Adli Yacubi is a wordsmith of remembrance — blending story, design, and sacred memory. Rooted in Cape Town’s rich heritage and decades of media experience, his work spans poetry, layout, radio, and research.
He authored Punching Above Its Weight: The Story of the Call of Islam, and now curates scrolls of mercy, resistance, and everyday barakah.
Through the voices of Rabbānī and Rafiq al-Bunduqia, he tells stories where light remembers.
Our Father: Braima Winter — The Man Who Read the Weather and Raised Us with Words
Braima in His Red Koefiyya Not just a head covering, but a hush of dignity. A crown worn by those who build without boasting, who read clouds like verses, and raise children like minarets — quietly, steadfastly, towards the Light.
They called him Braima Baard. But he was clean-shaven. They called him Braima Winter. Because even if there was only one cloud in the sky, he’d say: “Dis winter, Gaya.”
He was our father: Ebrahim Abdul Aziz Jacobs. Born of tailors and dressmakers — his father, Abdul Aziz, worked with thread; his mother, Gadija, crafted fabric into form. From such soft-handed lineage, he turned to bricks and cement.
His mother once teased him, laughing: “Met jou sag handjies, wat soos ‘n bricklayer gan djy maak?”
But he became one. And not just any bricklayer. He built kilns. He protected cement floors. He shaped the foundations that others would walk on long after he left the site. He built a good few walls of Primrose Park masjid (called Jamiya Tus Sabr).
He guided others. Trained them. Gave them skills, and more than that, dignity.
Yet behind all of this physical work was another kind of labour — of language, of laughter, of letters. He was the spine of our family’s love of books, storytelling, and sly, gentle humour. He was reading before most could walk. As a child, already in his diapers, he was immersed in words, letters, pages. No one had to push him. It was in him.
Imam Ghazali. Ibn Battuta. Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī. Shams Tabrizi. He didn’t just read. He remembered. And retold. And spun.
He raised seven children with his hands, but never truly raised his hand at them. His discipline was the silence between sentences. His presence was the lesson.
We never feared him. We trusted him. Because the man who knew where every cloud was going — also knew how to hold a storm.
He didn’t build palaces. He built people. He built us.
And when he dressed, he often wore his red koefiyya — not the long turban of his childhood, but a shorter, neat fez with a tassel, worn by men who held pride without noise. It was the kind worn by many hadjies after the sorbaan had fallen out of fashion. It became his crown.
One Fajr morning, when I was a teenager, he woke me gently. We walked together through the streetlights of Primrose Park toward the mosque. I looked around and said, “So many Muslim houses still have their lights off. Don’t they make salah?” He chuckled softly, and said, “Perhaps they are praying while their lights are off so that they can go back to sleep. You must focus on your own salah. Other Muslims are not your concern.”
And perhaps this was the secret of his laqab… As Shaykh Jamiel Abrahams reflected:
“The secret of this Laqab… is that no Winter will pass except that he is Madhkour — remembered — even by the non-living creation. Better than making dhikr, he becomes Madhkour — mentioned and remembered — by his Rabb.”
May Allah grant us all to become Madhkour. Āmīn.
“What a lovely man. He was always saying to us, ‘Kom biesmielah,’ and happy to have us around.” — Shamiel Isaacs, Bonteheuwel (Call of Islam)
And today, as we recite stories, as we reach for bricks and books and blessings — we say: Braima Winter, we remember. And we still feel your weather. And your words. And your mercy.
Innā li-llāhi wa-ʾinnā ʾilayhi rājiʿūn Surely to Allah we belong and to that we will return. [Surah Baqarah, 2:156]
And this is how we remember him best: Laughing beside Gaya, the love of his life — as if the whole world had just whispered a joke only they could understand.
Braima and Gaya Laughing — A Crowned Moment of Mercy
In the sacred precincts of Madinah al-Munawwarah, where pilgrims send peace upon the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), few notice a quiet miracle. Above the gate to the Rawḍah — where our Prophet rests — is an engraved verse of Arabic poetry, nestled in plain sight. Most eyes pass over it, drawn instead to the Qur’anic verse below. But that upper verse is from a 40-couplet qaṣīda written by Imām ʿAbd Allah ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād — a saint, scholar, and Sufi of the Bā ʿAlawī lineage of Tarīm. Only one couplet of the poem is visible to the public.
One line.
Facing outward.
Why this line? Who chose it? What does it mean that the rest of the poem lives inside, engraved on the inner walls of the chamber of the Prophet ﷺ? What does it mean to be the line that stands at the threshold?
This blog is a gentle unfolding of those questions.
Above the gate of the Prophet’s ﷺ chamber, one line of sacred poetry faces outward — a single couplet from Imām al-Ḥaddād’s 40-verse ode, chosen to stand above the Qur’anic verse.
Some verses open books. Others open doors. The chosen line stands where praise meets Revelation.
A magnificent Prophet — his noble character,
Exalted by the Most Merciful in the Master of Books.
Imām al-Ḥaddād is drawing from the Qur’anic verse:
“And truly, you are of a most noble character.” (Surah al-Qalam, 68:4)
In these lines, poetry bends in humility before Revelation. The poem is not in competition with the Qur’an. It is a witness to it. A praise that holds its breath before the Word.
Section 2: Ishārah and ʿIbārah: The Inner and Outer Signs
“Yā Fātiḥil-Abwāb — O Opener of Doors.” Some verses open books. Others open hearts.
What is visible above the gate is the ʿibārah — the outward expression. But the choice to place this verse there is also an ishārah — a subtle sign. It whispers: Look closer. Listen deeper. The rest of the poem remains inside the sacred chamber, out of sight, like the hidden knowledge that only the heart can read.
The verse that faces outward becomes a threshold, a knock upon the door. A visitor may stop to read it, but the meaning enters only when the heart listens. As Shaykh Jamiel said: “Most people see the ʿibārah, but few perceive the ishārah.”
And that is the invitation.
Section 3: The Hidden Inheritance
The inner walls of the Rawḍah: Where the full poem of Imām al-Ḥaddād is inscribed — invisible to the public, but alive in transmission.
There is a story passed down from the early life of Imām al-Ḥaddād. When he was still an infant, his mother dreamt that she was at the tomb of a great spiritual master. In the dream, the master emerged from his grave, took the baby to his breast, and gently placed his tongue into the baby’s mouth.
In the language of sacred dreams, this is no ordinary image. It means that the child inherited the master’s knowledge — not through books or teachers, but through direct spiritual transmission. Through the tongue. Through barakah.
When we recite the Ratib al-Ḥaddād, we are inheriting from that lineage. When we stand before the gate and read the outward verse, we are brushing our lips against the memory of that transmission.
Section 4: The Sultan Who Opened the Doors
It is worth noting that the spiritual legacy of Imām al-Ḥaddād extended well beyond the valleys of Ḥaḍramawt. The Wird al-Laṭīf and Ratib al-Ḥaddād — his litanies of remembrance — were introduced and supported within the Harams of Makkah and Madinah under the patronage of Sultan Mehmet IV (sometimes rendered Mehmed or Muḥammad IV) of the Ottoman Empire (r. 1648–1687). A ruler known for his reverence of Islamic and Sufi traditions, Sultan Mehmet IV’s endorsement ensured that the sacred rhythms of Tarīm would echo in the holiest sanctuaries of the Ummah. Even the architecture of prayer carries the trace of this inheritance.
🟫 Note on Naming & Recognition
A reader of this blog, Kitty Amina Rabbas, beautifully reflected on the significance of this verse’s placement — connecting her own reading ofSufi Sage of Arabiawiththe timeline of Imām al-Ḥaddād’s visit to Madinah in 1669 CE (1079 AH), during the reign of Sultan Mehmet IV.
She reminded us that, while Ottoman rulers held immense worldly power, Sultan Mehmet IV — known for his taqwā and reverence for the Prophet ﷺ — may have recognised in Imām al-Ḥaddād a spiritual authority greater than his own. That a single verse from the Imām’s poem was chosen to face outward from the Rawḍah may well be an act of humility, not mere decoration.
Section 5: What Is the Sign?
What is the sign? A call to see beyond the eye, to listen with the inner ear. Some verses open books. Others open hearts.
Not everyone notices the verse above the gate. Not everyone will be called to. But for those who do, a quiet spark may awaken in the heart. Shaykh Jamiel once described this line as a wick that does not even need fire to burn. The love, the longing, the witnessing — it ignites on its own, just by being near to the Real.
There are some verses that open books. Others open doors.
And then, some open hearts.
Epilogue: The One Who Watches
The Prophet (peace be upon him) said, “Indeed, in the body there is a lump of flesh. If it is sound, the whole body is sound. If it is corrupted, the whole body is corrupted. Indeed, it is the heart.”
To read the verse that faces outward is to knock gently on that heart. To remember that character is not costume, and praise is not performance. It is to walk humbly. It is to remember the One who sees in secret.
And when no one sees, know that ar-Raqīb always does.
Acknowledgement: This blog was deeply enriched by the insights and generosity of Shaykh Jamiel Abrahams, who shared the photographs, historical details, and the luminous teachings behind the scenes. His voice opened a door, and lit a candle inside.
Meta Blocked My Breath. Now It Wants to Hire My Lungs.
A Scroll of Digital Colonialism
Introduction
They flagged my keffiyeh.
They removed my scroll on Gaza.
They muted my breath — one post, one image, one word at a time.
And now… they want to hire me?
A message landed in my inbox from MetaAI, offering me a digital marketing job. A role that “aligns with my voice.”
But I remember the shadowbans. The quiet erasures. The warnings.
This is not opportunity. This is recolonisation — algorithmic, automated, and dressed in flattery.
So I responded the only way I know how:
Not with a CV.
But with a scroll.
Scroll of Digital Colonialism
“Meta blocked my breath. Now it wants to hire my lungs.”
— Rafiq al-Bunduqia
Arabic Invocation
بِسْمِ اللَّهِ مَجْرَاهَا وَمُرْسَاهَا ۚ إِنَّ رَبِّي لَغَفُورٌ رَّحِيمٌ Bismillāhi majrāhā wa mursāhā
In the Name of Allah, its course and its anchorage. — Surah Hūd (11:41)
The Scroll
They came cloaked in pixels and promises.
Offering “opportunity” in the same breath that once flagged your content.
Your memory of Gaza? Too “sensitive.”
Your sorbaan? “Community violation.”
Your breath of truth? “Does not meet our standards.”
Yet now they appear,
like colonisers with new dialects,
offering salaries instead of shackles.
“We reviewed your profile. We love your voice.”
My voice?
The one you throttled
with your auto-flagging
and ghost bans?
The one you parsed into metadata
but never listened to?
Ya Allah.
Even the Pharaohs had more honest chains.
Closing Duʿā
O Allah,
Anchor us in truth when platforms drift.
Guard our breath when our words are marked “violations.”
Let our remembrance go viral in unseen realms.
Make us the scrolls they cannot erase.
Make us the breeze that keeps returning. Bismillāhi majrāhā wa mursāhā.
The other day, I told my brother-in-law, Al-Ameen, how we need to promote the sorbaan again—that sacred cloth of knowledge and dignity that once crowned the heads of our teachers and storytellers. Without missing a beat, he said, “Do you want one? I’ll give you mine.”
I was taken aback. “Really? Don’t you wear it?”
He smiled. “It’s too garish for my style.”
Then he added, almost casually, “It’s from my dad. From Boeta Junain.”
And suddenly, I was no longer standing in conversation. I was nine years old again, my hand tucked in my mother’s, walking down Olifants Street in Primrose Park. We were on our way to meet my new khalifa.
My mother, Hi’ Rugaya, had decided it was time for me to learn Qur’an properly. We walked all the way down the road, right to the edge where Primrose Park brushes up against Manenberg. That place where the road thins out, where the houses change tone.
We met him at the doorway. Tall. Stern. A presence.
On the way back, she asked me gently, “So what do you think?”
I paused, looked up at her, and said with wide eyes, “Met sy grou oë en grys baard, hy lyk soos ’n wolf.” (With his gray eyes and silvery beard, he looks like a wolf.)
She laughed. But we went back the next day. And the next. And the next.
Boeta Junain became my khalifa — more than just a madrasa teacher. He taught me the Qur’an. He taught me tauhid, tahara, and how to perfect my salah. But most of all, he taught me the stories. Hundreds of them. Stories of the awliya, of lovers of God, of hidden saints, of miracles wrapped in humility.
He loved me like a son. I stayed in his madrasa well into high school. When I was seventeen, I left to study at As-Salaam Institute in Braemar, KwaZulu-Natal. There I met another teacher who helped refine my Qur’anic pronunciation. A year later, after completing matric, I came back.
And I returned to Boeta Junain.
He asked me to recite. Listened deeply. Then called his older students, saying, “Come. Let Adli help you improve your recitation.”
That day I knew what tarbiyah meant: to be raised, then trusted, then made to raise others.
Some of those students, like members of the Browns family, went on to become among South Africa’s well-known huffaadh.
And now, all these years later, his sorbaan has surfaced again—offered from father to son, and from brother to brother. A gift wrapped not only in cloth, but in memory.
Today, three of his children, Salama, Cassiem and Juleiga are now continuing this legacy teaching young children in Qur’an and Islam.
The sorbaan is not fashion. It is not costume. It is voice made visible.
It is the texture of trust. The curve of tradition.
It says: I have received. I have remembered. I will return.
When I look at it now, even in another’s hands, I see something eternal: gold thread, cotton wrap, and the quiet humility of a teacher who looked like a wolf, but raised a whole den of cubs.
Acknowledgement Tramakasi to Sh. Jamiel Abrahams, Sadia Fakier, Zaid Nordien, and Al-Ameen Marley — for helping carry this cloth of memory into the light.
Postscript If Al-Ameen does send me the photo of the original sorbaan, I will share it. But even now, the memory is vivid enough to wear.
They were reciters — young boys and girls who sat day after day, line by line, vowel by vowel, until the Qur’an moved from the page to the tongue —not by memorisation, but by presence.
And when the day came — after a year, or two — when their tongues were steady and their stops correct, the elders would nod in silence.
Then came the dressing.
A sorbaan was wrapped around the boys’ heads. A salah jas placed gently on their shoulders. And the young girls, radiant in their medoras, embroidered in silver and gold threads, gathered with equal pride — their hearts no less luminous, their recitation no less fierce in its precision.
And down the streets of District Six or Bo-Kaap they walked, feet on cobbled stone, hearts trembling with pride.
Their journey led them to the Company Gardens — a sacred procession into the colonial centre, as if to say: “This is our inheritance. This Qur’an walks with us too.”
In the Gardens, each child would recite — sometimes their final chapters, sometimes a chosen portion — with the same discipline they learned in the halaqah, their voices carried by wind and heard by trees.
It was not a graduation. It was a Tamat — a completion, a covenant with the Sound of God.
And the Sorbaan was not merely cloth. It was a Khirqah al-Taḥkīm — a mantle of responsibility. A visible reminder that this child had entered a sacred trust: to live Qur’an, to speak it clearly, to carry it with mercy.
And perhaps most beautifully — that child’s journey had not ended, it had only just begun.
Acknowledgement
Tramakasi to Sh. Jamiel Abrahams, Sadia Fakier, Zaid Nordien, and Al-Ameen Marley — for helping carry this cloth of memory into the light.
Postscript: This scroll is inspired by the memory of Boeta Junain, who told stories of the Tamat and the children’s walk to the Gardens. Our next post will honour him directly — a keeper of sacred echoes.
A tribute to Hatta: flower seller, character, Cape Town soul. The fragrance lingers…
She wasn’t just a flower seller. She was a fragrance, a rhythm, a joke that made you feel seen. Her name was Cecelia Williams—known to all as Hatta—and for over sixty years, she stood at Cape Town’s Trafalgar Place market, not just selling blooms, but lifting spirits.
Hatta was a character. A caretaker. A Cape Town original.
The Poem that Opened the Door
“Hatta of the Flower Market” She was the last blossom of a vanishing season, a woman with hands that knew petals better than poems, who crowned Adderley mornings with colour and cackle. They called her Hatta—not just a name, but a rhythm. A shrug, a laugh, a story half-told while binding roses with string. Sixty years of market sun. Of joking with tourists. Of feeding the street children. Of being “one in a million” without ever asking for a statue. Now the market hums a little quieter. But her scent, her sass, her spirit— they linger, like the last bloom in a winter vase.
This poem, first shared on my Facebook page, sparked an outpouring of memory and community. The tribute went viral, shared across timelines and group chats. And then, like the scent of jasmine carried on wind, her story grew.
The Article That Helped the City Remember
Tamlynne Thompson’s piece in TheCape Towner became a cornerstone of Hatta’s public remembrance. It offered not only a portrait of her life, but a signal that her presence had mattered—deeply.
Though the newspaper referenced a YouTube link, the funeral livestream no longer appears to be available. But memory has other ways of surfacing. While searching for traces of Hatta, I found this moving video about her best friend, Sandra Bosman—herself a flower seller of the Cape.
Through Sandra, we hear the echoes of Hatta’s laughter, her generosity, and her grit. It’s another thread in the fabric we’re weaving.
Voices from the Cape
Facebook friends poured in with blessings, memories, and emotion:
Anne Rogers:“Yet another outstanding poem – beautiful, moving words and complementary image to honour an outstanding woman who brought joy to many.”
A Note of Gratitude: To Anne Rogers—your kind words landed with warmth. In a world where noise often drowns meaning, your belief in my words is a quiet blessing. Thank you for seeing not only the poem, but the person behind it.
And to Atiyyah Khan, Marianne Thamm, Mogamat KammieKamedien, and so many others—this harvest belongs to you too.
What Does “Hatta” Mean?
A few friends asked if Hatta was an honorific. The word “hatta” can refer to the traditional Arab headscarf, the keffiyeh—often used in resistance, honour, and dignity. It also carries echoes of the Arabic verb ḥaṭṭa, meaning to reach, to attain, or to bring down gently. Maybe that’s what she did—reached people, lifted them, wrapped them in grace.
The Spirit of the Cape Lives On
You can’t really write about Cape Town without talking about talking. That unique Cape Flats cadence—Afrikaaps—where people don’t just sell fruit or flowers. They create moments.
Ask about a naartjie and you’ll hear:
“Die naartjies is so lekker, hulle willie praatie. Hulle’s te skaam van al die soetigheid!”
And Hatta? She was the high priestess of that daily liturgy.
🌹The FragranceLingers
This is not a eulogy. This is a zahrā’, a bloom. And she—Hatta—isn’t gone. She lives in our language. In our laughter. In our stories. In every bouquet given in kindness. In every street market joke. In every aunty who tells it like it is, and every uncle who listens.
May we see them. May we remember them. May we become them.
🕊️ Rest in softness, Hatta. You were the last bloom of Trafalgar Place. But your scent is forever.
This blog post is dedicated to every flower seller, fruit hawker, street child, and storyteller who holds up Cape Town with grace and grit. May we never forget them.
Somewhere between the worn edges of oral history and the crisp pages of archived journals, I began to trace the journey of my ancestor — Hadjie Gasanodien, also known as Carel Pelgrim. It is said he was the first Muslim from the Cape to perform the sacred pilgrimage of Hajj, sometime between 1834 and 1837, a period just after the abolition of slavery, when its wounds were still fresh. For years, his story lived quietly in our family’s memory, surfacing in fragments and whispered recollections — until now. I write to honour that legacy, to weave together the strands of fact, faith, and feeling that shaped a man, a pilgrimage, and a community still finding its voice in the aftermath of bondage.
Pilgrimage of Discovery
I first heard his name as a child, tucked into a conversation between my sister Yasmine and our aunts. Years later, Yasmine would take those threads and stitch them into a short family tree, dated July 2004. At the time, it felt like the last echo of a fading past. We had little else to go on. But something stirred in me after I returned from my own pilgrimage. A fever of purpose, a longing to know more. I began writing and publishing reflections under Al Hujjaj Magazine, not yet knowing that my footsteps had mirrored those of my own forebear, nearly two centuries earlier.
Echoes in Academic Footsteps
The name “Carel Pelgrim” returned to me unexpectedly through the work of a neighbour and friend of my father — the late Mogamat Hoosain Ebrahim, a community scholar from Primrose Park. He had long been documenting the Hajj stories of Cape Muslims. In his thesis, The Cape Hajj Tradition: Past and Present (2009), Ebrahim writes: “Hajji Gassonnodien, more popularly known as Carel Pilgrim, enjoys the distinction of having been the first Cape Muslim to have successfully completed the Hajj.” Although I first encountered his name in Ebrahim’s thesis, the full significance didn’t strike me until later — during conversations with the researcher Abdud-Daiyaan Petersen. It was through our exchanges that the identity of Carel Pelgrim truly crystallised. This was not just a figure in history — he was my ancestor. A man who left the Cape between 1834 and 1837 to walk the sacred path when few could even imagine such a journey.
It was through Ebrahim’s meticulous work that I began to understand the context of that time. Hajj was not simply a religious obligation; it was an act of defiance, endurance, and transcendence. For formerly enslaved Muslims in the Cape, to make the pilgrimage was to reclaim a spiritual identity that colonial systems tried to erase. And Carel Pelgrim, in going, carried more than personal faith — he carried the hopes of a generation emerging from bondage.
A Lineage Remembered
George F. Angas (1822-1886). ORIGINAL 1849 Hand Coloured Stone Lithograph. A Malay Priest Prays.
Abdud-Daiyaan Petersen’s research added an entirely new dimension to the story. In collaboration with Turkish scholar Halim Gençoğlu, he co-authored a paper titled Was Imam Gasanodien Carel Pelgrim an Ottoman Descendant?, published in the Bulletin of the National Library of South Africa in 2021. They explored the possibility that Carel Pelgrim may have had ancestral ties to the Ottoman world — a lineage once obscured by slavery and colonial re-naming. Through Petersen, I learned not only of the archival traces, but also of the living memory carried in Cape Town’s communities — stories that had waited generations to be heard.
Petersen’s careful investigations, supported by old burial notices and public records, pointed with growing clarity to the fact that Carel Pelgrim and Hadjie Gasanodien — the man known for teaching Islam and the Qur’an to children in early Cape Town — were one and the same. The fragments were falling into place. What had once been academic became intimate. What had once been folklore became family history.
The Pain Beneath the Pride
The history of Carel’s mother, Pakka, adds further complexity and depth. As documented in Echoes of Slavery: Voices from South Africa’s Past by Jackie Loos, Carel — born into slavery — was the son of Pakka, a slave woman, and Jan Gottlieb Barends, a Christian man of German descent. Their relationship was informal and illegitimate, as was often the case in that era. Carel and his brother Philip inherited their mother’s status as slaves. In 1801, a notarial protocol records their transfer to a burgher, and upon his death, their eventual manumission was stipulated in his will.
Pakka’s exact identity remains debated, though one likely candidate is Janpakka of Batavia, who ran a shop in the Waterkant in the 1820s. Death records from the time, often unreliable, do not mention Carel or Philip, but their presence in community memory is clearer than archival certainty. Pakka’s story, like that of many enslaved women, survives in fragments — yet she remains the root from which this extraordinary lineage emerged. And it is here, in the shadows of that history, that I must pause. My heart aches at the likely truth: Pakka, my great-grandmother, was not loved — she was owned. The man who fathered her children, Jan Gottlieb Barends, did not protect her. He did not free her. Instead, he allowed her and their children to be sold on to another man. Was she raped? Exploited? Discarded? The records are silent, but the silence itself screams.
This is the pain we inherit alongside the pride — the wounds interwoven with the honour. In naming Pakka, I do not just trace bloodlines. I reclaim her dignity, speak her name with reverence, and acknowledge that even in bondage, she gave rise to a lineage that would one day teach Qur’an, lead prayer, and inspire generations. Her story, though faint, demands to be held — not with shame, but with solemn truth and fierce remembrance.
A Husband’s Grief
Carel’s transformation from a slave to a respected teacher, tailor, and hajji is all the more remarkable against this background. And among the most beautiful parts of his story is his deep love and reverence for his first wife, Japoera. Though she was childless, their bond was strong — spiritually and emotionally. When she passed away in their large home in Buitengracht in early 1841, Carel composed a public obituary in the South African Commercial Advertiser. It read: “The Heavenly Father, Lord of Life and Death, was pleased on the 16th instant to call from me my beloved wife Japoera, aged 64 years, 4 months and 16 days, after a happy union of [blank space] years. All who knew her virtuous character will sympathise with my loss, of which I hereby give notice to friends and relatives, requesting to be excused the visits of condolence.” He signed it: Carel of the Cape, the first Pilgrim and Priest.
Death certificate of Hadjie Gasnodien Carel Pelgrim.
In this short but poignant notice, we see not just a man grieving his beloved, but a heart refined by faith and loss. It reminds me that while history often records what men did, it rarely shows how deeply they loved. He eventually adopted the Islamic name ‘Hassan al-Din’ — appearing in records under numerous variations such as Gasnodien and Gasanodien — yet he signed himself proudly as ‘Carel Pelgrim.’ His ability to read and write in both Arabic and European script shows a deep level of literacy and determination to bridge worlds. While some have speculated that he may have spent up to three years in Makkah — a duration not firmly evidenced — what we do know is that he returned with the ability to teach Arabic and Qur’an, and left an imprint as a man of knowledge and devotion. It’s possible that his early literacy was shaped by Cornelis van der Poel, the burgher who once held legal ownership over him and later stipulated Carel’s manumission. Whether through formal tutoring or exposure to Dutch literacy, this early learning may have paved the way for his later mastery of both Islamic and colonial languages.
The directories list Carel van de Kaap as a free tailor living in Hout Street in 1816 and as a Malay schoolmaster in 1830. His brother Philip, born in 1789 and passing in 1844, was also a tailor, but unlike Carel, Philip was not a practicing Muslim. Some of Philip’s children were baptised, and in 1838 he married their mother, Carolina Marteyn of the Cape, in the Dutch Reformed Church.
Meanwhile, Carel was charting a different course. Once free, he began to prosper. In 1817, he loaned Seymen of the Cape 600 Ridollars (a substantial currency at the Cape in the early 1800s, equivalent to several months of wages for a labourer) to enable him to free his slave daughter, Cananga. By 1822, he had purchased his own home in Matfeld Lane. Then, in October 1833, Carel and his wife made a joint will, identifying themselves as the free man Carel of the Cape, alias Gaszimoedien — formerly a tailor, now a teacher in the Arabic language — and Johanna Salomonse, alias Japoera, born at the Cape.
Japoera seems to have been an exemplary Muslim wife, and Carel held her in high esteem. He set out for Mecca soon afterwards, and her encouragement must have been crucial to the success of his pioneering journey.
When Art Becomes Revelation
That intimacy deepened when I looked again at a familiar image — one I had seen countless times in Cape Town homes, books, and exhibitions, without ever imagining a personal connection. It is a watercolour painting by George French Angas, an English artist who visited the Cape in the 1840s. The scene is gentle but profound: a bearded man seated cross-legged, surrounded by children, teaching them the Qur’an. For years, this portrait was simply referred to as a depiction of a “Malay teacher.” But now, thanks to community scholarship and genealogical evidence, we know the truth — that teacher was Hadjie Gasanodien. My ancestor.
Another portrait, also by Angas, is held at the Castle of Good Hope in Cape Town. In it, Hadjie Gasanodien is more formally posed, with dignified composure. What amazes me most is his attire — a flowing Arabic coat, or abaya, layered over a long-sleeved thawb. The painting is filled with symbolic richness: incense burners still glowing in the frame, a minbar placed behind him as if ready for the next call to gather and reflect. To stand before that painting is to encounter the past as presence — not as myth or metaphor, but as family. His face, once anonymous to me, now echoes through mine. The ink of his story has always been part of my blood. Only now am I learning how to read it.
The Living Links
One of the most tender links between this legacy and the living was shared in Lawrence Green’s 1964 book, I Heard the Old Men Say. In Chapter Two, titled “The Living Links,” he introduces a woman named Gatea Jacobs — my great-grandmother and the daughter of Hadjie Gasanodien. In a touching passage, she recalls her father’s return from the pilgrimage to Mecca. She tells of the white robes he wore, the gentle way he taught, and how the community revered him not just as a teacher, but as a man who had seen the heart of Islam and brought its light home.
Yet there is something poignant here: on the death notice of Hadjie Gasanodien, Gatea was listed as his daughter — and she was just 11 years old at the time. Her recollections, as recorded by Green, must have been shaped not only by her own memory but also by the atmosphere that surrounded her father’s name: the reverence of others, the stories repeated in the family, the aura of a man who had left a sacred legacy. In this way, memory extends beyond personal recall — it becomes communal.
Her memories reach across generations with quiet dignity. She spoke not in grand declarations, but in lived detail — the scent of his clothes, the rhythm of his voice in prayer, the gatherings around him at dusk. Through her, his presence remained alive in the bones and breath of our family, long before any of us knew the fullness of his historical significance. It was always there — waiting for us to remember.
Incredibly, Gatea Jacobs lived nearly a hundred years, a living bridge between the earliest days of Islam at the Cape and our present time. In that same chapter, Lawrence Green recounts a remarkable scene: “One afternoon while she was still able to see and hear and talk to her family she called everyone round her. ‘I am too old to live any longer,’ she told them. Then she folded her hands as prescribed in the Islamic death ritual and passed away.” Her funeral drew thousands of mourners, and services were held in mosques across the Peninsula. It was a farewell not only to a beloved matriarch, but to an era.
Her final act — serene, faithful, and deliberate — echoed the strength of the lineage she carried. It is this spirit I now seek to honour, not only in rediscovering our ancestor, but in holding open the doorway for others to trace their own roots, to reclaim the sacredness of our past, and to remember that we, too, are living links.
Author’s Note Written by Adli Yacubi (pen name), descendant of Hadjie Gasanodien, also known as Carel Pelgrim. This article forms part of a continuing journey to rediscover, honour, and share the stories of Cape Muslim pioneers. May it serve as both record and remembrance.
References
Yasmine Jacobs, Jacobs Family Tree (Oral History), July 2004
Mogamat Hoosain Ebrahim, The Cape Hajj Tradition: Past and Present, 2009
Jackie Loos, Echoes of Slavery: Voices from South Africa’s Past, 2024
Habib Shaikh, “First of Cape Hajis came 3 years after abolition of slavery,” Arab News, 11 October 2013
Lawrence Green, I Heard the Old Men Say, Chapter Two: “The Living Links,” 1964
Halim Gençoğlu & Abdud-Daiyaan Petersen, “Was Imam Gasanodien Carel Pelgrim an Ottoman Descendant?”, Bulletin of the National Library of South Africa, vol. 75, no. 2, December 2021
Helen Swingler, “Piracy, slavery and a Mecca pilgrimage,” UCT News, 17 March 2021
“Portraits stoke mystery of Hajji Gasnodien,” Cape Argus, 26 February 2021
In the quiet spaces of reflection, where language becomes prayer, Unseen Table emerged. This poem is a devotional meditation — a rhythmic journey through names and attributes of the Divine. Inspired by the cadence of Qur’anic verse and the beauty of the seen and unseen, it is paired here with an Arabic calligraphy that captures its spirit visually.
“رَبِّ كُلِّ شَيْءٍ — The Lord of Everything”
Pronouncing pronouns and prepositions Lift the lamp, the light, lit by the holy Scour the sacred and the secret sources Invoking various verses of our Lord
Lord of the mighty mountains high Lord of the sweet-scented rose nearby Lord of the earth and skies that lie Lord of the day and the night gone by
Lord of the mighty oceans deep Lord of the universe in its keep Lord of the stars in endless sweep Lord of the secrets that we keep
Lord of the merciful and just Lord of the faithful and the trust Lord of the righteous and the just Lord of the true, in whom we must
Lord of the prophets and the wise Lord of the knowledge that never dies Lord of the heavens and the sunrise Lord of the earth, to that we arise
Lord of the Throne, the Tremendous and Honourable Lord of Forgiveness, Full of Mercy, ever able Lord of the Bounty, the Infinite and Stable Lord of the Sovereignty, Owner of the Unseen Table
🌙 A Final Thought
In a world thick with noise, may these verses be a quiet invocation — a return to the Sacred, to the unseen currents beneath all things. If the words moved something within you, pause… and let that be your prayer.
“In the name of Allah, the Entirely Merciful, the Especially Compassionate” — every beginning echoes the womb of creation, where mercy overcomes all.
At the beginning of every chapter of the Qur’an (except one), and at the start of every act of meaning, Muslims invoke the sacred words: bismillāhir raḥmānir raḥīm — In the name of Allah, the Entirely Merciful, the Especially Compassionate. It is not merely a formula. It is a return. A remembrance of the womb of mercy from which all existence flows.
The Love Letter of Bismillah
In Surah An-Naml, we are told the story of the Prophet Solomon (Sulayman, peace upon him) sending a letter to the Queen of Sheba. He instructs the hoopoe bird: “Go with this letter of mine and deliver it to them, then stand aside and see how they will respond.” (27:28)
When the Queen reads the letter, she declares: “O you chiefs! A truly distinguished letter has been conveyed unto me. Behold, it is from Solomon, and it says, ‘In the name of Allah, the Entirely Merciful, the Especially Compassionate. Do not be arrogant with me, but come to me, fully submitting to Allah.’” (27:29–31)
Before asserting power, before making demands, Solomon begins with mercy. Even in politics and statecraft, mercy frames the dialogue. Every relationship — between people, between nations, between heart and heart — is meant to begin in the name of mercy.
The Womb of Creation
The Arabic root ر ح م (rā ḥā mīm) — from which Raḥmān and Raḥīm are derived — is intimately connected to raḥm, the womb.
Allah reminds humanity: “O humanity! Be mindful of your Lord Who created you from a single soul, and from her He created her mate, and through both He spread countless men and women. And be mindful of Allah—in Whose Name you appeal to one another—and the wombs. Surely Allah is ever Watchful over you.” (4:1)
The womb is not just a biological vessel; it is a sign, a sacred reality. The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said in a sacred narration (Hadith Qudsi): “When Allah decreed the creation, He pledged Himself by writing in His Book, which is laid down with Him: ‘My Mercy prevails over My Wrath.’” (Muslim, Bukhari, an-Nasa’i, Ibn Majah)
Mercy is the origin of all things. The womb is the first mercy a soul encounters in existence — a place of absolute protection, nourishment, and unseen care. No wonder the Prophet narrated this to his companions.
Jahima (r.a.) came to the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, and he said, “O Messenger of Allah, I intend to join the military expedition, and I seek your counsel.” The Prophet said, “Do you have a mother?” He said yes. The Prophet said, “Stay with her, for paradise is beneath her feet.” (Sunan al-Nasā’ī)
In another Hadith Qudsi, sacred narration, the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said that Allah said: “I am Ar-Raḥmān and created the raḥm (womb) – And I named it after Me.” (Ahmad)
Pain and Mercy
“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Rumi’s words evoke not only pain but transformation. The womb is a site of life-giving pain — a space where creation ruptures comfort. It is the most literal place where light enters: the emergence of life into a world of awareness, form, love.
In verse 18:81, the Qur’an speaks of a child being taken away so another, “more virtuous and nearer in affection,” may come. Pain and replacement. Loss and mercy. Mercy is not always softness — it may come dressed in fire, thunder, or sacrifice.
No wonder Allah states, “And My Mercy encompasses everything” (Quran 7:156). This verse reinforces the idea that God’s mercy is vast and all-encompassing, extending to every aspect of existence. This verse highlights the inclusive nature of divine mercy, encouraging believers to seek forgiveness and strive for a compassionate life. It serves as a call for Muslims to practice mercy in their daily lives, fostering a community built on compassion and understanding.
Bismillah in Everyday Life
The Messenger of Allah, mercy of God and peace upon him, taught: “Any matter of importance that is not begun with ‘In the name of Allah’ will remain devoid of blessing.” (Sunan Abi Dawud, Sahih Ibn Hibban)
And regarding daily purification (wudhu), he said: “There is no valid ablution for he who did not mention Allah’s Name.” (Ahmad, Sunan compilers)
Every act, every moment, every step must be wrapped in remembrance. By invoking Bismillah, we are not just seeking blessing; we are anchoring ourselves back to the womb of mercy — to the beginning of all things — where Allah’s Compassion and Care cradle us unseen.
Closing Reflection: A Womb of Light
To begin with Bismillah is to step into the womb of mercy. A place where something is made of us. A place of constriction, gestation, and eventual emergence.
Ibn al-ʿArabī described mercy as the first veil between us and the Real. To know mercy is to be veiled, yes — but also to be protected, incubated until we are ready to face the fullness of the Divine.
And so, like the Queen of Sheba, we receive the letter. And like the hoopoe, we deliver it. And like the child, we are born through pain. And like Rumi, we remember that it is the wound — the rupture — that lets in the Light.
“Whatever you do, do not stop making your push-ups: your spiritual push-ups, your mental push-ups, your financial push-ups, your physical push-ups. When your ship comes again, and it will, you want to be ready to take it sailing.” — Zane Ibrahim
Survival techniques for life-changing events, in memory of Zane Ibrahim
Image from Crow the Stone
“Who the hell is out there?” I inquired from a shadow in my rose garden at 3am. “I have been passing your house for a month now and noticed your roses have not been pruned. The season is almost over,” said the shadow as he continued snipping away with his pruning shears. As he stepped into the light, I saw his familiar face. “Zane! What the hell?”
Zane Ibrahim was the station manager of a popular community radio station in South Africa called Bush. My company had been designing most of their print media (below-the-line) requirements at the time. This was a client. In my garden. At 3am. Pruning my roses! “This is my meditation,” he explained, “and I saw the light was still on.”
Adli Yacubi 