He stood against any form of hate
On a Monday morning in San Diego, three men — a security guard, a mosque elder, and a neighbor — placed themselves between two armed teenagers and approximately 140 children sheltering inside the Islamic Center of California. Amin Abdullah, Mansour Kaziha, and Nadir Awad did not survive the encounter, but the children did. Their deaths, now under federal investigation as a hate crime, remind us that heroism is rarely announced in advance — it is simply what some people do when the moment arrives.
- Two armed teenagers entered one of San Diego's largest mosques on a Monday morning, triggering a lockdown with roughly 140 children inside — some sheltering within fifteen feet of where the gunmen moved.
- Security guard Amin Abdullah immediately confronted the shooters, drove them back toward the parking lot under fire, and radioed a lockdown warning before being killed — his actions buying critical minutes for those inside.
- When the gunmen re-entered and found empty rooms, mosque elder Mansour Kaziha and neighbor Nadir Awad met them in the parking lot; Kaziha managed a 911 call before both men were fatally shot.
- The two teenage suspects were later found dead from apparent self-inflicted wounds, with over thirty firearms and a crossbow recovered from locations tied to them — weapons registered to a suspect's parents.
- The FBI and local police are investigating the attack as a hate crime, with one suspect having left a manifesto described only as reflecting 'a broad hatred towards a lot of folks.'
On a Monday morning in San Diego, two teenage gunmen entered the Islamic Center of California's largest mosque. What followed was not the massacre it might have been — because three men chose to stand in the way.
Amin Abdullah, a security guard who had worked at the mosque for nearly a decade, was the first to act. He confronted the shooters, drove them back toward the parking lot while exchanging fire, and radioed a lockdown warning to everyone inside. He was killed in the car park, but his intervention kept the gunmen from reaching the deeper rooms where roughly 140 children had taken shelter — some as close as fifteen feet from where the attackers had been. San Diego's police chief later said Abdullah's actions, without question, delayed and distracted the gunmen long enough to save those lives.
When the shooters re-entered the building and found it emptied, they made their way back outside. There, mosque elder Mansour Kaziha and neighbor Nadir Awad confronted them. Kaziha, seventy-eight years old and known to all as Abu Ezz, managed to call 911 before both men were shot dead. Awad, fifty-seven, was an Uber driver whose wife taught at the mosque's school. The two suspects fled and were later found dead, apparently from self-inflicted wounds. More than thirty firearms and a crossbow were recovered from locations connected to them — registered to the parents of one of the teenagers.
Abdullah had converted to Islam around thirty years ago and was remembered by friends as someone who greeted every visitor with a smile and the words as-salamu alaikum — peace be upon you. He had a wife and eight children. His daughter Hawaa, speaking through tears at a news conference, described a man so devoted to his duty that he would skip meals while on shift. She asked people of all faiths to honor him through kindness and unity. 'He stood against any form of hate,' she said.
All three men were deeply woven into the life of a community that now struggles to picture the mosque without them. The FBI and local police are investigating the attack as a hate crime; one suspect left a manifesto that investigators say reflected 'a broad hatred towards a lot of folks.' What is already clear is that three ordinary men made an extraordinary choice — and that choice meant 140 children went home.
On a Monday morning in San Diego, two teenage gunmen entered the Islamic Center of California's largest mosque with weapons drawn. What might have become a catastrophe unfolded instead as a story of three men who chose to stand in the way. By the time police arrived, Amin Abdullah, Mansour Kaziha, and Nadir Awad were dead. So were the shooters. And roughly 140 children who had been inside the building remained alive.
Abdullah, who had worked as a security guard at the mosque for about a decade, was the first to act. When the two shooters, aged 17 and 18, entered the building, he confronted them immediately and opened fire, forcing them back toward the parking lot. As he continued to engage them, he radioed a lockdown warning to everyone inside. The gunmen wounded him but he kept firing, driving them outside. They shot him dead in the car park. San Diego Police Chief Scott Wahl would later say that Abdullah's actions, without question, delayed and distracted the attackers long enough to prevent them from reaching the deeper areas of the mosque where the children had taken shelter—some within fifteen feet of where the suspects had been.
When the shooters re-entered the building and found the rooms emptied by lockdown, they eventually made their way back outside again. This time, Kaziha and Awad confronted them in the parking lot. Kaziha, a respected elder at the mosque, managed to call 911 before both men were fatally shot. Awad, an Uber driver and neighbor whose wife taught at the mosque's school, died alongside him.
The two suspects fled by car and were found dead a short time later, apparently from self-inflicted gunshot wounds. Police later recovered more than thirty firearms and a crossbow from locations connected to the teenagers. The weapons were registered to the parents of one of the suspects.
Abdullah had been raised Christian and discovered Islam after high school, converting around thirty years ago. Friends remembered him as someone who greeted every visitor to the mosque with a smile and the traditional Arabic greeting—as-salamu alaikum, peace be upon you. He had a wife and eight children. Khalid Alexander, who converted to Islam around the same time as Abdullah, said his friend had chosen security work as his dream job, fully aware of the dangers. They had discussed the rising anti-Muslim, anti-Black, and anti-immigrant sentiment that sometimes arrived at the mosque in the form of hate mail. Abdullah knew what he was walking into each day.
Kaziha was known as Abu Ezz and was seventy-eight years old. Awad was fifty-seven. All three men were woven into the fabric of a community that now struggles to imagine the mosque without them. The Islamic Center serves thousands of people from across the region, particularly during major holidays. It offers daily prayers, provides meals during Ramadan, hosts a school for Arabic and Islamic studies, and operates a store. It is a gathering place, a home.
At a news conference, Abdullah's daughter Hawaa offered a tearful tribute to her father, describing a man devoted to his family and so dedicated to his work that he would skip meals while on duty. She called on people of all faiths to honor him by choosing kindness and unity. "He stood against any form of hate," she said.
The FBI and local police are investigating the attack as a hate crime. One of the gunmen left behind a manifesto, though investigators have declined to characterize it in detail. FBI special agent Mark Remily said only that the suspects "definitely had a broad hatred towards a lot of folks." Whether the mosque was the specific target remains under investigation. What is clear is that three men made a choice in the moments when it mattered most, and that choice saved the lives of children they may never have known.
Notable Quotes
His actions, without a doubt, delayed, distracted and ultimately deterred those two individuals from gaining access to the greater areas of the mosque where as many as 140 kids were within 15 feet of these suspects.— San Diego Police Chief Scott Wahl
He stood against any form of hate.— Hawaa Abdullah, daughter of Amin Abdullah
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made Abdullah decide to confront them immediately rather than evacuate?
He was a security guard. That was his job, his responsibility. But friends say it was more than duty—he'd converted to Islam thirty years ago and had built his whole life around protecting that community. He knew the risks.
Did he have any warning they were coming?
No. The security cameras show they just walked in. Abdullah happened to be there, and he reacted. He grabbed his radio, told everyone to lock down, and then he engaged them. That warning gave people time to move the children deeper into the building.
Why did Kaziha and Awad go back out to confront them?
The shooters had re-entered and searched the emptied rooms. When they came back outside, Kaziha and Awad were there. Kaziha managed to call 911 before they were shot. It's not clear if they were trying to stop them or just happened to be in their path, but either way, they died doing it.
The children were fifteen feet away at some point?
Yes. That's how close the gunmen got to the areas where about 140 kids were sheltering. Abdullah's initial confrontation pushed them back before they could penetrate deeper. Without that delay, the outcome could have been entirely different.
What do we know about the shooters' motive?
They left a manifesto, but the FBI won't characterize it. What they will say is the suspects had broad hatred—toward many groups. Police recovered over thirty guns from locations connected to them, all registered to one suspect's parents. It's being investigated as a hate crime, but the full picture isn't public yet.
How is the community processing this?
With grief and a kind of stunned recognition. These weren't distant figures—Abdullah greeted people at the door every day. Kaziha was an elder. Awad was a neighbor. The mosque is a gathering place, a home. People are struggling to imagine it without them.