Muslims in Cape Town Armien Cassiem Introduction The following short article attempts to illustrate how Muslims in Cape

e Town use ritual to reconcile both their tradition and faith to produce an Islam that is uniquely Capetownian. Three rituals which I would refer to as public displays of popular religiosity, will be the primary focus of the article. These practices are not essentially normative Islamic practices, but they do provide evidence of deeply inscribed traditions within the local community and shows how religion, more often than not, borrows aspects of the local culture, ultimately adding value and familiarity to the religious experience. These practices proved important factors in the growth of Islam at the Cape during the early years and have remained part of the Cape Muslim religious tradition. These rituals include the ratiep, a popular act of faith whereby men hit sharp swords across their arms and drive tambustes (sharp skewers) through their bodies without causing blood to flow. These performances are accompanied by the burning of incense, chanting in Arabic and beating of rabanas (drums). The other ritual that shall be focused on is the rampie sny (rampie cutting) ceremony done by women dressed in colourful outfits during the Moulied al Nabee festival (Prophet Muhammads birthday). This is usually done in the local mosque involving the cutting of orange or tangerine leaves accompanied by singing Arabic litanies in praise of the Prophets birth. The third ritual that shall be the focus of the article is the kramat (shrine) visits at the Cape. History of Islam at the Cape The Cape was a Dutch colony in the early 17th century. This was also a time when the Dutch colonialists faced fierce resistance to their colonial efforts by the Muslim inhabitants in South East Asia (the modern day Indonesia archipelago region). Dutch opponents and political adversaries here were initially banished to nearby Ceylon, also a Dutch penal colony at the time, but later, primarily because of its remote location, the Cape Colony was chosen. The first Muslims arrived at the Cape during the middle of the 17th century. These Muslims consisted of religious leaders, political exiles, convicts and slaves. Upon their release, many settled at the Cape and became devoted missionaries of Islam. At the time, Islam was a banned religion and only became un-banned and practiced openly from 1804 onwards. The public observance of Islam in all Dutch colonies was punishable by death. The only religious institution recognised during colonial Dutch rule was the Dutch Reformed Church. During this time the Muslim leaders carried out secret Islamic teaching sessions. These sessions were

accompanied by the ratiep and rampie sny rituals. Infused with a yearning for dignity and in search of a sense of community, Islam became a home which offered lonely slaves the comforts of a sense of belonging and a brotherhood. Despite their bondage, the ratiep rituals gave the slaves tremendous feelings of power over their bodies. The sense of power was reinforced by the promise of hope in the afterlife offered by Islam. At the Cape, and elsewhere, slaves and other oppressed people found life in Islam and became legitimate members of a society. This led to preserving Islam and gaining new converts.

For the next 150 years a steady stream of Muslims from South East Asia would arrive at the Cape. They became known as the Cape Malays, quite a loosely ambiguous term that has today lost its political relevance. Isolation, creolization, mixing and inter-marrying especially amongst the poorer sections of the community for over 350 years, caused the Muslims at the Cape to develop a distinct character strictly South African and far removed from being Malay. However, the rituals they continue to practice have distinctly kept them in touch with their pioneering roots.

According to 2001 census, 1,5% of South Africas 47 million inhabitants (2005 estimate) is Muslim. Of these, close to 50% of the Muslims in South Africa live in the Cape Peninsula. These Muslims constitute a cosmopolitan group consisting of a variety of ethnicities, language groups, and socio-economic groups. These were formed by a combination of willing and unwilling immigrants during various periods of colonial rule, Apartheid and more recently, African immigrants and indigenous peoples who have converted to Islam. In Cape Town, 10% of the people are Muslim. However, Islam is a much more visible religion than the official statistics would indicate. The Group Areas Act of 1950 (a law introduced by Apartheid rule that forcibly removed people of colour from living in neighbourhoods that was declared exclusively for whites only) caused the residential segregation of Muslims in racially segregated areas has meant that many Muslims live close to each other and in proximity to newly built mosques and madrasas where they would hear the call to prayer five times a day, and whose neighbours were more often than not also Muslim. As a result of this, Muslims in Cape Town have a strong sense of being Muslim.

The Ratiep The ratiep ritual resembles the Barong dance of Bali, an island that is part of the Indonesian archipelago. The Balis have remained resolutely Hindu despite the dominant influence of Islam amongst 90% of Indonesias people. During colonial rule at the Cape, the ratiep was very impressive to slaves and led many converting to Islam. It was noted for its hypnotic effect on its participants. Inadvertently, it became one of the strategies used to attract converts. The ratiep shows how strong the impact of syncretistic mysticism had been on the cultural life of the community. In present day Cape Town, the ratiep does not take place all year round. It is rarely practiced, and only by a small minority of mostly working-class Cape Malays. It usually coincides with the Moulied al Nabee celebrations.

The khalifah (leader) as he is referred to, had given me ijazah (permission) to attend the ratiep. He also allowed my request to bring along my camera to film and snap shot his jamaa (group) during their sword playing rituals. This would be the first time since a kid that I would attend a ratiep. It would start after the late evening prayer and continue until midnight. I arrived early that warm April evening. I tried not to be late, lest I miss the opening few performances. The ratiep would be at the khalifahs home. A high wall surrounded his house, making it quite impossible for me to see whatever was taking place behind it. I clearly remember the Arabic chanting, the loud beating of the drums, the smoke from the crackling fires in the front garden, and the smell of burning incense that greeted my arrival. I made my way to the area in the backyard where the ratiep would take place. Even though outside in the open air, the area was completely enclosed with a roof. The burning incense had caused a dense cloud of smoke to fill the air. My eyes fell on the dozen or so excited youths that were in the enclosed area. They were all wearing the jamaas maroon-coloured vests and had koefieyas (skull caps) on their heads. A few older women, all dressed in long dresses and wearing headscarves, probably their mothers, sisters or relatives were sitting all around on benches and chairs. They were the audience to this all male performance. My camera and recording equipment immediately attracted their attention. There, in the centre of the floor, sat the khalifah, he was a middle aged man, clearly in a trance, oblivious to everything and everyone, even to my presence. It seems like he was remotely occupied in preparation for the ritual that would follow. He sat facing a stand that contained a half a dozen or more swords and tambustes, all made by him I would later be told by a proud member of the jamaa. His son was sitting behind this stand, chanting Arabic litanies through a microphone in praise of

the Prophet. I resisted approaching either of them. I was after all unfamiliar with the mental preparations that they could have been involved in at this time. Instead, I gazed around, I tried to familiarise myself with my surroundings and perhaps spot a familiar face that I could latch onto, one that I could hopefully use as an informer for the evening. The khalifah momentarily looked up, he turned his head to have a glimpse at the jamaa to see if they had all been present, he spotted me. His friendly gaze, I interpreted as a welcoming greeting, an extension of the friendly exchange we had on the telephone earlier that day. He hadnt met me before, so I was obliged to re-introduce myself to him. I removed my shoes and confidently walked towards him. Social convention dictated that I thank him for the opportunity to attend. He welcomed me and told me that they were just about ready to start. Like an ardent observer I scanned my surroundings once more to see who the participants would be. More than two thirds of them were younger than teenagers. They all were loudly beating rabanas, they all were in an excited mood. According to their unison beating and their familiarity with the Arabic litanies, I could deduce that this was not the first ratiep ritual they would partake in. They were fully fledged members of the jamaa. The others were in their late 20s and the rest, a bit younger than the khalifah. He was the eldest. Clearly a hierarchical order was present. The jamaa formed a circle to which the khalifah was the centre of attraction, to both the participants and the awaiting audience. The Arabic chanting and the beating of the drums grew louder and louder. This was indicative that the expectant moment was slowly approaching. Like at a sports event, the excitement grew. The khalifah proudly gets up, he walks a few yards towards the stand that contains the swords, he rolls up his sleeves, he adds incense to an already burning heap, he takes his two favourite swords, he inspects their cutting edges, then chooses one. The air is tense, the atmosphere is electric, I have my camera ready, finger on the button to snap the first strike. He walks back to the middle of the floor with the sword in his right hand, the chanting grows louder, the beating of the drums grow faster, the anticipation grows more intense. The crowd of onlookers await the first blow. He raises his sword; he does a dance and strikes with the sword onto his bare left arm. He repeats this by striking harder and harder, his moans grow louder and louder, so too does the litanies of the jamaa and the beating of the drums to spur him on even more, all in unison with his well auditioned performance. This continues for all of five minutes or so. He seems not to tire but decides to surrender for the next participant to take over. He passes the test of faith and returns to take his place amongst the jamaa in the outer ring. By now the noise is quite deafening. The ritual seems so distantly removed from the mundane world that

is just beyond the high walls of the houses front garden. No respite from the jamaa, they are both the participants and the audience, with ever increasing zeal, they sing and they beat the rabanas. This reminded me of the crowd in George Orwells Shooting an Elephant. They clearly motivate the participant to strike even harder. The khalifahs son is next to perform. Could he be the deputy?, I ask myself. He appears from behind the sword stand where he had been sitting while leading the jamaa in recitation. He too does the same in transcending the mundane. The sword play continues. I look towards the little ones, they can be no older than ten years of age. Their turn is next. The idea of injury by a sword or skewer seems, at least to them, a remote thought. They seem to enjoy this display of male bravado. A little one humorously remarks that playing with the sword makes him feel like a ninja. Clearly the invincible trance seems to get to them also. Suddenly one youngster does injure himself, blood appears from a wound freshly inflicted by a sword to his left arm. The crowd however seem unperturbed. The khalifah seizes the moment as one in which to use his mystical healing powers to doctor the wound. I then hear from an onlooker that this often happens to the youngster. By no means does this cause the other youngsters to slow down their performance. They too seem unperturbed at the incident. The khalifah calls for a break while he doctors the wound with only his handkerchief and a prayer. The rabanas are taken by members of the jamaa and placed over the crackling fires outside to re-heat them. I am told by a youngster the heat enhances their acoustic potential. After attending to the wounded youngster, the khalifah sits on a bench on the fringe of the area where the sword play takes place. I approach him with the hope that he would be willing to answer a few of my questions. He seems cagey at first, but willingly agrees to entertain my curious wishes. All of this happens while the Arabic chanting, the incessant beating of the drums and the burning of incense continues unabatedly. I look at him, I cannot resist asking him about the condition of his swords and the possibly that serious injuries could occur. With his permission, I inspect the sword he had used in his performance, and true to his word, its cutting edge was as sharp as a butchers carving knife. How then is it that no one loses a limb? How is it then that no one causes serious injury unto themselves? How is it then that no one has ever landed in hospital? Isnt it irresponsible to allow children play with these swords? All of these questions I pose to him, all at once. He quietly explains to me that as the khalifah, his duty is to call on Allah to increase his faith and make him and his jamaa immune to pain and hurt. He explains to me that he has had special

training in the art of ratiep. He has been taught how to guide the ritual and he knows what prayers to recite to safeguard himself and his jamaa. Of course I resisted asking him what these prayers were. From an outsiders point of view, the beating of the drums, the chanting and ratiep could be seen as mere entertainment devoid of spiritual significance. However, it is clear from witnessing the rituals so meticulously executed that his jamaa is sincere and they place a great amount of faith in him. I remember as a little kid we would joke that if you dont believe, then you could cut off your arms doing the ratiep. I still feel that I would cut off mine. This was then also the faith that the slaves had placed in their khalifah(s) at the Cape during the colonial period. The ratiep ultimately allows the participants to transcend the mundane world of the flesh and directly experience an alternative, superior, spiritual reality, if only for a brief moment in time. The ratiep ultimately helps heal the broken souls and brings believers into communion with God. Rampie Sny Characteristics the rampie sny and the ratiep share in common is that both celebrations are syncretistic and involve cutting. The rampie is a bunch of orange or tangerine leaves, cut up and crushed together and then rolled into a paper towel after it had been soaked in rosescented water. The rampie sny ritual is unique to Cape Malays and their descendents in other parts of the country. It is essentially a function for the ladies when they alone have complete access to the mosque space. The ritual is planned for months in advance. Women, usually members of a womens only Moulied jamaa, known as teams and led by a captain, would arrive at the venue dressed in their most colourful moedeerings (outfits) for the occasion. In Cape Town, the Moulied al Nabee celebrations continue for months after the Prophets actual birthday is commemorated. It is thus not uncommon for women to attend a Moulied celebration right through the year. My contact had arranged that I attend a rampie sny ritual of a well established Cape Town womens Moulied jamaa. The jamaa had been formed over 90 years ago. Because this is a womens only affair, this would be the first time I would get to attend. Here I would meet with Auntie Roekieyah who would be my guide. Having been born in the jamaa, her mother and grandmother having also been past members, she is a senior member of the jamaa. I arrived early so that I could catch a glimpse of the aunties arriving. This is quite a spectacle witnessing young and old; grandmother, mother and granddaughter, all getting out of the

same vehicle, all suited out in identical moedeerings which is brought from far away Mecca during the pilgrimage to wear especially for the rampie sny and Moulied festivities. I waited outside in the street for all to arrive and to give the ladies time to settle in before I would make my way up the stairs into the venue. There in the hall I was pleasantly surprised to see over 400 ladies, young and old, at least 3 generations, ages spanned from a few years old, to a great granny I interviewed that had just celebrated her 91st birthday. All of them were sitting, dressed in their finest moedeerings against the walls of the hall, all singing together, soft, melodious poems of the life and history of the Prophet. These litanies, I was told, had been handed down from generation to generation over the years. The centre of the floor contained a large, flat wooden tray in which the young girls would place all the cut leaves after collecting them from the aunties sitting against the walls. The air was filled with burning incense and rose water that is traditionally used to scent the rampies. Everyone was busy, it was quite clear that the day had been well rehearsed in advance, everyone had a duty. It was difficult for us to have an audible conversation amid all the singing and activities that were taking place around us. Fortunately, I did not prove to be a distraction. The women merrily continued with singing their melodious litanies while they cut their orange leaves on wooden boards and small knives which they keep especially for rampie sny celebrations. What did catch my eye was that the jamaa comprised almost entirely of middle-aged ladies, who had been members for as long as they could remember. Accompanied them were their daughters and granddaughters. It is clear that occasions like these not only serve to dress up, but also to meet close friends who they might not have seen since the previous years rampie sny celebration. The different moedeerings the generations wear also serve as a glimpse of how the moedeering fashion has changed over the years. I decided to allow Antie Roekieyah to accompany me as I tried to walk discreetly around the hall amid singing of poems and leaves being cut while the burning incense provided a pleasant aroma to the senses. I was told that the leaves would all be gathered, scented and folded into small paper towels. This day was however only set aside to cut the rampies. The following day the jamaas Moulied would take place at the same venue. They would host four teams. Each team I was told has a captain. It is at the Moulied that the ladies would wear the teams official outfit. Against the front wall, Antie Aysas majestically gold coloured moedeering and hoekop miedoura (high headgear) had caught my eye. Her moedeering had taken up quite a bit of

space around where she had been sitting. It had given one the impression that she was sitting on a wide throne with the youngsters flanking her on either side. I admired her as she cut her leaves, she looked quite at peace, this was clearly her day. Not a care in the world was shown on her wrinkled-riddled face. I waited for her to look up so I could get her attention. She momentarily glanced my way. There was a glisten in her eyes, those ones that only a lady of her age could possess. I interpreted the smile on her face as an invitation for me to approach her. She was a rather friendly old lady. Assalamu alaykum, I greeted her, she responded likewise, wa alaykum salam my dear, as a smile enveloped her face. Seems her age had not robbed her of her unfailing memory. As a conversation starter, I asked her about her beautiful moedeering and hoekop miedoura, she tells me that she had bought it in Mecca in 1959 when she performed the hajj with her husband who had since passed away. Those were the days we left for Mecca when we would stay away a year, still on the ship, the Bandanas Castle, she continued to reminisce. She has been a member of the jamaa for over 50 years and had not failed to attend a single rampie sny since her first as a little girl, back in the days with her mother. She now continues the tradition. Every year, her daughter Asma accompanies her, along with Asmas two daughters who were proudly sitting at her side. I felt humbled to have shared in this old ladys conversation. I was instantly reminded of the value Cape Malay heritage had played in the lives of these mothers. They had gathered unfailingly over the years to keep a tradition alive that they had adopted as an expression of their faith and love, not only for their Prophet, but for each other. These expressions of their faith transcend the normative practices that Muslims universally practice. I learnt that these socio-religious practices add value to their lives. They help shape culture and identity. The Kramats In the Malaya language, the word kramat refers to a mystical saint who possesses sacred powers. In the Cape Muslim tradition however, the term also refers to a tomb of a mystical saint. In this article, the word kramat will refer to the latter meaning. Countless of these kramats belonging to the pioneering fathers of Islam that arrived at the Cape from the 17th century are scattered across the Cape Peninsula. According to oral tradition, these tombs provide security to all the people living here. Locals even go as far as to claim that these kramats protect Cape Town from natural disasters. This clearly indicates the importance these kramats have to many Cape Muslims.

The most famous of the kramats in the Cape is that belonging to Shaykh Yusuf of Macassar (1626-1699). He was a mystic of noble birth that resisted Dutch colonisation in Banten (part of modern day Indonesia). He arrived as a political prisoner at the Cape in 1694. Even though he was not the first Muslim to arrive here, his arrival is often seen as the birth of Islam in the region. His tomb, 30 kilometres to the south east of downtown Cape Town in an area called Faure, is central to the Muslim popular conscience. Every year over the Easter weekend period, the area adjacent to Shaykh Yusufs kramat becomes popular. Thousands of Cape Muslims flock to the kramat, not only to pay homage at the mystics tomb, but to camp and setup bazaars. This tradition has been part of the Cape Muslim tradition for as long as one can remember. One is often reminded by the elders in the community of die dae toe ons oor Easter by die kramat gaan kamp het, the days when they would camp during the Easter weekend at the kramat. Not everyone goes there to camp, some families merely take the day to drive out to the kramat and to socialise. This is exactly what I had planned. I undertook the journey to the kramat that Sunday afternoon in April. It would be the last day of the weekend, and hopefully the busiest. The precinct that surrounds the kramat has a large well kept mosque. This mosque comes alive this time of the year. In front of the mosque is an open field that, over that weekend period transforms into an open air market. The adjacent field becomes much sort after real estate, its space is hired out to vendors and campers that wish to setup tent during the weekend period. To avoid the bottleneck of vehicles streaming into and out of the makeshift gates, I parked my vehicle a distance away. It later also proved a wise decision as it inadvertently speared me from paying the parking fee. I made my way past the numerous stalls, mostly ones selling take-aways. It is often said that Cape Muslims simply arrange gatherings as an excuse to have a merang, (a feast). The stalls were frequented by mostly teenagers. Young teenage boys were wearing koefiyas and most of the teenage girls were dressed in long black abayas (cloaks), simply their way of adding a religious tint to the otherwise social gathering. It seems parents give them laissez faire to socialise in what is seen to be an Islamically safe environment. Shaykh Yusufs kramat is some 500 metres from the open air bazaar on top of a hill. It is an-awe inspiring site overlooking the entire camping and vending esplanade. Getting to the kramat one needs to pass the open air stalls and the camping site. My camera had attracted the attentions of the weekend tenants that occupied these small tents. I was continuously asked, Is uncle vannie Voice?, if I was a newspaper man from The Voice, a local daily tabloid. My answer would always be in the affirmative and their reaction would

always be an excited pose which I had to capture on film to somewhat land on the newspapers front page the following day, beaming them to instant fame amongst their peers. I always find it interesting the power (of manipulation) the camera has over its subjects. Seems these individuals would have done just about anything to please the camera in exchange for their picture appearing on the front page of a newspaper I apparently worked at. Let me continue onwards and upwards to the kramat itself. To get to the kramat, one needs to climb a hundred odd steps that lead one to a large open circular plain where the kramat majestically awaits. Once at the top, the tranquil and quietness of the kramats surrounding precincts seems a far remote recluse from the hustle and bustle of life down below. Inside the chamber where the saint lies buried, barely larger than a small-sized room, were a family offering prayers at his tomb. Being courteous, I resisted taking pictures of them while they were inside, but later, on the outside, they granted me permission to do. As I stood outside to gaze at the surroundings, I heard in a softy spoken feminine voice, proudly remarking, he is one of us. The voice had been that of an Asian lady as she and her lady friend that accompanied her, left the chamber. I momentarily stopped, she approached me to ask if I would take a picture of them using her mobile phone. My camera had probably also given her the impression that I indeed was a photographer (working at The Voice). Of course I inquired about her remark and her whereabouts. He is one of us, she repeated. She was referring to the buried saint being of Indonesian decent, just like her. She had been living in Cape Town for the past 3 years and her friend, also from Indonesia, had been visiting her for the past few weeks, and a visit to Cape Town without visiting the saints tomb would have been incomplete, she pleasingly continued. Just behind the chamber are several other graves of what is believed to be belonging to the Shaykhs students who had been exiled with him. To this day Shaykh Yusuf is venerated as a saint, both in Cape Town and in his hometown of Banten. His kramat has been a place of pilgrimage since at least the end of the 18th century. It is ironic that the brutal heritage of colonialism that caused so much human suffering and destruction to the peoples of Africa and much of Asia, had directly caused the first Muslims to arrive at the Cape. These Muslims were not only layman, but amongst them were mystical teachers schooled in the sciences of Islamic Jurisprudence, ones that were the first to read and teach the Quran at the Cape. This was done amid fierce opposition to Islam. They were responsible for Islams survival and growth at the Cape. They had arrived against their will with nothing but a heritage and a tradition of hope to cling onto.