By Princess Eugene Majuru
A Kingdom in the Woods
In a patch of woodland outside Jedburgh, Scotland, a small group calling themselves the Kingdom of Kubala has captured the world’s attention. At first glance, it might look like an eccentric experiment a handful of tents, a trio of people, a bold claim to kingship. But to dismiss the Kubala as “self-proclaimed royals squatting on council land,” as some headlines have, is to miss the deeper story.
Behind the viral videos, the police reports, and the speculative news pieces lies a set of questions that touch the very foundations of human rights:
Who has the right to reclaim stolen land?
Who decides whether a tribe is “real”?
Do people have the right to form a new religion?
Why are media narratives so quick to stir fear rather than foster understanding?
The Kubala Kingdom may be small, but the issues it has forced into global conversation are monumental. And the way Scotland responds will send ripples far beyond the woods.
The Wound of Land Dispossession
The Kubala claim their ancestors were dispossessed of land 400 years ago, during the violent upheavals of early colonial encounters. To many observers, this feels like an impossible stretch of time. But in truth, four centuries is not so long when measured against the enduring wounds of colonialism.
Consider the Aboriginal peoples of Australia. For more than two centuries, they were told they had no land rights at all because the continent was legally defined as terra nullius—”land belonging to no one.” Only in 1992, after generations of activism, did the High Court of Australia overturn that racist fiction in the landmark Mabo case, recognising Aboriginal people as rightful custodians of the land. Yet even now, many Aboriginal communities remain landless, their cultural survival threatened by mining companies and government policy.
Or take Native Americans in the United States. From the Trail of Tears in the 1830s to the seizure of sacred lands for pipelines in the 21st century, Indigenous peoples have faced displacement after displacement. Court cases drag on for decades, often yielding only partial restitution.
The African continent itself carries parallel scars. In Zimbabwe, white settler colonialism dispossessed entire kingdoms, including the Shona and Ndebele. Land reform decades later sought to correct injustices but unleashed new traumas, showing how unresolved histories echo dangerously into the present.
Against this backdrop, the Kubala claim is neither bizarre nor unique. It is part of a global struggle to repair stolen heritage, one that raises uncomfortable questions: how do we account for crimes committed centuries ago, when their consequences still shape the lives of descendants today?
Who Proclaims a Tribe?
Much of the media framing has revolved around one label: the Kubala are “self-proclaimed.” But this accusation collapses under scrutiny.
Who, after all, has the power to declare a people a tribe? Is it governments, issuing certificates of authenticity? Is it historians, dusting off old records? Or is it the people themselves, carrying their memory through story, ritual, and lineage?
International law gives us a clear answer. The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) states that self-identification as Indigenous or tribal shall be a fundamental criterion. Likewise, the International Labour Organization’s Convention 169 emphasises that Indigenous identity must be determined primarily by the people concerned themselves.
This does not mean that every claim must be accepted blindly. Evidence, history, and dialogue matter. But starting from a presumption of illegitimacy branding communities as “fake tribes” denies the very dignity that international law is designed to protect.
The question then becomes not “are the Kubala real?” but “are we willing to engage their claim seriously, on its own cultural and historical terms?”
Faith and the Freedom to Believe
Alongside land, the Kubala Kingdom has stirred debate for embracing what some describe as a “new religion.” Critics have demanded to know: is it legal to invent a faith? Must one apply for approval somewhere?
Such questions betray a profound misunderstanding of religious freedom. Article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the European Convention on Human Rights both guarantee the right to freedom of thought, conscience, and religion—including the freedom to adopt, change, or create beliefs. No government issues licenses for belief. In the UK, there are procedures for registering charities or places of worship, but the core right to practise a religion—old or new—is absolute, so long as it does not harm others.
History itself shows that every religion was once “new.” Christianity emerged in the margins of the Roman Empire, Islam in the sands of Arabia, Sikhism in the fields of Punjab. Countless denominations, sects, and movements have arisen in the centuries since. To deny the Kubala the right to spiritual innovation is to deny the very process by which human cultures evolve.
Fear, Framing, and the Media Machine
If the Kubala are not violent, not harming anyone, and not tied in chains, why has so much of the media framed them as a threat?
Journalists have asked locals living miles away: “Do you feel safe?” They have questioned passersby: “What about your children?” Such questions are not neutral. They imply danger where none may exist.
Meanwhile, videos circulating online show the reverse: the Kubala camp being attacked, their tents torn, their presence challenged aggressively. Even the so-called “handmaiden” Asnat, painted in reports as a helpless captive, stated calmly on camera: “If I wanted to run away, I could run. I am not tied in chains.”
The dissonance is striking. On one side, the lived reality of three people living quietly in the woods. On the other, the media’s amplification of fear, suspicion, and ridicule.
This is not harmless. History shows that such narratives can spark violence. In Rwanda, hate radio prepared the ground for genocide. In the United States, panic about “satanic cults” in the 1980s ruined innocent lives. When the press chooses fear over fairness, the cost is borne by the vulnerable.
Human Rights at the Heart
So what does a fair, rights-based approach to the Kubala Kingdom look like? It begins with recognising that beneath the questions of law, property, and legitimacy lie three unshakable human truths:
They are people, not problems. The Kubala are not animals, not caricatures, not threats. They are human beings with dignity.
They have rights. To land, to identity, to belief. Even if their historical claims remain contested, their present rights are non-negotiable.
They deserve dialogue. Solutions will not be found in eviction notices or tabloid headlines but in meaningful engagement—with historians, cultural experts, and mediators from Ghana, Zimbabwe, and beyond.
Lessons from the World
Global history offers models for what can happen when dialogue replaces dismissal. In New Zealand, the Treaty of Waitangi settlement process has returned land and recognition to Māori iwi (tribes), however imperfectly.
In Canada, Truth and Reconciliation commissions have attempted to address centuries of dispossession and cultural trauma. The Kubala Kingdom, for all its eccentricities, presents an opportunity for Scotland and the UK to engage seriously with the ongoing legacies of colonialism and the fundamental human rights of self-identification, belief, and dignity.
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