Jill Carroll's kidnapping | Part 1

The first part of Jill Carroll's narrative on her kidnapping in Iraq. Very well done. To those "journamalists" hiding in the green zone and getting their reports from official sources this is how journalism should be.
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Part 1: The kidnapping

..Then we drove to the second house, which appeared to be 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, and an interrogation began.
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, did I know reporters from other countries, and myriad other questions.
Then, in a slightly gravelly voice, the interpreter 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 slam."
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 was part of this pattern - they all seemed concerned that I think they were good, or at least that they were treating me well.
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.

Continue:
Thanks to Rox Populi for the reminder