pride for doing so—Kovu returns to Pride Rock, hoping to explain his role, or lack thereof, and receive mercy and forgiveness (for his failure to do more to protect Simba). King Simba, however, glares down upon Kovu from his Pride Rock throne and declares that Kovu "does not belong here."
Even when Kiara, Simba's daughter, begs that King Simba listen, he merely silences her. As the populace rallies for judgement, the mighty King Simba unmercifully grants it: exile. Immediately, the populace—who had earlier participated in the joyful song in which Princess Kiara and Kovu fall in love ("Upendi")—turns on Kovu, lowering horns, tossing rocks, stomping, pecking, and doing all possible to drive him mercilessly and dishonourably from their land.
I'll be blunt: Kovu is an undocumented immigrant. He's probably Muslim too, actually. Maybe even left-handed. And the bipolar populace of animals is us, the bipolar populace of America who, like our King Simbas, have so quickly and senselessly cried out, "You asked for trouble the moment you came!" at those who have sought refuge and a new life in our lands, just as the animals cry at Kovu.
Our political leaders, like King Simba, have cried, "Silence!" at those who have advocated for justice for the Kovus among us, and they have declared, upon people whose stories they do not know, their judgment: exile, "you do not belong here," "not one of us." Their judgment has gone unquestioned by the populace: as political leaders in our world have declared undocumented immigrants, Muslims, LGBT persons, and others as outsiders, enemies, threats—"not one of us"—the populace has rallied unquestioningly behind them.
Kovu's story does not end there, however. "Social activist" Kiara and Kovu team up and show everyone—from King Simba to "soldiers" to the populace—that they are all one. "Look at them. What difference do you see?" an impassioned Kiara asks her father in the midst of the all-out-war which breaks out. "We are one."
The Lion King lays out a moral imperative for the treatment of "outsiders" in our community in the same way Harry Potter or The Bible, two of my favourite "narratives for justice," do: through the lives and stories of beloved characters. To love these stories means to live them out. To love Simba and Kiara and Kovu and Rafiki means to walk with them, journey with them, and learn, as they do, to love your neighbour, even if your neighbour is an immigrant, Muslim, gay, left-handed, or an outsider in any other way. Because, as Simba teaches his daughter long before he so mercilessly declares Kovu an outsider, exiled, and "not one of us," we are one.
