‘I am bound to speak’: women in Othello
Year 11 English Advanced students have been refining their discursive writing and critical thinking skills through their exploration of William Shakespeare’s ‘Othello’. Here, Kaitlyn S & Ollie R share their thoughts on how female character fare alongside the ‘Moor of Venice.’
The Daughters of Eve
“They that mean virtuously and yet do so, The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.” (Othello, 4.1)
“The serpent deceived me, and I ate.” (Genesis 3:13)
I’ve heard the story countless times, like a droning, repeated message over a public announcement: “Eve ate the apple and convinced Adam to join her, so Eve is evil, and she is the reason we humans are punished.”
But why blame one tempter and not the other?
Eve was tempted first, and yet when Adam gave into temptation, he was not villainised the same. Surely, the serpent should be blamed, and not Eve, or Adam should be blamed the same as Eve for giving into the temptation and eating the apple. Why is it that only the woman is punished, villainised, and blamed for all the sins to come?
I remember reading Genesis for the first time, and my bafflement at the punishments dealt out by the “all-loving” God to the offending parties. For Adam, he was sentenced to toil for his living from then on, and the serpent was cursed to be hated above all other creatures and travel along the ground all its life. Both uncomfortable, humiliating penalties, certainly.
But for Eve? “I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children. Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.” Genesis 3:16.
Desdemona and Eve are nearly one in the same: they are both wives to men valued above them simply for being men, and they are women whose actions, influenced by a manipulator, lead to the downfall of both them and their husbands. The difference lies upon which ear the serpent whispered into: Eve’s, or Othello’s. Iago, the serpent, manipulated Othello into believing his wife had committed sins against him, and this drove him to his course of action. In this, it is not the fault of the Eve, but the Adam, and yet the blame still falls to the woman and the outcome is the same.
The culture of victim-blaming is so prevalent in society. They say, What was she wearing? Did she toy with him? Are you sure she didn’t want it? At school, in the workplace, walking down the street, there is the ever-present thought that something bad may happen, that the lone woman may make a wrong glance or wear a skirt just an inch too short, and soon be facing the tempted man. Women are the daughters of Eve, blamed for a man’s actions time and time again, rather than it being acknowledged that the man made his choice.
I feel like no matter how many times I say it – 1 in 5 – it falls on deaf ears. I’ve sat in classrooms, surrounded by boys I spend six hours a day with, listening to them disregard those numbers or be genuinely baffled they are true. Disregard and ignorance lies at the heart of the continued culture of sexual assault around the world, and beneath that lies the biased passing of blame onto one party. Surveys from last year say that in Australia, 24% of those surveyed believed that rape reports were often made by women who had led a man on and then had regrets. 25% of those surveyed believed that if the man was sexually aroused, he may not have realised the woman was not consenting. And 10% of those surveyed said that women sometimes say ‘no’ when they really mean ‘yes.’ These statistics are terrifying to any woman, because it is clear that becoming a statistic is not a small chance.
Reading Othello, I could not help but feel no pity for the tragic hero. His actions were his own, no matter Iago’s poisonous words. Desdemona’s fate was unjust and undeserved, and I can’t help but wonder if the people of Shakespeare’s Biblical time drew the parallel to Eve. Did they question their perspective? Did they reconsider their views on who was to blame?
I think not. Perhaps, for a moment, a flicker of doubt tried to move them, cast some small light on a discarded notion, but was inevitably snuffed out by centuries of shaming and societal teachings. The woman should not have stepped out of place. The woman should not have incited the man’s wrath. Desdemona and Eve’s stories give the same warning: women who step out of line get punished.
I am and am surrounded by the daughters of Eve. Generation after generation of persecuted daughters bridges the centuries between Eve and I, and thousands more will come to pass, yet I feel her injustices as my own. I have not yet been shamed for another’s actions, but I have seen it for others.
I can only hope, one day, I’ll get see it stop.
Kaitlyn S, Year 11
All Eyes on Emilia
When I was younger, my mum worked behind the scenes at a local theatre. She wasn’t in the spotlight, never on stage, but she knew everything. Who had stage fright. Who forgot their lines. Who was secretly dating the lighting guy. She had this quiet way of observing people, watching the show unfold both on and off the stage, and somehow, she always knew how it would end before anyone else did. I didn’t realise it then, but she taught me that the person who sees everything not necessarily the loudest, not the hero or the villain might be the most important one of all. That’s how I feel about Emilia in Othello.
We’re taught to focus on the men, Othello, Iago, Cassio, as if the tragedy belongs to them. But what if the play’s true centre isn’t the general or the villain, but the woman standing at the edge of the stage, watching it all unfolds with clear eyes? What if Emilia, often overlooked, is the beating heart of Shakespeare’s tragedy?
From the start, Emilia walks a difficult line. She’s both a servant and a wife, pulled between loyalty to Desdemona and obedience to Iago. She doesn’t have the power to command armies or manipulate dukes, but she does have the power to see what others don’t or won’t. She notices the cracks in Iago’s mask. She suspects the rot beneath his charm. And unlike most of the characters, she grows. She changes. She acts.
What’s especially compelling is how Shakespeare builds her arc. In early scenes, Emilia seems complicit. She finds Desdemona’s handkerchief and gives it to Iago, not realising the destruction it will cause. It’s a small act, but in tragedy, small acts have seismic consequences. And yet, when she realises what Iago has done, how he’s used her, lied to her, and destroyed Desdemona, she doesn’t stay silent. She does what no one else has dared to do: she speaks the truth.
Her final scene is electric. Surrounded by men, threatened by her own husband, she says what must be said. “You told a lie, an odious, damned lie.” She exposes Iago. She vindicates Desdemona. And she does it knowing it will likely cost her life. In a play full of manipulation and deceit, Emilia’s honesty is radical. It’s revolutionary.
What fascinates me is how contemporary Emilia feels. Even now, women are often told to be quiet, to be agreeable, to stand by their partners no matter what. Emilia breaks that rule. She’s not perfect, she’s flawed, human, sometimes frustrating, but she finds her voice. And in doing so, she becomes something Shakespearean women rarely get to be, the moral compass of the play.
In a way, Emilia is the only character who sees everyone clearly. She sees Iago for what he is. She sees the pressure Desdemona faces. And she sees Othello not as a hero or villain, but as a man twisted by insecurity and manipulated emotion. She speaks up not because she wants glory, but because she’s had enough. Enough of being silent. Enough of watching women suffer. Enough of the lies that men tell to protect their pride.
There’s a line Emilia says that still hits hard: “Let husbands know / Their wives have sense like them.” It’s quietly revolutionary. In four hundred years, that line hasn’t aged a day. She challenges the double standards of her world, and ours. And her voice, though it’s silenced in the end, echoes far beyond the play’s final act.
When we study Othello, we often treat Emilia as a supporting character. But what if the real tragedy is that we’ve misread the play? What if Othello isn’t just about jealousy or manipulation or honour, but about how women see what men can’t, and are punished for telling the truth?
That’s why I think Emilia is the main character. Not because she’s in the most scenes, or has the most lines, but because she changes the story. She shifts it. She reveals its core. And in a play filled with silence, secrets, and miscommunication, she becomes the one voice we should all be listening to.
Just like my mum in that theatre, never on stage but quietly holding the story together, Emilia watches. Learns. Speaks. And in the end, she may not survive the play, but she owns its truth.
Ollie R, Year 11
