We all know someone who, in Iago’s mould who uses lies and deception to exploit, betray, and divide. They are in the family, workplace, congregation and anywhere were there are people.
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The Tragedy of Trust: When Good Faith Meets Deception
When I studied Shakespeare’s Othello, it broke my heart in a way few works of fiction do. I was drawn to Othello, feeling his intensity, his strength, and his tragic flaws, only to see him fall, bewilderingly, into a web of lies. By the end, I couldn’t shake the question: why was he so easily taken in by Iago? How could someone so powerful be so susceptible?
Iago, Othello’s ensign, is the root of the tragedy, a character defined by deceit, manipulation, and a remarkable skill for sowing discord. He systematically ruins Othello’s life, convincing him that his loyal wife, Desdemona, has been unfaithful. Though Shakespeare would not have used the term, Iago’s behaviour closely matches what modern psychology would describe as sociopathic. What strikes me most is how eerily accurate Shakespeare’s portrayal is, even centuries before psychology defined these traits with clinical clarity. Iago’s lack of empathy, his relentless pursuit of personal gain at the expense of others, and his pleasure in watching others suffer are traits we now associate with a sociopathic personality.
We can recognize Iago’s traits today: manipulative, dishonest, charming when it suits his needs, yet fundamentally selfish and empty of empathy. He doesn’t care about the people he destroys; he simply sees them as pieces on a board. Like many modern psychological profiles, he thrives in creating chaos, deriving satisfaction not from personal victories alone but from watching others unravel. There’s an unsettling familiarity here because figures like Iago exist beyond fiction—they can be found in workplaces, families, communities, and yes, even in places as sacred as churches.
Shakespeare understood, intuitively, what we now study in psychology: the profile of a person who causes harm without remorse and operates without a moral compass. Iago’s deceit is so layered, his words so plausible, that even the discerning Othello is blindsided by his betrayal. Othello, a capable, brave man, falls precisely because of his willingness to trust—a quality that ought to be a strength but becomes a liability when weaponized by a heart devoid of compassion. This insight into human weakness is what makes *Othello* so timeless and its tragedy so universal.
The heartbreak I felt at the end of Othello—the frustration, the sorrow for Othello’s tragic misplacement of trust—is the heartbreak we sometimes feel in life when encountering similarly ruthless characters. While Shakespeare couldn’t define sociopathy, he painted a vivid picture of the devastation such a character can wreak, drawing on an intimate understanding of human nature.
In this sense, perhaps Othello isn’t fiction after all. It’s a reflection of our own lives, our relationships, and our vulnerabilities. We all know someone who, in Iago’s mould, uses charm and deception to exploit, betray, and divide. Shakespeare knew them too. And he reminds us, painfully, of what it costs to let them in.