It’s a beautiful, sunny day at the start of winter, and the historic vineyards of Constantia have lost their leaves. As the colder months settle into Cape Town, the crystal clear light casts Table Mountain into a crisp perspective. Look closely and you’ll see waterfalls tumbling down the steep slopes above the city.

“Salaam aleikum,” the caretaker tells me as I step through the archway of Islam Hill, one of 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 unusual. And yet, it invites visitors to discover one of the unsung stories of Cape Town’s cultural history.

But first, let’s go back to the mid-1600s.

The southern tip of Africa was a wild and untamed landscape. Although semi-nomadic tribes had long moved into the region, the Dutch East India Company (VOC) was just launching the first permanent settlement at the Cape of Good Hope. It was in 1652, when he established a refueling station here to supply trading ships with fresh water and food on the long journey to the settlement of Batavia, now the Indonesian city of Jakarta.

But their colony proved to be more than just a safe harbor. As the VOC consolidated its power in Asia, the Cape became useful as a place of exile for political prisoners, uncooperative royalty, and opponents of its expansion. Upon arrival in Cape Town, they were banished to wild corners of the colony, surviving on a stipend from the VOC. Upon their death, these respected scholars and religious leaders were buried in special graves and today over 23 kramats, also known as mazaars, have been documented and recorded throughout the city.

“These kramats are resting places for saints of the Muslim faith; they are graves of holy men,” says Mahmood Limbada, president of the Cape Mazaar Society, a non-profit organization established in 1982 to maintain the kramats. “But they are also places of peaceful contemplation, for the remembrance of God. We believe that because they led lives so close to God, God’s mercy always descends to where they are buried. And so when you go there and offer your prayers, you receive that mercy.

This story comes to life at Islam Hill in Constantia and the kramat of Sayed Mahmud, a spiritual leader of the Malaccan Empire. Glass walls mean the space is also blessed with natural light and views of the Constantiaberg mountain. On the walls are four stone tablets, engraved in English and Dutch, one of which tells the sad story of Mahmud.

“On January 24, 1667, the ship the Polsbroek left Batavia and arrived here on May 13, 1668 with three chained political prisoners. Malays from the west coast of Sumatra who were banished to the Cape…they were rulers, Orang Cayen, rich and influential men. Two were sent to the Company forest and one to Robben Island.

“They are the first political exiles to arrive on our shores,” explains Mogamat Kamedien, historian of the Cape Mazaar Society. “In the 15 years since the founding of the colony, it was not only used for agriculture, but for banishment. This has already set the stage for the South African struggle.

Along with Mahmud, another exile in Constantia was Sheikh Abdurahman Matebe Shah. Today, his grave rests beside a stream, under a grove of oak trees, on the historic Klein Constantia estate. Chained with them was Sayed Abduraghman Motura, who was banished to Robben Island, the infamous prison island for detaining Nelson Mandela nearly two centuries later.

The 23 kramats scattered across the Cape Peninsula and surrounding countryside range from humble tombs marked only with stone and cloth, to impressive buildings topped with onion-shaped domes and spectacular views. Open from dawn to dusk, to visitors of all faiths, a friendly caretaker is usually present at the most important sites to welcome visitors.

Inside, these are modest and largely unadorned spaces. As I enter the kramat of Sheikh Mohamad Hassen Ghaibie Shah, buried atop Signal Hill within earshot of the town’s muezzin, the smell of incense wafts through the air. A few religious inscriptions adorn the walls, while an embroidered green cloth ― the chadar, or ghilaf ― is draped over the grave as a sign of respect.

It may be one of the most impressive kramats, but the largest is about 35 kilometers beyond the town, on the Macassar sand dunes on False Bay.

It’s a lonely, windswept place, far from the hustle and 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 , this marked the founding of the first South Africa. Muslim community.

“By exiling influential political prisoners and members of the royal court here, the VOC has inadvertently become the instrument for introducing Islam to southern Africa,” Kamedien said. “These kramats are veritable transoceanic storehouses of memory, linking Capetonians of Indonesian descent to their lost cousins ​​across the Indian Ocean.”

And far from fading into the dusty closet of South African history, Cape Town’s kramats remain a common thread in the cultural fabric of the city.

“Whenever Cape pilgrims leave for Hajj, they will first greet these kramats, taking their family and friends with them. It’s a living tradition,” says Kamedien. “As long as this circle of kramats is there, there will be a circle of protection for Cape Town. The kramats are larger than the Muslim community, this is for everyone in Cape Town who recognizes this sacred geography.

Updated: June 10, 2022, 6:02 p.m.