Saturday, June 18, 2016
By Yazeed Kamaldien
Somali men perform Maghrib, the sunset prayer for Muslims, at Masjid al-Sunnah in Durban Road, Bellville. Credit: YAZEED KAMALDIEN
For a moment I had to stand still, calling on a rushing Abdulahi Qorshe to hang on, as the view from Masjid al-Sunnah’s balcony appeared as an unknown yet familiar place.
“I can’t believe this is part of Cape Town,” I said, staring, trying to take it all in.
The al-Sunnah mosque is above a shopping centre in Durban Road, Bellville.
Spread out below it is “Little Mogadishu”, named for its Somali population.
Across the road from the mosque are a number of Somali shops and restaurants, streets around it are crowded with people moving in every direction.
It reminded me of similar scenes in Khartoum or Lagos. It was a different side of my home city, though, a world into which I’d seldom stepped.
Qorshe and I had just performed Maghrib, the early evening prayer, inside the mosque. The sun was still setting and we had ended our day of fasting with water and dates. It was the end of the first day of this year’s Ramadaan, the ninth Islamic month of fasting.
Before Ramadaan I’d asked Qorshe if I could join his family for iftar, the meal Muslims have when breaking their fast at sunset. The problem, though, was Qorshe’s family is not in Cape Town. But he would make a plan anyway.
Qorshe, a Somali journalist who has taken refuge in South Africa, left his parents and siblings in his country’s troubled capital city Mogadishu almost six years ago.
In Bellville, he found a place to stay with other Somalis: “They are like my family.”
We made our way to his “family” for iftar. Inside the dimly lit lounge of their flat, a warm, humbling feast unfolded.
We sat on the floor and ate sweet malawah (pancakes), fish-filled sanbosa (samoosas), vetkoek called mandazi-bur-saliid, dates and coffee from Somalia.
The chef’s highlight was a memorable rice and meat dish called bariis iyo hilib. It reminded me of maqluba, a similar Arab dish I’ve eaten in Jordan and the Gaza Strip.
“If my stomach could laugh you would hear it now,” I joked, unashamedly devouring the meal, confirmation that happiness exists on a plate.
And what a plate it was the evening’s chef, Kadra Moalim, brought into the eating area. The main course was served on a large platter from which everyone ate with their hands.
It reminded me of how Saudi Arabian locals ate when we shared a meal together during the hajj journey a few years ago.
And it flung me right back to Sudan, where I lived for several months some time ago. When you eat in this communal manner, it is imperative to abandon personal hygiene hang-ups.
Food is considered barakah, an Arabic word used when referring to something that increases or grows. And everybody must benefit from this barakah, so eating out of one plate encourages sharing rather than selfishness.
Muslims in Sudan never want to eat alone and more especially during Ramadaan when one should invite family and friends for iftar.
Barakah in this sense, by sharing your food, is multifold and not simply about the food. It has a spiritual component too.
Back in Sudan, when I went out for lunch there would always be someone beckoning me over to share their food. It was as if eating on your own equated to sharing your food with Satan.
Moalim, meanwhile, sat on the couch, from where she watched us enjoy her cooking. She is still learning how to speak English and laughed when Qorshe translated my satisfaction about the meal.
We rounded off iftar that night with conversation, getting to know more about one another, while sipping freshly squeezed mixed fruit juice.
Milk mixed with cinnamon, similar to a drink served at traditional Muslim gatherings in Cape Town, was also served.
When I asked Moalim about where she had lived and learnt to cook, she said she had spent most of her life in Mogadishu; then lived in Saudi Arabia for 10 years.
After that, when she returned to Somalia, Moalim found herself fleeing violence to join a Somali community in relatively safer Cape Town.
Moalim had been kidnapped by al-Shabaab, a violent separatist group fighting Somalia’s government for control of the land.
“I was carrying my sister’s baby and they came into our house (in Mogadishu) and kidnapped me and the child. They took us to a place where they chop people’s heads off,” she said.
“I saw people whose heads were chopped off.”
She had been “accused of being a government spy”.
“My brother is a journalist for Somali TV. They even killed his son. They wanted to kill me but I told them I could not leave the child. I was breastfeeding the child,” said Moalim.
“They took me to one of their courts and that’s when I was able to escape with the child.”
Moalim made her way to Kenya and then South Africa.
“I miss my family. They are still in Mogadishu,” she said.
“In Ramadaan, our family prays together. We break our fast together. You are happy when you are with your family.”
It became evident the Somali refugees with whom I was having iftar that evening had all left their families behind. They were mostly alone or with an aunt, uncle, sibling or one of their parents, while the rest of the family was in Somalia.
At this time, Ramadaan, when being with your family means so much to Muslims, they are far away from their closest relatives. At this time, to be alone and without family is hard.
Somali refugees have found new homes here, however, building new family structures.
“I feel like I am home because I’m in another African country,” said Moalim. “The culture here is different but I am with Somali people.”
Qorshe recalled how he and other Somali refugees travelled “border by border” to Cape Town.
“I came here on my own and my parents are still in Somalia. At least I am safe here, as a journalist,” he said.
“I left Somalia for my safety. I was working as a journalist in Somalia with newspapers and radio stations.
“When you are working as a journalist, you are targeted. Different groups want to attack you.”
At the end of iftar, Qorshe walked me to my car. It was an evening that marked the beginning of a month of sacrifice – not just of food, but also of all the distractions that keep us from spirituality for the other 11 months.
To start Ramadaan with people who have already sacrificed so much left me thinking about how fortunate we are in Cape Town. In Little Mogadishu, right here in our city, are people who have lost a lot more than we sacrifice in Ramadaan.