By Thaakiera Ackerdien
The cool air of aircon brushes against my face as we make our way down Prince George. My grandmother is silent in the back seat, she’s fasting, despite Ramadan being over, she always goes the extra mile and fasts the first 6 days of Shawwal after Eid, that’s the month after Ramadan on the Muslim calendar. I, on the other hand, do not have the mental strength to do so.
A week earlier I had convinced my father to drive us around the Cape in search of the Karamats. The Karamat are shrines which surround the graves of important Muslim men who were brought to the Cape as slaves or exiles. If you are a Christian, you might equate them to saints. There are over twenty in Cape Town and its surrounding areas, all looked after by the Cape Mazaar Society. Recently there has been an ongoing legal battle to declare these shrines as heritage sites so that the land upon which they rest cannot be sold or built on. So far only ten have been classified as such.
According to legend, this Circle of Karamat is what protects the Cape from natural disasters and earthquakes. There have also been many rumours of supernatural occurrences at these mysterious shrines. Such as veld fires changing course to go around these sites, while the rest of the mountain burns.
Our journey begins in Muizenberg, heading to the Karamat of Sayed Abdul Aziz. I had spent the week prior thoroughly researching each site, in my attempt to get to know the men buried at these sites. Why is it that these places are so sacred in Cape Malay and Muslim culture? Why do people feel such a connection to these men, despite not even knowing the names of some of them? The answer to all these questions is what I seek to know on my journey around the Circle of Karamat.
We pull onto the road beside Muizenberg Park, at first, we can’t see the shrine, it's blended into the cobblestone wall as if it was formed there. The only thing that sets it apart from the mountain is the white wrought-iron fence and gate guarding its entrance. My dad parks the car, and we make our way through the gate. The grave itself is covered with a green covering, decorated with gold, Arabic verses and chapters from the Quran no doubt. There are some fresh yellow daisies resting on top of the grave, someone must have paid their respects recently. At the entrance is a white flag with calligraphy of the Prophet Mohammed’s (SAW) name on it. As you walk in you are greeted with the scent of sweet-smelling flowers and greenery from the well-maintained garden which encases the grave. We sit on the benches around the grave.
This Karamat claims to be the grave of Sayed “Abdul Aziz”, though that might not be the inhabitant’s real name. If oral history is correct, this grave belongs to a runaway slave, with little else is known about it. The grave does not have a headstone with a name, nor is there a plaque with the history of the site on it. It was allegedly discovered by a woman who was directed to it in a dream. Knowing this does give this place an odd supernatural flair.
Despite the hustle and bustle of Muizenberg below, it is an oddly quiet place. I don’t know what it is, the fact that we are sitting next to a grave, the garden around us or the sound of birds singing their chorus in the late morning, but this place has an aura of peace around it. I’m not one who usually believes in “spirits” or “auras”, but the place exudes a spiritual feel. Perhaps the spirit of the man buried here “Abdul- Aziz”, is watching over us as we sit around his grave. It feels slightly odd, visiting the grave of someone you have never met, yet here we are, paying our respects, putting flowers on his grave as we would do to a lost loved one.
My grandma says that Karamat’s are places for quiet contemplation, reflection, and small dua’s (prayers). Traditionally, people visit them before embarking on Hajj, a pilgrimage to Mecca that all Muslims must take at least once in their life if they can afford it. I vaguely remember visiting a few when I was younger, with my dad’s mother, before she went on Hajj. Although I did not understand the meaning of it then.
The next Karamat lies between a vineyard and a horse farm, in Constantia, and is marked with signs pointing towards it. Constantia is just about as white-washed an area as you can find in Cape Town. So, it is ironic that there are not one, but two Muslim shrines in this area, the Muslim population in Cape Town is mostly coloured and Cape Malay. While we are driving my dad tells me that people of colour were forcibly removed from this area during apartheid, “because it’s so pretty the white people wanted to claim it for themselves” he says.
On the drive, my grandma asks me about who is buried at the next one. This Karamat has the most history of all those we visited. It is the grave of Sheikh Abdurahman Matebe Shah. According to records from the Mazaar Society, Sheikh Abdurahman was the last of the Malaccan Sultans and regarded as an “Orang Cayen” by the Dutch, which means a “man of power and influence” and thus was regarded as dangerous by the Company. The arrival of the Dutch in his home country sparked a rebellion in his people, of which he was a leader.
He led his people in their battle against colonization by the Dutch in 1667 and was unfortunately captured, along with his two advisors. The Dutch, knowing his influence would make him a martyr in execution, inspiring his people to carry on resisting, sent him to the Cape Colony as a political exile. After arriving at the colony in 1668, he quickly befriended the slave population in Constantia and spread the word of Islam. Most slaves at this time were from Madagascar, Indonesia, Malaysia, and India.
When we finally arrive at the shrine, I noted that unlike the previous one, this one has a small green and white building, with the groundskeeper sitting outside of it reading a newspaper and having a smoke. The building is akin to a small mosque, with a small green Qubba (dome), mostly found on mosques and middle eastern architecture (think of Aladdin for those, not in the know). This distinct feature makes it stick out amongst the, mostly, European, and modern-looking houses of Constantia.
As we arrive, a nearby horse neighs and my grandmother and I go over to watch them over the fence. She then points downwards and shows me that there are more people buried here, more so than I originally thought. Besides the main grave of the Sheikh, three others are surrounding the main building, all covered and decorated with flowers.
According to the groundskeeper outside, Ishaam, who lives on the property, the three other graves surrounding the Karamat are that of the Sheikh's two sons and his mother.
After removing our shoes, we enter the main building there are three other women there sitting in silence. In the middle of the room sits the shrine. It is covered with, what can only be described as a large blanket. The outer edge is red and decorated with a simple floral pattern while the inner part is yellow and green with a more contemporary line art decorating it. Above it is a small chandelier hanging from the inside of the Qubba. Behind the shrine, there are paintings of Arabic calligraphy in Green and gold, with a small slot for donations below.
The room is silent. Walking in from the outside feels like walking into a void. The only sounds come from the birds in the trees and the trickling of the stream outside. I feel the need to whisper when we speak as if speaking loudly might disturb the dead. I sit on the floor next to my grandma while she whispers some prayers. The room is baked in the scent of incense and flowers. It feels oddly calming, sitting here. My mind does not feel the need think. I wish there were more places like this, as much as I enjoy the hustle and bustle of the city, it’s not often that I get to sit down in a room full of silence with a blank mind. My mind is probably only blank in times of deep sleep. This spot was the Sheikh’s favourite place to meditate, reflect, and pray, and I can see why he enjoyed it.
Leaving it feels like saying goodbye to an old friend, and I can see why the Muslim community of the Cape flock to these shrines to pay their respects. For where would they be if it weren’t for these men? Despite not having met them, there is a sort of familiarity to these places that I think everyone should experience, regardless of faith, race, or creed.
The next Karamat is also situated a short distance from the previous, on “Islam Hill”. It belongs to Sayed Mahmud, a spiritual and religious leader of the Malaccan Empire and one of the religious advisors who was exiled to the Cape alongside Sheikh Abdurahman Matebe Shah.
This Karamat is enclosed by a gate with a bell at the entrance, with a notice in the front informing the visitors of the rules and regulations of visiting the shrine. As I go through the gates, I am immediately in awe at the sprawling garden laid out before me. The path ahead is lined with sweet-smelling pomegranate trees. There are graves laid sporadically on this property, most likely family, or followers of Sayed Mahmud.
The shrine itself has glass windows on all four sides, allowing the light to pour in from all angles. The scent of burning incense once again fills my nostrils. The shrine is covered in a white shroud, with the golden stains of attar (pronounced “at-tir”), a type of oil-based perfume dotting the fabric. The three women from the previous shrine are at this one too, they leave just as we arrive and greet us. The room has the same quiet, peaceful aura as the previous one. It’s cosy, and warm from the sunlight coming in. I wonder who is buried here, he must have been quite an honourable man to be honoured so beautifully in death.
I wonder about my own life, what will my grave look like? In moments of deep depression, I had often thought about such things, as what my funeral would be like, who would show up? Would anyone show up at all? Would I be honoured in death even though my life was not much to write home about? It is often in places of quiet contemplation that I wonder these things. In places such as this, this shrine on a hill dedicated to a man I’d never met, yet felt a small kind of kinship with, is where I lay my thoughts bare and allow myself to feel something, even if it’s just for a moment.
There are four plaques, one on each side of the wall, written in both Afrikaans and English. The English one reads:
“On 24 January 1667, the ship the Polsbroek left Batavia and arrived here on 13 May 1668 with three political prisoners in chains. Malays of the West Coast of Sumatra, who were banished to the Cape until further orders on the understanding that they would eventually be released. They were rulers’ ‘Orang Cayen’, men of wealth and influence. Great care had to be taken that they were not left at large as they were likely to do injury to the Company. Two were sent to the Company’s Forest and one to Robben Island. ‘Man is but a shadow, and life a dream.’”
The other English one recalls the making of the tablets, it reads:
“These four memorial tablets were erected eight years after the great war on the day of Arafat 1345 Hijrah 10th June 1927 by the Hajee Sulaiman Shah Mahomed in memory of the Exiles, Martyrs and Heroes from the East Indian Archipelago who died at the Cape. This Kramat shrine’ was completed seventeen years after the union of South Africa which occurred in the same year Halley’s Comet was visible in the Heavens in the reign of King Edward VII of England. ‘The best of all gifts is Knowledge.’”
Seeing these tablets just solidified my fascination with the history of this place, and of South African Muslim culture in general. It is so distinct and different from Islam everywhere else, much like South Africa is such a distinct and unique place in comparison to the rest of Africa, to the rest of the world even.
The third Karamat lies nestled between the hills of the twelve apostles, just after the Twelve Apostles Hotel on Victoria Road. If you’re not actively looking for it you might miss it as it is covered by the fauna of the mountain, blending into it as if it were grown there.
We had to climb up, what felt like, one hundred steps to get to the top. The guide that I’d been referencing our entire tour says that there are ninety-nine steps total. I am out of breath and sweating halfway. Fortunately, the view is amazing. The sun seems to have begun her descent into the Atlantic, and she beams down on us as we climb. The scent and mist of the ocean washes over us, offering relief to my, by now, aching calves.
When I reach the top, I’m greeted by a few friendly cats who make their home here. Their affection is gladly welcomed after my near-death experience climbing up those stairs. My grandma always tells me that cats are very spiritual creatures, they were apparently favoured by the Prophet (SAW) and, according to scripture, bring angels into your home. At the Karamat, I suppose they are guardians of the faithful.
This Karamat, a modest white building with green accents, is marked with the name of its inhabitant, “Sheikh Noorul Mubeen”. He was brought to the Cape in 1716 and incarcerated on Robben Island. The legend goes that he escaped from the prison and swam to the mainland, where his tired body was discovered by slave fishermen on the coast. They nursed him back to health and hid him in the mountains, where he made his home and where his shrine is now situated.
We can hear people reciting prayers from the outside of the building. Not wanting to intrude, we chose to wait until they are done. Two women and two men leave the little white building, they greet us and tell us they are visiting from Durban. It seems these shrines hold some kind of spiritual magnetism that draws people from all corners of the country to come to visit them.
Just like the previous shrines, the building has a feeling of tranquillity and evokes reflection. There is a packet of sweets, and eclairs, sitting next to the shrine for visitors, my dad gladly grabs a handful. The ceiling is decorated with a beautiful mural displaying the ninety-nine names of Allah. There is a cabinet containing various holy books and a number of Qurans. As always, we sit in silence, my grandma and my dad whispering silent prayers for whoever will hear them.
Journeying around Cape Town's Circle of Karamat has definitely been an unforgettable experience. I didn’t have a miraculous restoration of faith, but I did have an experience that was emotionally and spiritually moving. The aura that surrounds these shrines can be described as nothing more than magical. Although I only visited but a handful of these sites, I would definitely want to see the rest of them. To feel the feelings that each one gives, learn the history of the inhabitant resting at each shrine. Give thanks to these brave people who fought against the horrors of colonisation. Instead of giving in to the white man, they chose to fight for their beliefs, their identity, and their culture, which still thrives in the Cape today. For that, I give nothing but my gratitude.
References:
Jaffer, M. and Cape Mazaar Society (2010). Guide to the Kramats of the Western Cape. 3rd ed. [online] Cape Town, South Africa: Cape Mazaar (Kramat) Society, pp.22–44. Available at: http://www.capemazaarsociety.com/book.pdf [Accessed 1 May 2022].
SAHistory (2015). The Early Cape Slave Trade | South African History Online. [online] Sahistory.org.za. Available at: https://www.sahistory.org.za/article/early-cape-slave-trade [Accessed 29 Apr. 2022].
SAHistory (2021). Circle of Kramat’s, Cape Town | South African History Online. [online] Sahistory.org.za. Available at: https://www.sahistory.org.za/place/circle-kramats-cape-town [Accessed 2 May 2022].
Voice, M.D. (2019). ‘Miracle’ sees historic Signal Hill kramat survive blaze without a scratch. [online] www.iol.co.za. Available at: https://www.iol.co.za/capetimes/news/miracle-sees-historic-signal-hill-kramat-survive-blaze-without-a-scratch-19047749 [Accessed 8 May 2022].
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