The Lion vs The Elephant

In August 2024, during the final months of the previous administration, the debate around the Paskibraka uniform was suddenly inflamed by reports that young women were asked to remove their hijabs during the inauguration ceremony in the new capital. The incident quickly spread across the media, prompting protests from religious organisations and public figures who considered the move a setback in religious freedom. The palace eventually clarified that no such prohibition existed for the Independence Day ceremony itself, and in fact, when the seventeenth of August arrived, the young women who wore the hijab were able to perform their duties fully veiled. Nonetheless, the political impression remained: an administration once branded as “the new hope” was suddenly perceived as tone-deaf on an issue that touched both personal rights and national symbolism.

By contrast, in August 2025, under President Prabowo, the entire discussion vanished from the headlines. The focus of the coverage turned instead to the symbolism of the formation of the number eighty, the profile of the flag bearers, and the general splendour of the seventy-eighth raising at the palace. The issue of the hijab, which had been a national flashpoint the year before, simply did not arise. There were no disputes, no clarifications, and no corrections—only a calm acceptance that young women could wear their hijabs without becoming the subject of political controversy. This created a rather ironic picture: a leader who had once been accused of human rights violations presided over a quieter and more accommodating moment—even had time to shed tears. And In the soft glow of social media’s bustling corridors, netizens paused to admire the subtle choice upon President Prabowo’s wrist—a Timex Expedition Scout, green-strapped and modestly priced, resting quietly amidst grand gestures of statecraft. It was not the gleaming sheen of opulence but the gentle whisper of humility that captured their admiration. Many a comment hailed this understated timekeeper as a quiet testament to authenticity; “though wealth may overflow,” one remarked, “true character shows in restraint.” Rather than flaunting extravagance, his preference inspired praise as a gesture of sincerity, an elegy to simplicity rendered amid the pageantry of power. While the figure once embraced as a reformist beacon left behind a legacy of confusion. From crown to cuticle, a portrait of crafted simplicity—though one suspects the modesty is more myth than material. Looks the part on the outside, but inside it’s all puffed-up pride and a whiff of self-importance. In short, the contrast was less about rules on cloth and more about the mood of governance.

In the grand theatre of Independence Day celebrations, where red and white flags dance in the wind and speeches are stitched with promises that may or may not last beyond the applause, there lies an unspoken question about power and its symbols. Nations, like individuals, search for metaphors to anchor their identity—sometimes in banners, sometimes in parades, and sometimes in the choice of animals that embody their imagined spirit. It is here that the conversation slyly slips from the parade ground to the savannah, from the politicians who roar behind podiums to the lions who roar under the sun, and from the elephants whose memory spans centuries to the people who try not to forget history. Just as Independence Day prompts us to ask who really leads and who merely follows the choreography, the fable of the lion and the elephant asks whether true greatness comes from fearsome authority or from quiet wisdom. Why is the Lion called the "King of the Jungle", not the clever Elephant?

Perhaps historians would put it like this: The lion is called the "King of the Jungle" not because it is the largest or the wisest animal, but because it has long been a universal symbol of majesty, courage, and dominion. In many ancient cultures, from Mesopotamia to Africa, the lion was associated with royalty and divine power, while the elephant, despite its intelligence and strength, was regarded more as a creature of patience, memory, and service rather than sovereignty. The lion’s roar, its commanding presence, and its fearsome ability to defend its pride made it the perfect metaphor for rulership, whereas the elephant, though grand and mighty, embodies a quieter dignity that does not easily lend itself to the theatrical image of a crown and throne. Thus, the title of “King” went to the lion, whose drama suited the human imagination of power more than the elephant’s wisdom ever did.

Cultural experts would answer: The lion is the dramatic king, a creature whose very presence demands applause and reverence. Its mane resembles a crown, its roar sounds like a royal decree, and its predatory grace embodies the terrifying glamour of absolute power. The elephant, on the other hand, is the wise elder, the philosopher of the wild, moving slowly with patience, storing memories that span generations, and nurturing its family with tenderness. One rules by spectacle, the other by wisdom; one dazzles with thunder, the other guides with silence. Humanity, being ever enchanted by pageantry and performance, chose the lion as its monarch of the wild, leaving the elephant to be revered not as a king, but as a sage.

The lion in today’s human analogy is the flamboyant celebrity, strutting across the stage with a perfect spotlight, dripping in glamour, and roaring into microphones as if every sound were destiny itself. It wins attention not because it knows the most, but because it performs the loudest and most dramatically. The elephant, by contrast, is the wise professor, sitting in a quiet lecture hall with a head full of knowledge, respected deeply by those who seek wisdom but often overlooked by the masses who prefer fireworks over reflection. The world crowns the lion because society craves spectacle, while the elephant remains the quiet mentor whose dignity is recognised only by those who value depth over dazzle.

Philosophers would answer: The lion in the political stage is the populist politician, forever roaring at the podium with slogans that sound like destiny but often dissolve into thin air. He survives on spectacle: banners, cameras, handshakes, and endless promises, all crafted to dazzle the crowd. The elephant, meanwhile, is the technocrat, the quiet figure with spreadsheets and strategies, who may not shout the loudest but actually understands how to solve the nation’s problems. Yet the crowd, addicted to noise and drama, tends to crown the lion as king, leaving the elephant in the background, respected by the few who still value competence over charisma.

Well then, comedians—what say you, the jesters of our age? The lion is called the King of the Jungle because, frankly, it looks like someone who accidentally subscribed to a premium hair salon membership and then decided to rule the world with its mane. The elephant, on the other hand, would make a terrible king because no throne could possibly handle that much backside, and the royal crown would just look like a toy on its gigantic head. Besides, if kings were chosen by wisdom, patience, or memory, then your grandmother’s WhatsApp group admin would already be ruling the universe. Humanity chose drama, not dignity—and so the lion, with its designer haircut and thunderous karaoke voice, got the crown, while the elephant was left as the respectable uncle who everyone consults when their Wi-Fi stops working.

Now, let’s take it into the wild world of student boarding houses. The lion is called the King of the Jungle because it’s basically the loudest guy in the kosan, the one who always slams the door, blasts dangdut remixes at 2 a.m., and walks around shirtless with full confidence as if the hallway were his personal catwalk. Everyone fears him, not because he’s the smartest, but because no one wants to argue with a guy who roars over Indomie packets. The elephant, on the other hand, is that quiet senior who actually pays rent on time, remembers everyone’s birthdays, and fixes the rice cooker when it breaks. But nobody calls him king, because wisdom doesn’t get likes on TikTok. Drama does. So, the lion remains the kosan’s “Raja Hutan,” while the elephant is just the unsung hero who saves the day when the water gallon runs out.

So what do the artists say? The lion is crowned the King of the Jungle because, honestly, it’s the original inventor of Sound Horeg. That roar? It’s basically the prehistoric version of motor knalpot brong yang kalau lewat bikin semua orang kaget setengah mati. The lion doesn’t care if it’s disturbing the forest; it just wants everyone to know, “Bro, I exist, and I’m louder than your Bluetooth speaker.” The elephant, poor fellow, could never compete—its trumpet sounds more like an off-key trombone at a high school marching band. Respectable, yes, but not exactly TikTok material. Humanity, being forever addicted to noise and nuisance, gave the crown to the lion, turning him into the eternal “Sound Horeg” superstar of the savannah.

If the lion is Sound Horeg, then the elephant is absolutely Sound Adem, a cool and refreshing sound. The lion screams like a motor bronco at 3 a.m., demanding the whole jungle wake up and clap, while the elephant hums like an AC unit in a dorm room, steady and reliable, never showing off but always keeping everyone alive and comfortable. The lion is the viral TikTok clip—five seconds of chaos that grabs your attention—while the elephant is the eight-hour lo-fi playlist on YouTube that keeps you sane during finals. But of course, in a world addicted to noise, chaos, and showmanship, Sound Horeg always gets the crown, while Sound Adem just quietly saves your sanity without ever trending.

In the world of Indonesian politics, the lion as Sound Horeg is the classic pejabat pencitraan—he talks loud, launches endless jargon, and makes sure the camera always catches his dramatic hand gestures, just like a motor brong that insists everyone in the kampung must know he just passed by. Meanwhile, the elephant as Sound Adem is the technocrat or civil servant who actually works, writes boring policy drafts, and quietly keeps the system running, but nobody notices him because he doesn’t roar or show off. The lion goes viral on TV and TikTok because society loves drama, while the elephant remains in PDF documents that nobody reads, except by the one intern who accidentally pressed “download all attachments.” Thus, in politics, Sound Horeg wins the crown, while Sound Adem just prevents the kingdom from collapsing.

The lion as Sound Horeg is that one neighbour who insists on blasting dangdut koplo remix at 5 a.m. for no apparent reason, treating the entire kampung as his personal concert hall. He shouts at his kids, slams the gates, and somehow still finds energy to gossip louder than the mosque speakers. Meanwhile, the elephant as Sound Adem is the quiet neighbour who waters everyone’s plants when they’re away, lends sugar without complaint, and helps lift the gas cylinder when it runs out. But, of course, nobody calls him the king of the neighbourhood, because kindness doesn’t trend on Instagram. The noisy lion gets crowned with notoriety, while the calm elephant remains the unsung hero who makes life liveable.

For novelists, the lion as Sound Horeg in love is that over-the-top partner who declares “I love you” twenty times a day, spams Instagram with couple selfies, and proposes in the middle of a shopping mall with a flash mob of dancers who look like they were hired from TikTok. It’s loud, dramatic, and everyone notices—even strangers who never asked. The elephant as Sound Adem, on the other hand, is the partner who doesn’t post a thing but remembers your favourite food, charges your phone when you fall asleep, and quietly supports you when life turns messy. But of course, society swoons over the lion’s fireworks, while the elephant’s loyalty doesn’t trend. The Sound Horeg lion gets crowned as the “romantic king,” while the Sound Adem elephant is the true love story that never makes it to the explore page.

Here are the psychologists' answers: the anecdote of the lion and the elephant is often tied to discussions about mentality rather than biology. In nature, lions very rarely attack elephants because an adult elephant is far too large and dangerous. But in metaphorical or motivational narratives, the lion is portrayed as a creature with a fearless mentality—it looks at the elephant and thinks, “That’s food,” not “That’s too big for me.” The point here is not about zoology but about psychology: the lion represents the mindset of confidence, courage, and dominance, while the elephant, though larger and stronger, symbolises hesitation, calmness, or even a lack of aggressive ambition.

In this sense, the story has been used widely in leadership and motivational literature: the lion is respected not because of size, but because of attitude. Its roar, its willingness to confront, and its boldness to see prey where others see danger become metaphors for mental strength. Meanwhile, the elephant shows that having great potential or intelligence is not always enough if it is not matched with a ruling mentality.

The lion in the startup world is the bold founder with a horeg mentality: he launches the app even though it still crashes, prints business cards before he has an office, and pitches to investors with nothing but a PowerPoint and raw confidence. For him, the giant competitors are just “future food”—problems to chew through, not obstacles to fear. The elephant, on the other hand, is the perfectionist founder with a adem mentality: he does ten years of market research, builds a product so polished it could win design awards, and knows every possible risk—but by the time he’s ready to launch, the lion has already gone viral, failed twice, pivoted three times, and somehow raised millions. The lesson? Mentality often beats size or intelligence; the world crowns the loud and fearless, while the quiet and careful risk being left behind.

How did the students respond? Okay, let’s bring it to campus life. The lion in college is that one student with a horeg mentality: he walks into class late, hasn’t even opened the textbook, and still volunteers to present first. His slides? Non-existent. His references? “Menurut pengalaman saya, Pak…” But somehow he speaks with so much confidence that the lecturer actually nods along. The elephant, by contrast, is the adem mentality student: he spends nights perfecting his 100-slide PowerPoint, complete with animations, footnotes, and bibliography longer than the Qur’an’s tafsir. Yet when presentation day arrives, he hesitates, skips details, and ends up mumbling so softly that even the front row can’t hear him. In the end, the lion gets remembered for being bold, while the elephant’s brilliance gets buried under his own silence.

In certain strands of literature, the lion has not always been portrayed merely as a roaring emblem of strength, but rather as a tragic figure whose tears reveal the burden of being perceived as unshakable. In Aesop’s fables, for instance, the lion occasionally appears as a creature who, despite his might, finds himself trapped in predicaments that force him to show humility and even sorrow. Later writers and poets would amplify this image, crafting the lion not just as a predator, but as a metaphor for the human soul: outwardly fierce, inwardly fragile. In Sufi allegories, a weeping lion symbolises the paradox of man’s condition—appearing as sovereign of the earthly domain while secretly yearning for divine reunion. In more contemporary uses, the image of a lion shedding tears has become a poignant device to illustrate that even the strongest are not immune to despair, longing, or loneliness. To see a lion weep, in these metaphors, is to see the mask of invincibility slip, exposing the tender humanity that power so often tries to conceal.

There are a few texts where the lion is cast not just as a brute emblem of force, but as a figure whose tears (or near-tears) stand for the ache of being trapped between power and longing. In the old tale of Androcles and the Lion, the beast is discovered “moaning and groaning,” a sovereign brought low by a thorn. The scene reads like a quiet dethroning: the king of beasts becomes a supplicant, and his relief—once the thorn is drawn—feels more like a release from loneliness than from pain. Many retellings preserve that plaintive note; it is the lion’s vulnerability, not his roar, that binds him in friendship to Androcles. The fable’s pathos has survived from Victorian and schoolbook versions to modern scripts (including the BBC’s teaching text), and it works precisely because the lion’s grandeur is pierced by a wound that begs for human mercy. 

A fully modern, explicitly tear-stained rendering arrives with Thomas Merton’s poetry collection The Tears of the Blind Lions (New Directions, 1949/1950). Merton leans on the image of the lion’s tears to speak of spiritual homesickness: the creature famed for dominion becomes an emblem of the soul that cannot see its Beloved and weeps for that absence. Critics at the time read the volume as a devotional lyric sequence, its title itself a thesis: power—“lion”—is literally blinded and taught to cry, which is to say, to long. The result is a metaphysic of kingship humbled into yearning.

If you prefer a more explicitly mystical lens, Rūmī often yokes the lion to states of tenderness and tears. In popular translations and paraphrases, a speaker moves from “weeping” into leonine fierceness and back into softness, mapping the oscillation between spiritual ardour and aching desire. The lion is not only a symbol of courage but of the heart compelled by love—its might redeemed by longing. Even when the lines are aphoristically quoted today, the pairing of “weeping” and “lion” keeps surfacing, as if to insist that true strength is inseparable from vulnerability.

For a classical elegy with claws, Statius’s Silvae includes poems that mourn animals with almost theatrical intensity; among them is an ode on a lion killed in the amphitheatre. Roman pomp is inverted: the spectacle that should confirm imperial power becomes a lament, and the fallen lion is treated with an almost royal grief. In translation and commentary the tone is unmistakably elegiac, turning the arena’s triumph into an image of thwarted nobility—again, power hemmed in by the pang of loss.

If you weave these strands together, a pattern emerges. Aesop’s wounded monarch, Merton’s blind weeper, Rūmī’s fierce-yet-tender heart, and Statius’s lamented arena-king all present the lion as a paradox: crowned, yet craving; mighty, yet pierced; public emblem, private exile. In each case, the tears—literal or implicit—are not a failure of strength but its revelation, the place where dominion confesses desire.

[Bahasa]