I visited my doctor the other day, to inform him that I was suffering from a grave medical condition. He gave me a concerned look, and asked me what the problem was. I said, ‘Doctor…I see dead people.’ The look of concern on his face changed to a ‘let’s find you a nice padded cell’ look, but I quickly explained myself. ‘No, no, not like that. I see Shakespeare, everywhere!’ The padded cell look didn’t go away. I supposed I’d better explain. 

Let me tell you a story; one that many of you probably know quite well - it is, after, an epic of Shakespearean nature. It is a tale of a noble black man, who has gained respect as a leader in a society that did not view him as one of their own. However, he is betrayed by one he thought close to him, one who seemed unified in agenda, but who is eventually revealed as an enemy. I’m talking, of course, about the tale of Jacob Zuma. Jacob rose through the ranks as a leader, eventually coming to lead the fair, sweet ANC, his true love. He remains devoted to the welfare of his party above all else, but, lurking in the shadows, we find Julius Malema. In the beginning, he was in Jacob’s camp, seemingly a loyal supporter, but, as Jacob reached the height of his presidency, suddenly, Malema struck, moving against Jacob, manipulating the affections of those around him, until Jacob thought that his own party was against him. 

Those of you familiar with the Shakespeare play Othello will of course notice the immediate parallels. Othello, a black general in Venice, is manipulated by the cruel Iago, masquerading as Othello’s right-hand man, into believing that his wife, Desdemona, has become unfaithful. Othello, stricken by rage and grief, kills Desdemona, and then, after realising that she was in fact faithful all along, kills himself.

Of course, it remains to be seen whether or not Jacob Zuma will drive the ANC into the ground, even as his power structures are weakening around him, but, ever since we begun reading Othello in class at the beginning of this year, the story of Jacob and Julius is another in a set of strange parallels that I had been noticing, between the events of a 400-year old play, and modern day life.

My doctor told me to go home, relax, and rethink what he called ‘my paranoia.’ Grudgingly, I accepted this advice, and left. Back home, I put on some music, and, just as the day was winding down, my playlist got to the Beatles, and I suddenly had another epiphany. There was Othello, again! 

John Lennon was the founder and lead singer of the Beatles. His dedication to, and love for, the band had made them famous, and he, a pimply teenager from Liverpool, had risen to great standing among music’s most elite. But then, there came his Iago, a snake in the grass, in the form of Yoko Ono. John met her in 1966, at the height of the Beatles success. She quickly wormed her way into his affections, posing as a trusted ally, when really she all she wished was for his downfall. The year that they met, coincidentally, was also the year the Beatles stopped touring. During the years that followed, she managed to convince him that she alone was deserving of his affection, not his band. Strife, mistrust, and artistic differences occurred. In 1969, not 5 months after John and Yoko married, John left the band. This was the killing blow for the Beatles, who immediately broke apart. Sometime after this, John was killed. He died a broken soul. Yoko Ono was notoriously tight-lipped during this time, almost as if…she had vowed silence on the matter. 

At this, an interjection: these parallels are stunning, and yet, you say, ‘surely these manipulations, these cruel misdirections of affection are merely traits of selfish, unfeeling beings? Such people have existed since the dawn of time; it seems logical that they would appear somewhere in Shakespeare, and then again in real life. This is but a coincidence of human nature.’ 

Well, while these are indeed traits that have shown themselves repeatedly through human history, one must take into account Shakespeare’s deep understanding of human nature and interaction. He does not merely write interactions between characters, fictitious back-and-forths indistinguishable from some pulp novel, no - Shakespeare has an almost otherworldly understanding of people and human conflict. He writes what he knows will happen; he does not make up stories, he creates and moulds lives. And because of this deep understanding, we can see that the parallels of these examples that I have provided from human history are not mere coincidences. They transcend mediums, as well. 

The animated film ‘The Lion King’ is a good example. Simba, the young heir to a pride of lions, is raised by his father, Mufasa, whom he deeply loves. Simba’s uncle Scar, however, is jealous of his position in the pride, and plots to destroy everything Simba loves. Posing as a friend, he manages to lure Simba into a trap for Mufasa, upon whom he releases a stampede of animals. Mufasa is killed, indirectly due to Simba’s actions. Simba blames himself and flees, thereby inheriting responsibility for Mufasa’s death, even though his intentions were good all along. This mirrors the final act of Othello, where Iago, through manipulation of the circumstances, made Othello guilty for a crime that was ultimately Iago’s fault. 

And, I think, for the most damning example, we can compare Othello, one of the greatest creative works of that age, to arguably the greatest work of our age: Star Wars.

I’ll reiterate my source text: In Othello, the moor Othello, a respected and noble general, marries his true love Desdemona, only to have his plotting ensign Iago manipulate his affections and suspicions against her, eventually leading Othello to renounce his affection, his dignity, and his humanity. He shows his, shall we say ‘Dark Side,’ and kills Desdemona in hatred. At the end of the play, though, Emilia, Iago’s wife, shows him the error of his ways, and Othello kills himself to atone for his deeds, dying a tragic hero. 

In the Star Wars saga, Anakin Skywalker, a respected Jedi and general, fights for the Galactic Republic in the Clone Wars. He is noble in his motives, but is turned to the Dark Side by Chancellor Palpatine, a Sith Lord in disguise, who gains Anakin’s trust, and uses Anakin’s love for his wife, Padmé, against him. Anakin kills Padmé and falls to the Dark Side. At the end of the Saga, though, Anakin, shown the path to redemption by his son, turns back to the Light, and kills Palpatine and himself, finally finding peace.

I cannot give an example more clear than that: of Shakespeare’s many skills, his understanding of people and human nature was undoubtedly his greatest, allowing him, in effect, to predict the future, and prove the old adage that ‘history always repeats itself’ - if you know where to look, and you know what to write.