The start of my roots began with the ebb and flow as the ocean current floats; the story of my Southeast Asian roots intertwines with the African shores.

“We have Indonesian royal blood,” said Oupa with pride as he gently adjusted his black songkok.

The blood of exiled Indonesian Royals, scholars, merchants and talented tradesmen forced from their homeland onto ships destined for foreign soil. Their story runs through my veins. They were chained as they forcefully set foot on African soil.

While the moonlight crept through their dark dungeon cells amid the black night.

My slave ancestors prayed for freedom with Islam in their hearts as tears streamed down their frightened faces. Their ankles and arms were chained and caged up like wild animals, yet their bodies encompassed the spirits of warriors.

Born out of exile, they survived slavery and became resilient.

My heritage was born…

The colourful houses of the “Malay quarter”, or Bo-Kaap painted with the blazing majestic backdrop of the setting sun, stand in adornment to the forgotten but emancipation of the forgotten Malay slaves.

The Athaan is synonymous with these streets on every corner.

When night falls, the wind howls with echoes of the celebratory singing of freed slaves.

The strumming of a guitar or liedjie and the beating of the Ghoema deafens my eardrums…

Visions come alive as the colourful attire and characters of the Cape Malay choirs prepare to walk the streets.

My heritage was born…

Memories of “Kanala dorp” or District Six were awakened through vivid stories told by my Ouma.

“I lived on Richmond Street…” she said boastfully as she tried to recall the many memories of her “Distrik ses.”

A vibrant community, it was, I’m told.

Jews, Christians and Muslims were tolerant and preserved a “helpmekaar” society.

The famous flower sellers on bustling Hanover Street tied the fate of many lovers together with a rose bouquet, while the fishermen thrived as their lucky catch of the day would bring them a warm meal in the tummy and a penny in the pocket on the popular fish market.

The footprints of many ancestors are entrenched within the famous seven steps of stone.

Then the Group Areas Act of 68 happened

and…

“The love letters arrived,” said Ouma with a sullen glare. Friends and families were scattered about.

“I knew a Janap from Hanover Street, but I lost contact after we left the Distrik,” she often said with a busy, old and tired mind.

Homes, friendships and memories were selfishly knocked down to the cold and unforgiving ground while the spirit of “Distrik ses” lived within the hearts of the many forced removals.

From poverty to more poverty.

Born out of displacement, despair and heartbreak

My heritage was born…

‘We don’t use exact measurements. We use feeling,” said Mother as she sniffed the ingredients in the flaky dough. Draped with the fragrance of karamonk and aniseed, we birthed the mouth-watering Koesister and many other traditional Cape Malay dishes. Mother would orally teach me our traditional recipes just as her mother taught her. This was another family tradition. Cape Malay people take immense pride in their plates, what lies in our plates is part of our culinary heritage, and our culinary heritage is our pride.

The “Huis kombius” comes alive with the fragrance of spices Masala, Karamonk, Cinnamon and more. 

“Smells like a lekker Koesister is on the way,” I stated as I smelt the dough. This wasn’t just any doughnut; it was my heritage. It held history in its sticky texture and heritage in its dusted coconut.

My heritage is in the words I use, The way I speak and the clothes I wear.

From the “Tremakasih” to the “Shukran”, from the “Sarong” to the “Kapparang”, from the “Salaam” to the “Hoefa” from the “Kanala dorp” to the “Bo-Kaap”, from the Athaan to the Mosque. 

A heritage born out of pain, sorrow, heartache and loss, but every pain has its beauty. My heritage has survived for over 365 years; the beauty lies within its survival, the survival of the cuisine, language and oral stories.

A complicated but beautiful heritage. Asia and Africa bound, like a woven band consisting of many different materials, pieced together to survive and create something unique.

A perfect blend from the land of my ancestors to the land I now call home.Under the diverse banner of the term “Cape Malay.”

Asaaaalamu Alaykom (Peace be upon you.)