HOSTAGE

He reverted to business. "We will fight the Americans and the British until they leave Iraq, this is natural," he said. "When they leave, our fight will be over and we can rest." It was a simple equation, but where did my life fit into his calculations, I wanted to know. I dared not ask. Instead, I listened as he told me how simple it would be to check my credentials: "God willing, we will only hold you for one night," he said.

When he had gone I was again tied up, hands behind my back. I wanted to sleep but lay fidgeting -- less scared than sad at the thought that my family would suffer more than me.

On the second day came the hostage video. I was handed a script -- full of amusing grammatical errors -- demanding the withdrawal of British and American troops. I wanted to tell my captors it would make no difference, this absurd video, but I didn't. I couldn't see the point. If they already didn't know how futile it was, it would be futile to tell them.

Behind the man with the Sony camcorder, one of the mujaheddin stood and, like a ham director, motioned extravagantly for me to raise my voice, to inject more emotion, to throw myself into this new role that the world would be watching.

Afterward, my captors proudly showed me the footage. I felt okay. But how would my father, mother, brother and sister feel when this vision appeared on their TV screens, dropping them all into a purgatory until the final video of my grim demise? From that moment, I decided I would not think of my family again -- it was too painful and unhelpful.

The following morning I was loaded into the front seat of a car -- the same BMW I had been kidnapped in. Blindfolded and disguised in a shemaghs, I sat rigid as we bumped along, an angry sermon about infidel invaders playing on the radio. I understood snatches of the Arabic, and it was all depressingly familiar. I held my hands tightly in my lap to stop them from shaking, to stop myself from reaching for the door handle.

We stopped, and one of the fighters -- I knew him as Allawi -- led me into a steep-sided pit. Allowed to see, I felt sure I would be shot dead in this solitary part of Iraq. There was nowhere to run, and I was terrified yet also quietly glad I was going to get a bullet, rather than the butcher knife. A close-range shot to the head wouldn't hurt, I told myself.

Allawi, in balaclava, sweater and Adidas sweat pants, stood in front of me and suddenly started a vigorous aerobic routine. "Come on, come on!" he shouted, insisting I follow suit. "You cannot sit all day. That is what makes you sad!" We did jumping jacks; we ran on the spot; we stretched. Laughter rose inside me, a guffaw of relief. Two American helicopters flew overhead but apparently didn't see anything unusual in the two of us working up a healthy sweat beneath the bright afternoon sun.

As time drifted by I began to feel a bond with my captors. I was well fed on rice, chicken and discs of Iraqi bread, with glasses of scalding sweet tea -- more than I could eat. Although I was regularly tied up, it was always done with immaculate care, bordering on tenderness: "I'm sorry, Mr. Phil," they would say as they bound my wrist with cloth, or later handcuffs, "but you know we have to do this."

I joked with the men who held me hostage and swapped family stories. One night Allawi, my firm favorite of the group, softly suggested I become a Muslim. We talked some more, and he made a sudden earnest demand: "You must never forget your time with us! We will meet again in Iraq when things are better, God willing." He said some British and American soldiers were people "just like you and me" but were part of an invading army that must be fought. As I came to understand his point of view, I started to feel I was winning my captors over, clinging again to the glimmer of hope that they would let me go, someday.

It was always hard to sleep. I would listen to the dogs barking outside, to the occasional helicopters passing overhead. I played Johnny Cash prison songs in my mind. During the long, cold days I learned new Arabic words, writing in the exercise book my captors had given me. And then there was the permanent mental drafting of escape plans, some simple, some fanciful: I worked out who was the weakest guard, the slowest, the worst shot. Yet I became comfortable being a prisoner, and it was interesting to live among the mujaheddin. I hadn't yet reached the total desperation needed to risk all on a bid for freedom: I told myself each day that I would escape tomorrow, if things started looking worse.

Because always there was the nagging fear, an underlying threat of violence.