Usually, Christian Quarter Road in the Old City of Jerusalem is a loud, unnerving place full of hawkers and tourists. But at this afternoon the street quiet down suddenly. Hawker boys were forming a line along their shops, keeping their mouth shut. The tourists stopped squabbling with each other about where to go next and started to watch in awe. A procession of old, French guys had entered the road. It moved slowly and cautiously through the aisles of the Old City, from time to time whispering prayers. Their voices were weak, their cloaks black, white, graceful. On their faces lay a shade of sadness that came from deep within. It was the most heavyhearted tribute to God I have ever seen. It was as if these guys were going to their graves.