“Is this really happening?” I was in a brothel in Durban, South Africa, and I could not believe what I was hearing. I knew this would be the moment I would tell everyone about when I came home. It was the moment that would be forever burned into my memory because it taught me about hope.

When we left our house earlier that night, I had a feeling it was going to be like most of the other nights we spent in the red-light district of Durban; however, this one was a lot different. We were making our usual rounds; our first stop was the “massage parlor,” which, I had realized, gives much more than massages. When we went into the room, I saw Shirley, the lady who was in charge. She was friends with our leader Petra, which is why she let us into her establishment. She had frizzy red hair with more volume than any shampoo could ever promise, and it was situated on the top of her head like Marge Simpson. Her voice sounded raspy from years of smoking. She intimidated me, so I stayed away from her and just talked with the girls.

I saw Pretty when I walked in, so I went over to talk with her. Pretty was about my age, probably between 21 and 25. She was the prettiest girl I had met in the business. She had dark, smooth skin, huge brown eyes and long jet-black hair that went to the middle of her back. She didn’t wear makeup, or at least it didn’t look like it, and she had a flawless complexion with naturally pink accents in her cheeks. That night she was wearing a tight black dress; it wasn’t too short, considering where she worked. It hit her mid thigh and hugged her body, accentuating her breasts, thin waistline and voluptuous rear.

After visiting this place for about three weeks, we were now on a first-name basis with most of the girls who worked there. Once we arrived, we would just start talking to the girls we knew. We were finally going beyond the surface conversation of answering questions about where we were from. They were beginning to trust us. Pretty and I had developed a friendship over the past weeks, and she would tell me about her children and how they were doing; sometimes she would tell me about their fathers and the abuse she suffered at their hands. She would talk about her hopes and dreams of someday getting out of her job, but for now prostitution was the only way she knew how to make money. A few years ago she had left the business when prince charming came in and swept her off her feet, promising to take care of her and her kids. However, it wasn’t a “happily ever after”; once he had a few drinks, he would throw punches with his fists and his words, leaving her bruised on the outside and the inside. He left her after a couple of years, and she had no other option but to return to her previous life as a prostitute to put food on the table for her family. She was almost embarrassed to tell me what she wanted to do with her life, and once she did, she quickly added, “But I’m probably not smart enough.”

That night Rachel, one of the girls in Durban with me, came over and joined our conversation. Rachel started talking about Jesus; she was by far the most ambitious when it came to spreading the Gospel. She came from a broken family, and she always said that once she met God, her life had changed; she wanted these girls to know what had helped her through her hard times. She was asking Pretty about her experience going to church with her grandma as a girl. I was listening intently, but as Rachel started sharing her own life experience, I looked around the room and let everything sink in.

I looked around at the four girls I had come here with: Rose, Cassie, Brynn and Rachel. We were from Australia, Canada and the United States. Aside from this trip we didn’t have much in common; however, there was no one else I would rather have been there with. We had grown close and learned a lot about each other through this experience. I enjoyed watching them talk the night away while sitting in a brothel, like it was a coffee shop. Sometimes there was laughter, and other times there were serious looks as the girls started to go deep, to share what their lives were like and how they ended up here. When the girls at the brothels described the hurt they had experienced, the whole demeanor of our team would change. A pained expression would cross our faces as if we were experiencing the pain these women had experienced. We were starting to understand why they did what they did. It was a scary realization, leading us to wonder why we led such privileged lives. Due to the suffering post-apartheid economy, it was next to impossible to find work. Not being able to get a job could lead to their demise, considering they had families to support, and although many of them earned enough money to support their families, they had to live with the threat of contracting AIDS from a client. Most of them had some form of an STD; it wasn’t always diagnosed, and none of them talked about it—it was taboo.

I wondered what their children did at night when they were gone, if the children knew what their mothers did, or if it ever embarrassed them. I wondered what it would be like to be scared after leaving work, scared of getting raped and robbed on the way home because most of them didn’t have cars and had to walk home. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live a life of fear—fear of disappointing your family, of being killed, of being found out, of not being able to feed your family.

All of a sudden, I heard something that sliced through my thoughts. I shook my head to make sure I wasn’t daydreaming, but this was really happening. I heard Pretty singing, but it wasn’t her melodious voice that caught my attention—it was her words. She was singing: Jesus loves me! This I know/For the Bible tells me so/Little ones to Him belong/They are weak, but He is strong/Yes, Jesus loves me/Yes, Jesus loves me/Yes, Jesus loves me/The Bible tells me so.

I just watched her as she sang, and when the other girls joined in, I couldn’t believe what was happening. Here I was in a brothel in Durban, South Africa, with girls singing about Jesus’ love. I thought maybe they would sing a couple of verses and then move on, but they kept repeating the first verse over and over.

While they were singing, the whole dynamic of the room changed. It seemed more peaceful than ever. I had joined in by now, and everyone else in the room was singing, too. I never asked them what they felt while singing the lyrics, but I hoped they felt loved—loved for who they were, loved for the way God made them. I hoped they didn’t feel ashamed or unworthy to sing this song. I hoped they felt like they deserved it. Mostly I hoped they felt as if there were someone watching over them, and I hoped they felt protected and safe from what they would endure the rest of the night and the nights to come.

I’m sure afterward they questioned what had happened. I doubt something like that had ever happened there before. I bet they wondered, “Where was Jesus when my parents left me, when my mom died of AIDS, when my husband abused me?” and questioned a God who claimed to love them but also allowed them to live with so much pain, loss and suffering.

When the singing ended, everyone became quiet for a moment, taking in what had just happened. Then Shirley said, “Pretty, Jesus does love you.” What Pretty said next shocked me. “You know what we’re doing is wrong, Shirley! You know we’re not supposed to be in here doing this; you know it’s wrong!”

I sat there in awe, wondering what was happening. Shirley didn’t respond; she didn’t have to. You could tell by the look on her face that what Pretty said had struck a nerve. The silence returned as we sat there wondering what to say next. Pretty broke the silence again, laughing as if that were all she knew how to do.
I can’t remember exactly what happened after that: I was so caught up in the moment that everything else faded away. I had seen a glimpse of hope, and even though it didn’t last long, I witnessed something that would stay with me for the rest of my life. I saw Pretty’s heart. I saw all of their hearts—who they were, not what they did. These women were looking for love, looking to grab onto that, but scared at the same time because it could disappoint them like everything else they had grabbed onto in their life. Nothing monumental happened after that incident; however, it is my favorite memory because for three minutes everything was forgotten about—whether we were from America or South Africa, whether we were prostitutes or missionaries, whether we were rich or poor. For those three minutes we were women singing about a love that we all hoped to experience, that we hoped wouldn’t let us down.

Allie Jones visited this brothel in South Africa while on a missions trip with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) in 2005.