I was reading Surrounded by Psychopaths, and at some point, I had to pause—not because the ideas were new, but because they felt uncomfortably familiar. The patterns of manipulation, the absence of guilt, the quiet way people use others and move on—it did not feel like theory. It felt like lived reality. Faces came to mind. Stories I have heard. Situations I have witnessed. And that is where the discomfort deepens, because it forces a question many of us avoid: how can such personalities exist in a society that identifies itself so strongly with Islam, a religion rooted in justice, mercy, and accountability?
The answer begins when we separate identity from internalisation. Religion, on its own, does not transform a person. It offers a framework, a path, a set of principles—but whether those principles are embodied depends on the individual. What I have increasingly observed is that religion can sometimes shift from being a guide to becoming a tool. A tool to influence, to control, to maintain an image. A parent may invoke religion to silence a child rather than nurture them. A partner may use moral language to justify betrayal. A person may present piety publicly while engaging in deception privately. This creates a dangerous contradiction, because the harm is not only emotional—it becomes spiritual, leaving the victim confused about trust, faith, and truth itself.
The personality described in Erikson’s work is often simplified under the label “psychopath,” but what the book really captures is a broader behavioural pattern—individuals who lack consistent empathy, who relate to others in transactional ways, and who do not experience guilt or remorse in the way most people do. Neurologically, this is not just a moral issue; it is also linked to how the brain functions. Research shows that areas such as the amygdala, which processes fear and emotional responses, and the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, which is involved in decision-making and moral judgement, tend to function differently in such individuals. There is often reduced activation in these areas, meaning emotional signals—like distress in others—do not register with the same intensity. At the same time, dopamine pathways, which are linked to reward and pleasure, may reinforce manipulative behaviour when it leads to personal gain. In simple terms, if deception brings reward and there is no strong emotional brake like guilt, the behaviour is repeated and strengthened over time.
This brings us to the question of whether such personalities are born or made. The most honest answer is that they are shaped by both biology and environment. Some individuals are born with a lower baseline for emotional responsiveness. They may not feel attachment, fear, or guilt as strongly as others. But biology alone does not determine outcome. Environment plays a powerful role in shaping how those traits develop. A child who grows up in a space where love is conditional, where control is normalised, or where manipulation is necessary for survival learns early that relationships are not about connection—they are about advantage. Over time, these patterns become internalised. The brain adapts. Neural pathways strengthen around what is repeatedly practiced. If manipulation leads to reward, dopamine reinforces it. If empathy is not modelled, those circuits remain underdeveloped.
Society then acts as the final layer of reinforcement. When manipulative behaviour is not challenged—when people gain financially through deception, maintain status despite unethical actions, or are even admired for dominance—it sends a powerful message: this works. The brain, always seeking efficiency and reward, does not question morality in isolation. It responds to outcomes. If there are no consequences, the behaviour stabilises. Over time, what was once an individual pattern becomes something we begin to see more widely, and eventually, something we risk normalising.
For those on the receiving end, the experience is often confusing rather than obviously harmful. People who are empathetic, values-driven, and willing to see the good in others are not weak, but they are more open. And openness, without boundaries, can be exploited. Manipulative individuals are often highly observant. They read emotional cues, mirror values, and create a sense of connection quickly. This is not accidental—it is strategic. When trust is built rapidly, it lowers psychological defences. Oxytocin, the hormone linked to bonding and trust, increases during moments of perceived emotional closeness. This creates a sense of safety. But when that safety is based on manipulation, the same mechanism that builds connection becomes the very thing that keeps a person stuck in the relationship longer than they should be.
Over time, subtle signs begin to appear, but they are often dismissed. There may be inconsistencies in stories, but they are explained away. There may be moments of emotional coldness, but they are justified as stress or misunderstanding. There may be repeated patterns of taking without giving, but they are overlooked in favour of occasional kindness. This creates cognitive dissonance in the brain—a tension between what is felt and what is believed. The prefrontal cortex tries to rationalise the situation, while the emotional system signals discomfort. When this conflict continues unresolved, it leads to confusion, self-doubt, and emotional exhaustion.
One of the hardest truths to accept is that not everyone operates from the same emotional framework. Many people assume that others feel guilt, attachment, and empathy in the same way they do. But for some individuals, those emotional experiences are limited or absent. This means that traditional approaches—explaining, giving chances, offering support—do not lead to change. From a neurological perspective, if the emotional and moral processing systems are not strongly activated, insight alone does not shift behaviour. Change requires not just awareness, but structured intervention and a willingness to take responsibility—something that many individuals with these patterns do not pursue, because their current behaviour is already working for them.
So the focus must shift. Not towards fixing them, but towards protecting oneself. This does not mean becoming cold or detached. It means becoming clear. It means recognising that compassion does not require access, and that understanding someone does not obligate you to tolerate harmful behaviour. Boundaries are not emotional reactions; they are cognitive decisions. When consistently applied, they help regulate your own nervous system, reducing stress responses such as elevated cortisol levels that come from prolonged emotional strain.
From an Islamic perspective, this awareness is not contradictory to faith—it is aligned with it. Islam does not call for blind trust. It calls for balanced judgement. The Prophet (ﷺ) described clear patterns of behaviour—lying, breaking trust, betrayal—not to label people, but to guide us in recognising harm. Accountability in Islam is not dependent on whether a person feels guilt. It is based on actions. This shifts the focus from emotional interpretation to ethical clarity.
What becomes clear through all of this is that the issue is not simply the presence of such personalities, but our tendency to normalise, excuse, or overlook them. Awareness changes that. Once you begin to see patterns instead of isolated incidents, your responses become more grounded. You stop over-explaining. You stop ignoring discomfort. You begin to act with intention rather than reaction.
And perhaps that is the real takeaway. The world will always contain a range of personalities—some empathetic, some not. But awareness allows you to move through it without losing yourself. It allows you to remain kind, without being easily used. It allows you to hold onto your values, while also protecting your space.
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