Jill Carroll's story | Part 1: The kidnapping

The first-person, multipart account of an Iraq war correspondent's 82-day ordeal at the hands of insurgents.

My chief captor had an idea about how to prod the U.S. government into action: another video.

But I would be portrayed differently this time.

I turned to the two guards sitting on cushions a few feet away and started to panic.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God, they're going to kill me, this is going to be it. I don't know when, but they're going to do it," I thought.

I crawled over to Abu Hassan, who seemed more grown-up and sympathetic. His 9-mm pistol was by his side, as usual.

"You're my brother, you're truly my brother," I said in Arabic. "Promise me you will use this gun to kill me by your own hand. I don't want that knife, I don't want the knife. Use the gun."

I started to cry hysterically. I'd been held captive by Iraqi insurgents for six weeks. They'd given me a new hijab, a new name (Aisha), and tried to convert me to Islam. They'd let me play with their children — and repeatedly accused me of working for the CIA.

At night I'd fall asleep and be free in my dreams. When I'd wake up, it felt as if I was kidnapped anew.

That particular morning I'd received a visit from Abu Nour, the most senior of my captors. As usual, I snapped my eyes to the ground to avoid seeing his face.

"We need to make a new video of you," he'd said in his high-pitched yet gravelly voice. "The last video showed you in good condition, and that made the government move slowly."

The British government had moved quickly, he'd said, after a video had shown hostage Margaret Hassan in bad condition.

Margaret Hassan! An Irish aid worker married to an Iraqi, she'd been seized in Baghdad in October 2004, while on her way to work. She was killed less than a month later.

After Abu Nour left, I sat and stared into the glowing metal of the propane heater, my knees drawn up under my red velveteen dish-dasha. I was completely terrified.

If it was going to happen, I wanted it to be quick. So I begged Abu Hassan.

"I don't want the knife!" I sobbed.

Neither Abu Hassan nor his fellow guard — the blubbery, adolescent Abu Qarrar — really knew what to do about my outburst.

"We're not going to kill you. Why? What is this?" Hassan said, sounding insincere.

"Abu Qarrar, you speak English. You have to tell my family that I love them and that I'm sorry," I implored.

I sat against the wall of a house whose location I didn't know, under a window to an outside I couldn't walk through, and cried.

Precautions fall short

In Baghdad, Jan. 7, 2006, was a sunny Saturday. For me it promised to be an easy day.

Not that my life in Baghdad was easy.

Freelance journalism is a tough business everywhere. But I didn't want to sit in a cubicle in the U.S. and write, as I had, about the Department of Agriculture food pyramid.

Here I was living my dream of being a foreign correspondent — even if that meant sometimes living in a hotel so seedy it was best to buy your bedsheets.

First up were routine interviews of Iraqi politicians trying to form a new government. Three weeks before, the country had chosen its first democratically elected permanent government. But Sunni politicians were dismayed at how few seats they'd won.

Later, I planned to leave my virus-ridden laptop (stashed in the trunk) with a friend of my interpreter, Alan Enwiya.

In our two years together, Alan and I had been threatened by militia members, mobbed after Friday prayers, and seen bullets rain down from passing police vehicles.

During long hours in traffic jams, Alan told me funny stories about his daughter and infant son. I teased him that I was a spy for his wife, Fairuz.

The first interview that morning was with Adnan al-Dulaimi, a Sunni politician. While there was a handful of what Western journalists considered no-go neighborhoods in Baghdad — his office wasn't in that category yet. But we had taken our normal security precautions. I was dressed, for example, in a black hijab that hid my hair and Western clothes. We'd been to Dulaimi's office several times without a problem. Our last trip had been two days earlier to set up this interview. In retrospect, that was a fatal mistake; we had given someone 48 hours to prepare for our return.

Adnan Abbas, The Christian Science Monitor's longtime driver — who had shared many of our harrowing experiences — dropped us off at Dulaimi's office 20 minutes earlier than the scheduled time of 10 a.m.

Inside, Dulaimi's aides steered us from the usual waiting room full of men drinking sweet tea, and into an adjoining room where we were alone. Alan and I noticed the strangeness of this move at the same moment.

"Well, it's better," Alan said. "You're a woman, and there are a lot of men in there."

The same aide who had made the appointment for us approached us a little after 10 a.m.

"Sorry, Dr. Dulaimi has a press conference right now," the aide said. "He can't talk to you. Can you come back at 12?"

I wondered why I hadn't heard about the press conference. We agreed to come back and stepped into the bright, sunny morning where Adnan was waiting for us.

Alan reminded me that we needed to call ahead to make sure our next interview was still on. He climbed into the front, and I handed him my phone from the back seat. He began shouting into the phone, trying to make himself heard over Baghdad's overloaded, spotty cellphone network.

Adnan had begun to pull away, but a large blue truck with red and yellow trim suddenly backed out of a driveway, blocking the road. Several men were standing around it, motioning to help it back out. But in an instant they turned, trained pistols on us and briskly approached the car.

Adnan hit the brakes, and he and Alan put their hands up. Private security details in Baghdad routinely brandish weapons to clear a path for their clients.

But the men didn't lower their weapons this time — and they kept advancing. The man closest to the car had his gun aimed right through the windshield at Adnan.

My eyes were glued to him. I was confused — why didn't he lower his pistol? Adnan and Alan opened their doors and began to get out of the car.

The gunmen ran at us. A whisper exploded from me into a scream, "No, no, NO!" as I tried to get out. The door closed on my right ankle as someone shoved me back in, pushing so hard that the right lens popped out of my glasses. I saw the last moment of Alan's life through the crack in the door.

Adnan was gone. A rotund man was in the driver's seat. Other men jumped in, sandwiching me between them. We sped away.

"Jihad! Jihad! Jihad!" my abductors shouted, excited and joyful. "Jihad! Jihad!"

Captors thank God

In the first minutes, my captors peppered me with questions in Arabic. I played dumb, fearful they would think I understood too much and kill me.

They quickly drove onto the highways of western Baghdad and the surrounding farmlands, going in circles, apparently to kill time. Their "success" was granted by God, they believed, and they issued thanks repeatedly.

"Allah Akbar" they said, "God is greatest."

"They're going to take me out into a field and kill me," I thought as we bumped down rural back roads. They seemed to read my thoughts, perplexed that I was afraid amidst their jubilation.

"Why you worried?" they asked in stilted English. "No, no, no, [this is] jihad! [We are] Iraqi, Iraqi mujahedeen! Why you worried?"

Sunni Muslim insurgents were — still are — the most active hostage takers in Iraq. Many were allied to Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the Jordanian who led al-Qaida in Iraq until he was killed by a U.S. airstrike June 7.

But the outside world didn't know much about these groups. Alan and I had been piecing together a clear picture of Iraq's Sunni community. Their tacit support for the insurgency allowed it to operate; understanding them was key to understanding the forces violently splitting the country.

Now I was to gain the insight we had so long sought. At such a price to Alan, I never have been so desperate for ignorance.

Hope from Oprah show

The room was small, with furniture that was fancy by Iraqi standards — two couches, an overstuffed chair covered in dark velvet with gold trim, a TV and satellite box.

Abu Rasha — a big man whom I would come to see as an organizer of my guards — lay down on one of the sofas. His wife and one of his children sat next to him on a chair.

Abu Rasha then handed me the remote.

"Whatever you want," he said.

How do you channel surf with the mujahedeen? Politics was out. News was out. Anything that might show even a flash of skin was out.

Finally, I found Channel 1 from Dubai, and Oprah was on. OK, good, Oprah, I thought. No naked women, no whatever, she's not in hijab, but it's OK.

The show was about people who had had really bad things happen to them, and had survived, and had hope. It had an impact on me. Oprah talked about how people get through things, and I thought, well, this is sort of prophetic, maybe.

I had been in captivity only a few hours. This house, big, with two stories, was the second place I'd been taken.

The first had been a tiny, three-room house on Baghdad's western outskirts. It was a poor place, built of cinder blocks. My captors gave me a new set of clothes, and I changed in the bathroom while the stern-faced woman of the house looked on. They took pains to tell me they wouldn't take the $100 in cash they'd found in my pockets.

"When you return to America, this with you," said one, waving the $100 bill. Who were these people? Kidnapping was justified, but taking money was not? And less than an hour after killing Alan to kidnap me, they seemed to be saying they eventually would let me go.

We then drove to the second house, apparently the home of one of the kidnappers, who'd given his name as Abu Rasha. They took me upstairs to the master bedroom.

Within a few minutes an interpreter arrived. They wanted to know my name, the name of my newspaper, my religion, how much my computer was worth, did it have a device to signal the government or military, if I or anyone in my family drank alcohol, how many American reporters were in Baghdad, if I knew reporters from other countries, and myriad other questions.

The interpreter then explained the situation.

"You are our sister. We have no problem with you. Our problem is with your government. We just need to keep you for some time. We want women freed from Abu Ghraib prison. Maybe four or five women. We want to ask your government for this," the interpreter said. (At the time, it was reported that 10 Iraqi women were among 14,000 Iraqis being held by coalition forces on suspicion of insurgent activity.)

"You are to stay in this room. And this window, don't put one hand on this window," he continued. "I have a place underground. It is very dark and small, and cold, and if you put one hand on this window, we will put you there. Some of my friends said we should put you there, but I said, 'No, she is a woman.' Women are very important in Islam."

After that, they fed me from a platter of chicken and rice that would have been fit for an honored guest. And I was invited downstairs to watch television with Abu Rasha's family. That's when we'd watched Oprah. Afterward, Abu Rasha asked me what I liked to eat for breakfast, and what time I had it.

It sounds hospitable. But in my mind, every second was a test — the choice of food, TV program, everything — and they would kill me if I gave the wrong answer.

Eventually I told them I wanted to sleep, and they led me upstairs. I lay in bed, on the far side away from the window. The clock was ticking loudly, and then it started to rain. I love rain, and I thought, oh, maybe this is a good sign.

But I'd been performing all day, holding in my emotions, and with darkness they came flooding back.

"Oh, my God, they killed Alan," I thought. A tide of emotion was racing toward me. It was going to drown me or send me flinging myself against the walls in anger and screams. I had to stop it.

"I cannot grieve now," I told myself. "I cannot do this now. I have to put it away."

I looked up into the darkness of the ceiling toward Alan. "I'm sorry," I told him. "I'll take care of you later." I felt disloyal. I thought that to survive, I had to push aside the memory of his brutal murder. But I knew I'd have to come to terms with the guilt I felt for his death.

As night fell, I wondered if my friends had heard. I knew Alan's family, his wife, Fairuz, was realizing the worst by now.

"Well, now they must know," I thought. "It's dark. He hasn't come home. They must be screaming. Fairuz must be screaming."