NAJAF —— Twenty-three-year-old Najaf resident Tahir al Sumbaly said it's been a long painful road for him and his family since his house was destroyed and two of his sisters were killed by U.S. troops here in August.

The Marines paid his mother, 45-year-old Haifa Hussain, $2,000 last month for the death of her 10 year old daughter Sabah in what they call "solatia" —— payment that is meant to settle the claim.

That left al Sumbaly and his mother to seek compensation for the rest.

"We got paid for first sister," he said matter-of-factly as he waited in line for another shot at payment Monday. "Now we want the other."

The Marines opened the solatia lines in an empty lot in downtown Najaf just after sunrise Monday, where al Sumbaly and his mother were already in line.

He dressed up for the occasion, donning his best sport coat and parting his hair just so.

"Of course, of course," he said of dressing up, "because I am stranger."

Were he another man, his confidence and pluck might have been squashed by the string of disappointments and confusion that began when the civil affairs soldier could not find his file.

But he bugged the Marines until they found a file for property damage. It was at least something to go on, he said, heading for the next Marine at the head of the next line.

"The problem is there is no file," said a frustrated staff sergeant when al Sumbaly got there. "You need to get in that line."

It went on for hours: this line, that line, come over here, go back over there. Wait a week, refile your claim, come back later.

"Problems, always problems," al Sumbaly said with an irritated sigh.

The troops tried to be patient with them and the thousand or so other claimants who arrived with hopes of payment Monday.

Much got lost in translation. Everything was done with much argument, as most things in Iraq seem to be.

But al Sumbaly and his mother never seemed to tire. They got back in line again and again.

"I find problems wherever I go," al Sumbaly said, heading back to a line he'd been in twice before.

At about noon, after hours of persistence, arguing and pushing everyone's patience, the two hard-nosed Najafis finally made it past the outer layers of the solatia process and into area where their claims could be judged.

But problems arose immediately when Haifa Hussain pulled out the death claim in the property claims line and demanded to see whoever was in charge.

Willie Metoyer, the cigar-chomping sergeant major who was dealing with claims, stepped in. His presence usually meant someone was on their way out.

Here, the roughneck Marine from Chicago met his motherly match in Iraq.

Common images of demure Middle Eastern women silenced under their black cloaks proved to be myth.

"She said 'you don't give me my rights for my daughter, then give me my rights for my house,'" a translator said to the Marine.

"OK," Metoyer replied.

"We will pay them for property damage but not for the death," he said, looking as if he was about to kick the two out of the compound. Haifa started to cry.

Noontime prayers echoed from a nearby mosque. Traffic honked and screeched in the distance. A light rain started to fall. Haifa continued to cry.

"OK!" Metoyer said as the Marine adjudicator signed off on $1,000 for the house. "OK? Then we go see the colonel."

The magic words! They were in. They had made it to the top of the heap.

They would finally see the colonel, who personally signed off on every death case —— or sent the claimants packing.

After Marine Cpl. Erosa Gaspar peeled off 10 crisp $100 bills and put them into al Sumbaly's hand, Metoyer took them to the colonel, where his translator Kasim Al Asadi recited their whole sad story.

With a simple signature by the colonel, it was over. Haslam gave them a slip for $2,000 dollars for the second daughter and told them to go.

"God bless you. God bless you," Haifa told the colonel through the translator.

Without smiling, and with the same earnest intensity that carried them through the morning, they got up and recrossed the lot, paying Gaspar the cashier a second visit.

He peeled off 20 more $100 bills into al Sumbaly's hand and wished them the best.

Before they walked off the lot together, al Sumbaly said he bore no grudge against the Americans.

"No, absolutely not," he said, with $3,000 hidden somewhere in his pockets.

"She says it was their destiny," he said, looking at his teary-eyed mother who was chugging along the trail at top speed in her flowing black abaya cloak.

"This is the life. Destiny," he said. "Everybody has one."

Without looking back, they continued down the trail to a crowded street and disappeared from sight.

Contact staff writer Darrin Mortenson at dmortenson@nctimes.com.