It’s a bright sunny day in early winter, and the historic vineyards of Constantia have shed their leaves. As the colder months take hold in the city of Cape Town, the crystalline light throws Table Mountain into sharp perspective. Look carefully and you’ll see waterfalls tumbling down the precipitous slopes that tower above the city.
“Salaam aleikum,” comes the caretaker’s greeting as I step through the archway at Islam Hill, one of the many kramats that create a "circle of saints" around South Africa’s Mother City.
Here, in this affluent suburb, the sight of a crescent moon rising above vineyards and oak forests is more than a little unusual. And yet it beckons visitors in to discover one of the unsung stories in the Cape’s cultural history.
But first, let’s wind the clock back to the mid-1600s.
The southern tip of Africa was a wild and untamed landscape. Although semi-nomadic tribes had long moved through the region, the Dutch East India Company (VOC) was only just pitching the first permanent settlement at the Cape of Good Hope. That was in 1652, when it established a refreshment station here to supply trading ships with fresh water and food on the long journey to the colony in Batavia, now the Indonesian city of Jakarta.
But their colony proved more than simply a safe harbour. As the VOC entrenched its power in Asia, the Cape became useful as a place of exile for political prisoners, unco-operative royalty and opponents of its expansion. On arrival at the Cape they were banished to untamed corners of the colony, surviving on a stipend from the VOC. When they passed away, these respected scholars and religious leaders were buried in special graves and today more than 23 kramats, also known as mazaars, have been documented and recorded across the city.
“These kramats are resting places of saints in the Muslim faith; they are tombs of holy men,” says Mahmood Limbada, chairman of the Cape Mazaar Society, a non-profit organisation formed in 1982 to maintain the kramats. “But also they are places of peaceful contemplation, for remembrance of God. We believe that because they led lives so close to God, the mercy of God is always descending in the place where they are buried. And so when you visit there and offer your prayers, you receive that mercy.”
That story springs to life at Islam Hill in Constantia, and the kramat of Sayed Mahmud, a spiritual leader from the Malaccan Empire. Glass walls mean the space is blessed too with natural light and views of the Constantiaberg Mountain. On the walls are four stone tablets, carved in English and Dutch, one of which tells Mahmud's sorry tale.
“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 … they were rulers, Orang Cayen, men of wealth and influence. Two were sent to the Company’s Forest, and one to Robben Island.”
historian for the Cape Mazaar Society
“These were the first political exiles to arrive on our shores,” says Mogamat Kamedien, historian for the Cape Mazaar Society. “Within 15 years of the founding of the colony it wasn’t only used for agriculture, but for banishment. That already set the scene for the South African struggle.”
With Mahmud, another exiled to Constantia was Sheikh Abdurahman Matebe Shah. Today his grave rests beside a stream, beneath a stand of oak trees, on the historic Klein Constantia estate. In chains with them was Sayed Abduraghman Motura, who was banished to Robben Island, the prison island infamous for holding Nelson Mandela nearly two centuries later.
The 23 kramats scattered across the Cape Peninsula and surrounding countryside range from humble graves marked only with stones and cloth, to impressive buildings topped with onion-shaped domes and dramatic views. Open from dawn to dusk, to visitors of all faiths, a friendly caretaker is usually on hand at the larger sites to welcome visitors.
Indoors they are humble spaces and largely unadorned. As I step into the kramat of Sheikh Mohamad Hassen Ghaibie Shah, buried atop Signal Hill within earshot of the city’s muezzin, the scent of incense hangs heavy in the air. A few religious inscriptions decorate the walls, while an embroidered green cloth ― the chadar, or ghilaf ― is draped across the grave as a mark of respect
It may be one of the more impressive kramats, but the most important lies about 35 kilometres beyond the city, on the sand dunes of Macassar, on False Bay.
It’s a lonely and windswept place, far from the bustle of the city. And that’s exactly what the Dutch authorities had in mind when they banished Sheikh Yusuf, a spiritual leader from Indonesia, and his 49 followers here in 1694. But when they opened their precious copies of the Quran here, it marked the foundation of South Africa’s first Muslim community.
“In exiling influential political prisoners and members of the royal court here, the VOC inadvertently became the instrument of bringing Islam to southern Africa,” Kamedien says. “These kramats are really trans-oceanic storehouses of memory, linking Capetonians of Indonesian descent with their lost cousins on the other side of the Indian Ocean.”
And far from fading into the dusty cupboard of South African history, the kramats of Cape Town remain a vibrant thread in the city’s cultural fabric.
“Whenever pilgrims from Cape Town go on Hajj, they first go to greet these kramats, taking their family and friends. It’s a living tradition,” Kamedien says. “As long as this circle of kramats is here, there will be a circle of protection for Cape Town. The kramats are broader than the Muslim community, it’s for everyone in Cape Town who recognises this sacred geography.”
