The day my husband died, my work for a newspaper had taken me out of the office to do interviews and take pictures. I hurried back to my computer because I wanted to finish early. The man I had loved for three decades had not been well for several years. He had attempted suicide several times before, and I had always been there to stop him, but today – on a most magnificent Tuesday, the kind of day only an Alabama sky can provide – I was worried. The weekend had given us new problems, and new problems usually brought with them reactions that could range from unusual behavior to a complete loss of hope.

I telephoned him as I drove from one interview to the next. We talked briefly about ordinary things and about my new idea: that he should try out a new program I had found. He had been diagnosed with bipolar depression in 2004, a behavioral disorder that decreases a person’s ability to handle stress. The toll this took on him in a few years far exceeded the ravages of major depression he had dealt with alone for a lifetime.

Those years had taken a toll on me, too. But I had no idea what lay just ahead. Suicide is not just a personal disaster. It happens to everyone in a family and devastates whatever life came before, changing forever those who are left behind.

After writing my column for the week, I left work early. I felt desperate to get home. On the way, I called him again. The day before had been his fifty-eighth birthday. Our plans had changed a couple of times recently, but the weekend had been eerily quiet. On Sunday afternoon, we sat on the deck in the sunshine. I grew tired watching him go through boxes of papers and discard this or that. At the time I thought he was just organizing. I left him to go inside and take a nap. When I returned he had finished, and the day ended with the sweetness I had known for so long: the satisfying closeness of just being with him.

But by this Tuesday, around four o’clock, the calls between our cell phones kept dropping – or perhaps he kept hanging up. I told him I was on the way home. As I did, I passed a grocery store and thought I should stop for a birthday cake. Yesterday had not gone well, and today I had a chance to do something special for him, but I was exhausted and felt driven to be with him. Something was wrong. I was sure of it. I didn’t stop, a fact I regret.

His voice, when we spoke again, was too calm. He told me he had broken into the gun safe, the one I bought after he had his first psychotic break. I realized later he could have done that at any time. My false sense of security had been nothing more than a thin veil.

“I’m not mad.” Inside, I panicked. What would I do now that I only had my voice with which to save his life? “Where are you?”

Carefully, as if speaking to a child, he told me. I asked him to put the pistol down and cross the road to our neighbor’s house. When the connection broke, I dialed 911, reported the situation, and heard the words that would change the course of my thinking.

“Don’t go in,” the operator said. “Sometimes they wait until they see you before they do it. Park on the side of the road where he can’t see you.”

That was something I had not thought of before. It terrified me. Woodenly, I obeyed. Now I had entered an alternate reality, shock creeping over me like a blanket. I stopped the car as close to the house as I could without being seen.

Eventually, a young deputy arrived, took my house key, and went inside, finding my husband’s body. He came back to my car, where I waited. Through the window, which was rolled down, he extended his hand, and I latched onto two of his fingers with my own. His expression was so pained that I couldn’t bear to make him tell me what he had found.  

“I know,” I told him, and he explained that the scene would first have to be treated like a homicide. I nodded and stayed where I was as he drove back to the house.

It took more time for neighbors to arrive and the call to go out to our church friends who gathered around the car and waited with me. I made calls to his family and to our children in three different states. I was deep in shock.

From there, the nightmare of the past few years changed into the hellish existence of a grief I had never known before. I was familiar with death. My mother had died. So had my father and my brother-in-law. Even in childhood, in my life as a preacher’s kid it was not uncommon for me to attend every funeral and visit every grieving household. I played the beautiful organ in our church sanctuary at the funeral of one of my best friends’ father when I was only nine or ten years old. I had read and written about death, but this was different.

Sometimes suicide comes without warning, but for several years before my husband’s suicide, his uncontrollable, rapid cycling moods and bizarre episodes left us both drained. He was at the mercy of his illness, and as I tried to help him and to get help for him in every way I could, I was at the mercy of his illness as well.

Physically, I had already used almost all of my strength. I had no reserves. My body was anemic; my mind was in a state of constant crisis. Even the moments between emergencies became crises because those were the waiting and worrying times. I never knew what would be coming next, but I knew it would be horrible.

Suddenly, as I sat in my car on the side of the road, he was gone, and I entered the aftermath of suicide. Since that day, I’ve worked alongside thousands of other survivors of suicide loss to try and understand what happened; and to mourn, heal, and rebuild. To help myself, I had to help others who were struggling through similar situations.

I discovered that grieving and hope can become entangled with regret and guilt and so many other emotions. During this confusing time, hope is a concept that is difficult to hold onto. Hold onto it we must, however, even if we have to borrow strength from each other.

Suicide changes us, but together, we can turn mourning into joy. For me, healing became a three-step process. I first found that co-support fortifies survivors so that obstacles like secondary wounding do not halt progress toward a successful return to life. Then, there is the essential but difficult step that enables survivors to let go of their past lives and turn toward new ones. No one wants to go on without a dear loved one, but a healthy recovery from grief depends on finding the strength to let go. Without this interim step, a survivor may not realize there are other ways to carry forward the memory of the lost one, other kinds of relationships that can be built with the departed. Lastly, there is an internal drive that emerges in most survivors that motivates them to go beyond just surviving to making meaning out of loss. This can manifest first as an instinctive need to do something. This guiding force inspires survivors to find or to create ways to carry a message forward, to turn their own personal tragedies into victories by helping others. They may write books, found organizations, set up foundations, or contribute in other ways. Many of these are artistic or creative in nature and come straight from the heart.

Suicide touches all kinds of people from every background and belief system. It can create a barrier between those closest to the person who died and those around them. Historically, suicide has been viewed by many societies as a social taboo, but the underserved stigma, shame, and shunning that surround suicide is being dispelled by the efforts of loved ones who are banding together to share both pain and healing. One such group – the Alliance of Hope for suicide loss survivors (www.allianceofhope.com) – is attempting to change the culture surrounding suicide worldwide. With the guiding slogan “Kindness Matters,” members share the simple but powerful knowledge that one can not only survive the loss of a loved one or friend to suicide but also can go beyond just surviving to rebuild happy, productive lives.

“You are not alone.”

“This was not your fault.”

“Healing is possible.”

“There are specific things you can do to build a new life that honors the one you lost.”

When I reach out in this way to comfort a mom or dad, a partner or child who is in more pain than they ever knew existed, it is because of the many times I saw my husband’s gentleness, his respect for all living things, his brilliant mind at work. His life is not defined by how he died. Neither is mine. He made such an impact on my life and on the lives of anyone who knew him that even his illness – even suicide – could not change the good he did in the world.

I can only hand survivors a little hope, but in that moment, hope is enough.

Every human is precious with a special quality, and there are quite many of them at specialist schools. It is just a matter of being able to see that potential within every person, and be appreciative of

When I was requested to complete one of my practical teaching experiences at a specialist school,¹ I was worried. At the time, I was enrolled at a university to become a teacher, expecting to teach only at mainstream schools. The fear of unintentionally hurting the feelings of handicapped people in general was a big concern for me.

I prepared myself for the difficult task ahead. I was certain that this experience was going to be quite different to what I had previously encountered in regular schools, but what I experienced from the first day was beyond my imagination. I was surrounded with little children who could not see, hear, talk or walk. Normally, lunch time would mean kids running around and jumping with joy. It wasn’t like that here. Instead, there were a lot of students on wheelchairs, some walking slowly from one part of the room to another, some just sitting quietly, and some crawling on the floor. As I was watching them, I noticed a little boy approach. He crawled next to me and then patted the floor. I interpreted this as him asking me to sit next to him, so I kneeled down and said “Hello.” He reached over and gave the toy he was playing with to me and then crawled away slowly. For a brief moment I held the toy in my hands looking around confused. I did not know what to do.

Mike² was one of the four students in my class. He was visionally impaired. He could not walk either hence had to use a wheelchair. What was so lovely about Mike was his responsiveness; he would respond to everything, even to a question directed at someone else or to a conversation other people were having. Mike was one of the triplets; according to my mentor “he was the unlucky (!) one.”

Sam was another student also with limited vision. Some days he would surprise us by recognizing the person who walked in through the door; however, most of the time, he could not see objects that stood right in front of him, often tripping over them. Walking was also a difficult task for him; his teachers were teaching him how to use a cane. He was a popular boy at school. He would talk to everyone and most importantly, he would never forget them. His parents were considering enrolling him into a different specialist school due to his exceptional memory and fast learning skills.

Shane was the third student who could not speak. He was also using a wheelchair. Teachers were working vigorously to teach him how to use a machine that would assist him with his speech and also how to operate an automatic wheelchair.

Lana was the last student of the class who had difficulties with walking. In order to walk she needed support or had to use a walking stool. She displayed signs of timidity next to strangers, yet her friendliness towards the three boys in her class was remarkable. She would constantly talk to them and attempted to walk towards them. She was very responsive to some of our questions, but not to everything. If you insisted on a response, she would place her head on the table and start to ignore you.

Eating was an issue for both Sam and Shane; they had to be given some kind of a special formula instead of regular food. The formula was made up of a milky substance and it satisfied their hunger. It provided them with all the necessary minerals and vitamins that they could not receive from regular diet. Although teacher-aids would come at certain times to give the students food, it was not to satisfy their hunger; rather, it was to give them the opportunity to experience different tastes.

Everything in this school was new to me, so I was extremely cautious with everything I had to learn. Teachers and staff seemed to be very nice and talkative to the children. Initially I could hardly even talk to the students. If they had a question, I would reply with a smile. With each passing day, I grew confident. Before long, I was like their regular teachers who constantly talked and laughed with them. I began to assist my mentor by moving students around with wheelchairs.

The friendship and the relationship students had with one another were genuine, pure and innocent. They were just like other children; thinking about toys, playing games, and more importantly, cherished the love they received from family and friends. They had wants, needs, fears, likes and dislikes just like you and me. The importance of being able to “see the person, not the disability” meant a lot to me.

At this school each student had a machine called the “Big Mac.” The teacher (my mentor) would record information about students’ day at school and parents were also expected to record issues relevant to home. Every day, these Big Macs would travel to and from home with the children. The teacher and parents would listen to them. Shane had to use a more advanced machine called “FL4SH” to help him with his speech. He had to press a button with his head to indicate what he wanted to say. Every day Shane’s mother recorded news and jokes on this machine. During my entire time there, she recorded a message almost every day. My mentor would describe Shane’s mother as the best parent she had ever seen. It was at this school, I realized the sacrifices both parents were required to give and how much they should all be applauded for it.

Normally, it took students a long time to learn my name. I believe it is due to the difficulty of its pronunciation. However, at this school, the time it took for the students to learn my name was quite shorter than any other schools I went for placements. Mike was the first to pronounce my name… He would repeat my name so many times that it would be impossible for those nearby not to memorize it. I tried desperately to reply to all of his calls, but it was an impossible task.

Sam was a Sesame Street fan like any other child; his favorite toys were a vacuum and a car that had the pictures of Elmo and the Cookie Monster on them. He carried these toys wherever he went. He would hug, kiss and talk to them. One day, he began to say things like, “Rukiye the vacuum is sad” or “the car is crying!” I asked him, “Why Sam?” He replied, “Because, they can’t talk.” I smiled and suggested, “Why don’t you teach them how to talk, Sam?” I encouraged him to continue talking and to tell them “don’t be sad, don’t cry, be happy.” He never forgot this conversation. He began to repeat the words “don’t cry, be happy” to his toys, whenever he was next to me. I just loved the way he taught the vacuum how to talk. He would say “don’t cry vacuum, you can talk now” then he would press the “on”’ button, to which the vacuum would respond by saying words like “Hello.”

Sam’s birthday was another memory I would never forget. It was his ninth birthday. The following day, my mentor asked Sam to talk about his birthday to his classmates. He told everyone that he and his brother were sharing the same party due to having birthdates that were not too far apart. He continued talking about blowing candles and everyone clapping. He concluded by saying “Then I went into my room.” When my mentor asked follow-up questions like, “did you stay in your room after that?” and “didn’t you enjoy the party Sam?” rather than answering the question, Sam continued to describe the cake, candles and the singing of the “happy birthday” song. I was saddened by the story of Sam’s birthday party. I tried to contemplate how it must feel to not be allowed to attend your own birthday celebration. My mentor assumed that it was to prevent Sam from screaming loudly as he always did when he became over excited.

One day, I witnessed Sam’s unique emotional state with my own eyes. He was crying, constantly stomping from one place to another as he violently smashed and threw toys around. Even his favorite toys were amongst the victims. His sickness triggered this lovely boy to go through such a drastic emotional transformation.

On another occasion as we were waiting for the other students to arrive, Lana asked me to bring her a book. She imitated her teacher and pretended to read the book to Sam and me. She repeated the words “you can walk, he said; I can walk, she said” on every page. I wondered why she concentrated on these particular words. Was it because of the difficulty she experienced while walking? Perhaps, in her own way, she was expressing her desire to walk.

Observing these lovely children helped me realize how little we are thankful for what we have. We have so much, yet often we fail to display our gratitude. We often compare ourselves to those who are more fortunate, rather than thinking about those who have much less. If we are disappointed about not having the latest shoes, shouldn’t we remember Shane, Mike or Lana, who could not walk? If we complain about not having the best eye color, shouldn’t Sam or Mike be remembered, who could not see? If we cannot be bothered to talk with our family at dinner, shouldn’t we remember Shane? Because no matter how much he wanted to say a simple sentence like “I love you,” he was not able to.

It was my last day at this specialist school; a place I initially had doubts about attending. I bought each student a toy, and showed them how it lit up when shaken. That day, moments before I left the class, my four students chanted, “Rukiye…Rukiye… Rukiye!” They had made up a song with my name. As I pushed Mike’s wheelchair towards his bus, he was still shaking the toy madly as he shouted with joy, “Rukiye, Rukiye look, I’m lighting it, I’m lighting it!” I wondered if he really saw the lights. I was extremely sad to leave them, but I had completed the requirements of my placement. I can never forget these lovely students. Their smiling faces, especially Mike’s shy giggles and Lana’s loud laughter are still echoing in my ears.

About a month had passed when I went back to the school for a short visit. I was curious as to whether the students would still remember me. It was heart-breaking not seeing Lana and Shane there because they were away that day. Sam and Mike were having their snacks; the usual, cheese balls for Sam and sandwiches for Mike. Mike did not say my name which he repeated so many times before. Instead, he smiled and giggled as I spoke to him. This was enough to cheer me up; it seemed as though he recognized my voice. My mentor asked, “Sam who is this?” To which he responded “Rukiye” with a huge smile. I spoke with Sam for a while and then said a last “goodbye” to both, as their teacher-aid took them outside for recess. During our short conversation, Sam did not forget to update me on the mood of his car: “Rukiye, car is crying… don’t cry car, be happy!” Eventually, the students may forget me. But one thing is for certain, I will never forget them…

Notes

1. In the Australian school system, institutions that provide education to disabled students are known as “Specialist Schools.”
2. Names of students have deliberately been changed for privacy reasons.

The second leading cause of death in the United States, after heart diseases, is cancer, claiming around half a million lives every year.(1) People today are concerned more than ever about cancer and its terrible consequences. However, in the light of recent scientific findings, a very different picture can be seen: In an environment with increasing carcinogens, it is actually surprising to find most populations are cancer-free. This is because our bodies are equipped with systems to prevent cancer formation.

Cancer research over the last two decades has shown that cancer is a disease of the genome.(2) Changes in the DNA, called mutations, disrupt the regular cellular networks that control a state of delicate balance. People are continuously exposed to varying amounts of chemicals that have been shown to cause mutations in the genome which may lead to cancer formation. Exposure to harmful chemicals can occur due to being in an environment where these agents are present in the food, air or water, and also due to our own metabolism which may produce these chemicals. It has been estimated that exposure to environmental chemical carcinogens may contribute significantly to the formation of the majority of human cancers.(3)

Even though some of the mutations caused by these agents hit cancer-critical genes, cancer does not immediately develop. Furthermore, cancer is mostly seen in old age, when many mutations have accumulated in the genome. The reason why we are protected from developing cancer, even though our DNA is under numerous types of attacks everyday, is that our cells are equipped with several lines of defense against cancer formation. These built-in defenses include DNA damage repair systems, external and internal controls of cell division rate, and the programmed death of cells. All of these defenses have been given to our cells in order to protect us from getting cancer. If we were not to have these defenses, cancer would be a daily occurrence for every one.

It is possible to say that a cell’s first defense against cancer is similar to the regular maintenance of a car. One has to replace the brake pads, change the oil, etc., so that the aging of the parts will not cause failure that may lead to an accident. Similarly, chemical carcinogens from environmental pollution, ultraviolet rays from the sun, radiation from various sources, etc. all cause multiple types of damage in the DNA molecule. Therefore, our cells and genome need maintenance as well. This function is carried out by groups of proteins called DNA repair complexes. DNA repair mechanisms have been designed to correct the DNA damage before it can lead to inheritable mutations.(4)

If the DNA damage repair systems are intact, most of the damages to the genome are dealt with before they can cause problems. We observe the extent of attacks that can damage the DNA on our genome in many types of cancer where the DNA repair mechanisms are known to have been inactivated. In these cancer cells, mutations accumulate at a very fast rate, leading to more aberrant behavior. Also, individuals with defective DNA repair systems are more susceptible to developing various types of cancer.(4,5) Therefore, the first line of defense given to our cells against cancer is the ability to check and correct the integrity of our genome.

Every cell type in our body has been designed to proliferate at a certain rate that is suitable for the function of those cells. For example, neurons or muscle cells almost never divide after reaching adulthood, whereas the epithelial cells lining the interior of the intestines or under the skin divide at a fast rate continuously throughout our lives. The rate of division of a cell is mainly controlled by extra-cellular cues, i.e. a normal cell doesn’t grow or divide unless it receives growth and proliferation signals from neighboring cells.

There is a safe rate at which a cell must divide – just as a car needs to be driven at a safe speed. The requirement of cells for external stimuli in order to grow and divide is like the car’s need for someone to step on the gas pedal in order to accelerate. Normal cells cannot grow without control as neighboring cells produce growth signals when they are necessary and stop producing them in a regulated manner. A good example of the control of cell proliferation rate is seen in the wound healing process. When there is a cut in the skin, the cells adjacent to the wound are stimulated to divide rapidly by signals given from the injured cells; they divide and close the wound as soon as possible. However, when there are no wounds, there is no signal to divide and the skin cells only divide at a very slow rate, just enough to replace dying cells; this is a much slower process than wound healing. Cancer cells, on the other hand, are known to produce their own growth signals and proliferate abnormally fast and in an uncontrolled manner.(6) Therefore, the environmental control of cell division is an important barrier against cancer formation.

Cancer cells cannot divide uncontrollably unless they are independent of the external stimuli to divide. However, cancer cells can produce their own growth and proliferation signals, so they are free from external constraints. But even then, all is not yet lost. This situation of uncontrolled and rapid cellular proliferation is like a car in which the accelerator has become jammed– the car accelerates continuously and an accident is impending. In this situation the way to prevent too much speed is to step on the brake of the car. Similarly, in a cell, there are a set of genes called tumor-suppressor genes, which are responsible for stopping cell division upon excessive growth stimuli.(7) These genes act like brakes in cell division and prevent further progression into a malignant state. In many cancers,(8) it has been shown that these genes have been inactivated. If the brakes of the car are functional, you can safely bring your car to a stop and fix the problem that caused the accelerator to jam. Similarly, if a cell starts to divide too rapidly, it can stop dividing and repair the damage that caused the uncontrolled growth. Therefore, tumor suppressor genes represent a third line of defense.

If all the previous safety valves fail, there is one more defense to cancer. A situation in which a cell with harmful mutations promotes its own proliferation and cannot abort the division process is similar to one where the accelerator of the car is jammed and the brakes don’t work. In this case, in order to prevent greater damage, one can choose to hit a wall or a tree to stop the car– this will total the car, but will prevent further damage to others. Similarly, if a cell begins to grow uncontrollably and can’t slow down its rate of division, a process called apoptosis, or programmed cell death is initiated. In apoptosis, the cellular DNA and cellular compartments, like lysozomes, Endoplasmic Reticulum, and Golgi are degraded, and the cell shrinks in size. In the end, the cell dies and is absorbed by neighboring normal tissue. Therefore, the programmed death of an aberrantly behaving cell is another way that the body is protected from cancer. As expected, in cancer cells defects in this last line of defense are observed as well.(9)

These four mechanisms, i.e. DNA repair, external/ internal cell division suppression, and programmed cell death, are only the ones that we are aware of at this time. In addition to these, there are multiple levels of other redundant safety checks. All these safety features work without our knowledge or will. Findings from cancer research show that the design of cells was carried out so intelligently that even the carcinogenic environment which we produce today was accounted for within the genes of the very first human being.

Notes

1. Cancer Statistics 2006. 2006, American Cancer Society.

2. Vogelstein, B. and K.W. Kinzler, “The multistep nature of cancer.” Trends Genet, 1993. 9(4): p. 138-41.

3. Wogan, G.N., et al., “Environmental and chemical carcinogenesis.” Semin Cancer Biol, 2004. 14(6): p. 473-86.

4. Dixon, K. and E. Kopras, “Genetic alterations and DNA repair in human carcinogenesis.” Semin Cancer Biol, 2004. 14(6): p. 441-8.

5. Jiricny, J., “The multifaceted mismatch-repair system.” Nat Rev Mol Cell Biol, 2006. 7(5): p. 335-46.

6. Brattain, M.G., et al., “Growth factor balance and tumor progression.” Curr Opin Oncol, 1994. 6(1): p. 77-81.

7. Hanahan, D. and R.A. Weinberg, “The hallmarks of cancer.” Cell, 2000. 100(1): p. 57-70.

8. Coleman, W.B. and G.J. Tsongalis, “Molecular mechanisms of human carcinogenesis.” Exs, 2006(96): p. 321-49.

9. Dlamini, Z., Z. Mbita, and T. Ledwaba, “Can targeting apoptosis resolve the cancer saga?” Future Oncol, 2005. 1(3): p. 339-49.

* How do we leave traces of ourselves everywhere we touch with hardly visible fingerprints?

* Methods used for fingerprint identification…

* The signature we always carry with us: Our fingerprints…

A little girl in the US was kidnapped in 1993. Finding an opportune moment to escape, the child fled to a nearby neighborhood. Based on the girl’s statement, the police arrested a suspect, who told them about the other perpetrators and the car used for the abduction.

Realizing that there was missing evidence, the defendants asked for evidence of the child’s fingerprints from the car, as she had testified that she was in the automobile for hours. Strangely enough, despite scanning the entire vehicle, the detectives only found the fingerprints of the defendants. The joy of the latter made the child and her parents afraid that they would be unable to prove her presence in the car.

Leaving the rest of the story to the end, we will now focus on the fingerprint screening process, which sheds light on the frustration of the criminal detectives who were unable to find the child’s fingerprints in the car.

Innately found in the DNA structure of each and every individual, fingerprints are actually formed in the early embryonic stage with the infinite knowledge and might of the Creator. No two fingerprints have ever been found to be identical in every detail, despite billions of comparisons. This miracle alludes to the omnipotence and omniscience of God. Fingerprints are never exactly alike, but unique for each individual, except identical twins. To achieve this requires the infinite knowledge of the One Who distinguishes the fingerprints of all the living and dead, as well as those who are to be born. The fingerprints of identical twins are identical because the same egg has been inseminated by the same sperm and has then split into two, and thus the two babies have exactly the same DNA structure.

As is well-known, fingerprint identification stands head and shoulders above all other human identification procedures as the most reliable means of identifying individuals worldwide. The Qur’an speaks of the revival of every human being in all their particularities down to their fingertips, thus drawing our attention to the uniqueness and distinctive features of the fingertips of each and every individual. Only if one perceives the Qur’an as being the Word of God can they avoid the great difficulty inherent in attempting to explain how the Qur’an is able to refer to this issue; at the time of the revelation, 14 centuries ago, this matter was not known, rather, it only became known in modern times:

Does the human think that We will never assemble his bones (to resurrect him)? Yes indeed, We are able to make complete his very fingertips. (Qiyamah 75:3-4)

Fingerprints are friction whirl formations on the skin of the fingertips that are perpendicular, circular, oval, or made up of patterns parallel to each other. To make impressions of the fingerprints, the fingertips are pressed first on an ink pad, and then on a card; the ink impressions on the card retain the shape of the whirls. The fingerprints collected from items of evidence from a crime are matched (or not) with the suspect’s fingerprints. The fingerprint database archived in this way is the most reliable way to conduct criminal record checks when needed.

But how are the impressions of the fingerprints retained on the objects that have been touched? Fingerprints are deposited by the natural secretions of the eccrine glands which are present in the skin of the fingertips. When we touch an object, natural sweat secretions are discharged from the glands at the fingertips and these secretions remain on the surface in the shape of the whirls.

Fingerprints of children

How is it, then, that the fingerprint impressions of the child in the story could not be found at the crime scene? 99% of the secretion produced from the glands is water. The remaining 1% is of fatty acids, ethers, amino acids, and salts. It has been found, in contrast to the fingerprints of adults, which include long carbon chains linked by ethers, that the fingerprints of children have mostly non-etherized, short chains of fatty acids. These short chains of fatty acids on the fingertips of children are volatile. Thus, the fingerprints of children evaporate in 24 hours, while those of adults remain for longer periods. For this reason, fingerprint detection should be done as soon as possible in crime scenes in which children are involved.

We normally cannot see the impression left by the whirls. Criminal detectives, however, use electronic, chemical, and physical processing techniques that permit the visualization of invisible or hidden latent print residue from natural secretions of the eccrine glands on the fingertips. They then take the photographs of the impression to compare with fingerprint impressions of suspects and those on the database.

Amazingly enough, something as simple as sweat-which we mistakenly think is composed of pure water-can be used to solve serious issues as needed, because our fingerprints, which are hardly visible, leave clear signs of our presence everywhere we touch. It is not difficult to understand, then, that nothing has been created to vanish for ever; just as we leave our fingerprints everywhere, at every moment we also leave our own images in different forms of action in the minds of others and they are recorded on the heavenly plates. By the way, if you think that the suspects in the child abduction case were able to get away with it, you are wrong! Though her fingerprints could not be found in the car, the relief of the suspects did not last long. A small fiber from her clothing was found in the car, thus proving them to be guilty.