Three Heroes Stopped a Massacre—and San Diego Won't Forget

When two teenage shooters opened fire at the Islamic Center of San Diego on Monday, May 18, 2026, they encountered something their hatred didn’t account for: ordinary people willing to run toward danger to protect their community.

Amin Abdullah, a 51-year-old security guard, was the first to respond. He didn’t hesitate. The moment the shooters entered, Abdullah engaged them in gunfire, immediately radioing a lockdown alert that cleared the main prayer areas and classrooms. As many as 140 children were inside—just 15 feet away from where the gunfire erupted. Abdullah kept fighting even as he was wounded, forcing the attackers back outside into the parking lot. He died there, his final act buying everyone else time to escape.

What happened next reveals the deepest fabric of that community. Mansour Kaziha, known as Abu Ezz, had been part of the Islamic Center since its founding in the 1980s. For 40 years, he’d been the mosque’s backbone—handyman, cook, caretaker, and spiritual anchor. When gunfire erupted, the 78-year-old didn’t run. Neither did his neighbor, Nadir Awad, 57, who lived across the street and whose wife teaches at the center’s school. Both men rushed into the parking lot to confront the shooters. Kaziha managed to call 911 before they were killed. According to San Diego Police Chief Scott Wahl, their actions“delayed and distracted”the gunmen during those critical seconds when law enforcement was closing in—seconds that mattered.

“All three of our victims did not die in vain,”Wahl said.“Without distracting the attention, without delaying the actions of these two individuals, without question, there would have been many more fatalities.”

The three men are being remembered not as victims of senseless violence, but as martyrs and heroes who embodied everything beautiful about their faith and their community. Abdullah was described as someone who greeted every visitor with a warm smile and the Arabic greeting“as-salamu alaikum”—peace be upon you. Kaziha was the father figure everyone turned to when anything broke. Awad was simply there, every single day, part of the fabric of worship and community life. They weren’t trained tactical responders or professional security personnel. They were neighbors, guardians, and believers who chose to act when it mattered most.

The broader story—the investigation into two radicalized teenagers, the manifesto recovered, the search for answers about how this happened—will unfold over time. But in this moment, San Diego’s Muslim community is mourning not with despair alone, but with the knowledge that their three heroes chose love and protection over fear. That’s the real story here.