Anywhere else, this young man would be considered an unusual menace: He plays with guns, uses drugs, lives by extortion, and has little respect for authority unless it comes in the form of a bigger weapon. But in Somalia, Malaay is a professional bandit and the No. 2 in his gang. When asked about his job description, he smiles proudly and answers: ``Chief of Checkpoint.'' Malaay withdrew from an Islamic school and first took up the gun six years ago, when he was just 12 years old. ``All I know is the gun,'' he says. ``Even if I had finished Koranic school, I still need money. Education is useless when you must find your bread.'' A picture of Malaay's violent lifestyle may feed the stereotype that many Somalis are ruthless marauders. But a deeper look at his motivations and values also illustrates how nearly a decade of clan war has broken down traditional safety nets in Somalia. Thanks in part to the prevalence of modern weapons, the centuries-old nomadic ideals of family, and of establishing balance between war and peace, have deeply eroded. Now paramount is the need to eke out a living, using the gun as a tool. Skinny even by Somali standards, Malaay has yet to start shaving and could be taken for a young teen. But the language Malaay speaks is one of a gangland lifestyle that spurns parents for the close-knit ``family'' of the gang. Parents trying to retrieve children are often sent away empty-handed and at gunpoint. ``We are all equal, with the same idea of life,'' he says of his 18-member gang during a interview through an interpreter. ``We are not ashamed to be called moryan [bandits].'' That is not the view of Malaay's two older brothers, who work as armed escorts for businessmen. They get a regular salary, and often fight off robbers like their brother. But even their example has been spurned. ``We had a misunderstanding,'' says Malaay, looking down. For Malaay, life as a bandit boils down to sheer need. ``This is not good for me,'' he admits. ``It would be very easy for me to put my gun down, if I had the money to cover myself. I don't like being a bandit.'' Malaay ``works'' only every other day, in shifts. He shares his gun - an AK-47 assault rifle bought for $120 in Mogadishu's thriving weapons market - with another gang member. He takes public transportation to his checkpoint, and forces a tithe out of those who pass by. ``Everybody pays the money,'' he says. Refusal can result in the gang stealing a car. Malaay expresses some regret about what he does: ``If we could get better jobs, we would.'' Still, there are moments of pride. ``You know the checkpoint on the road out to the Balidogle airport?'' he asks with a grin. ``That's us!'' Sometimes the gang members deploy their four rocket-propelled grenades for a big job, such as looting a warehouse. Malaay has had many close calls. During an attempted hijacking of a United Nations food convoy, for example, his gang was fired upon by a large antiaircraft gun. Malaay escaped the bullets, but got caught in a grenade blast that scarred his legs. KEEPING him in this line of work are tough economic realities. A 1998 UN report notes the problem: ``State collapse and endemic conflict have shattered communal safety nets.... Young men with no access to education gravitate toward the militias....'' For Malaay, a good shift ``depends on how much you grab.'' In one day with the gun he may collect 200,000 Somali shillings, or $25. But costs are high. One of the top priorities for many gunmen is to ensure a daily supply of khat. A leaf that is a mild stimulant, khat is widely chewed here. ``Khat is the biggest expense of the day, and takes priority over everything'' - including his separated wife and baby son, for whom he feels responsible. When he has the money, he tries to give them 50,000 shillings a day. But khat alone costs 20,000 for a half bundle. He shops once a week for things ``like shampoo,'' he says, and pays 50,000 shillings a month for a rented room. And then there are business expenses: A clip of bullets runs to nearly a day's ``pay.'' During heavy fighting, clips empty in minutes. Malaay says he feels trapped in Somalia's cycle of violence and need. ``I hope in the future that I will leave my bad habits on the ground, and be a very good man - one of the legitimate people who work hard,'' he says. ``But now I'm not studying anything, except for the gun that I'm holding.''  