Shot Five Times, Hero Praises Trump—Crowds Rally for Bondi Savior

Paul Riverbank, 1/9/2026Shot five times, Ahmed's heroism, humility, and hope unite communities across continents after tragedy.

Only a short time ago, Ahmed, originally from Syria and now a father rooted in Australia, faced a situation on Bondi Beach that nobody truly prepares for. It was chaotic. Bullets tore the air. Instead of ducking for cover, Ahmed ran straight toward the gunshots—a detail that stunned strangers and friends alike. Those moments, captured in jagged snatches by security cameras, show a man wrestling a gunman to the ground. Somewhere in the struggle, he took five bullets—somewhere, he managed to wrench the firearm away and aim it back. He did not pull the trigger.

In the confusion following that awful December 14 attack—one that began during a Jewish holiday celebration—tragedy outpaced even rumor. Police would later confirm: Sajid Akram and his son Naveed, their motives murky and their methods chilling, murdered fifteen people, including a child not yet eleven. Officers eventually stopped them, but not before the human toll was seared into the city’s memory.

As for Ahmed, lying in a hospital bed in Sydney, he was caught between exhaustion and the relentless restlessness trauma leaves behind. When asked about that moment—shot through, adrenaline fading—he didn’t linger on the violence. “I didn’t shoot him because I was doing it as humility, to stop him to kill more innocent human beings,” he explained, almost matter-of-factly. It’s a sentiment that carries the weight of both simplicity and complexity; Ahmed frames his decision not as heroism, but as duty. “My target was just to take the gun from him and to stop him from killing a human being, life, and not killing innocent people,” he told reporters, sometimes haltingly, still weak from his injuries.

That resolve resonated, perhaps because it contrasts so starkly with the chaos surrounding it. Back home, news of his actions traveled fast—and so did gestures of gratitude. Donations flooded in from every corner of Australia. There were phone calls, letters, visits, and, ultimately, more than $2.5 million raised to help Ahmed recover. In a world frequently divided by suspicion, people seemed almost desperate to rally around something as unambiguous as his courage.

Arriving in the United States under the watchful care of FBI agents, Ahmed appeared physically diminished but unbowed in spirit. He let slip his admiration for Donald Trump—“He is a hero of the world, of course. I love him. He’s a strong man.” It’s the sort of comment that, in another context, might have stayed private. Instead, it captured headlines, especially among Trump supporters quick to welcome him as an example of direct action against violence.

Later, in New York’s bustling Jewish enclaves, Ahmed was greeted not as a stranger but as kin. At the Colel Chabad awards, he sat among other honorees and grieving families, including those of a rabbi felled in the attack. The event, always somber but this time galvanized by fresh tragedy, placed Ahmed’s name alongside those remembered for bravery—or, in too many cases, for their loss.

He gave interviews on national television—CNN and CBS, among others—always careful to return to the value of life, not vengeance. Even as his body struggled to heal through surgeries and cross-continental flights, Ahmed repeated his hopes plainly online: “I kindly ask everyone to keep me in their prayers.” The reply? A groundswell of empathy, crossing borders, faiths, and backgrounds.

In D.C., he waits, unsure if he’ll meet Trump—a meeting he’s sought, though nothing official has taken shape. If it happens, it will be the continuation of an unlikely journey—a Syrian-Australian named Ahmed, hailed by many as a hero, confronting the very ideas of strength and mercy in places where such words rarely coexist.

Late one evening, asked if he ever thought about how close things came to spiraling further out of control, Ahmed offered a half-shrug: “My blood for my country, Australia and for human beings around the whole world, anywhere and any place.” It’s not just a headline; it’s a statement tougher and more lasting than any award.

His story—part action, part reflection—reminds us: heroism is rarely neat, and its aftermath is gauged as much by humility as by headlines. In Ahmed, thousands have found a symbol not just of bravery, but of enduring hope and, perhaps, the resilience we all want to believe lives in ordinary people everywhere.

Ahmed Al Ahmed arrived in New York in much the same way he’d left Sydney—nursing wounds, both visible and unseen, and quietly shouldering a story that, in a matter of days, grew to span hemispheres. His arm in a sling didn’t stop him pressing forward through the terminal; if anything, it seemed to underscore the intensity of his recent ordeal.Only a short time ago, Ahmed, originally from Syria and now a father rooted in Australia, faced a situation on Bondi Beach that nobody truly prepares for. It was chaotic. Bullets tore the air. Instead of ducking for cover, Ahmed ran straight toward the gunshots—a detail that stunned strangers and friends alike. Those moments, captured in jagged snatches by security cameras, show a man wrestling a gunman to the ground. Somewhere in the struggle, he took five bullets—somewhere, he managed to wrench the firearm away and aim it back. He did not pull the trigger.In the confusion following that awful December 14 attack—one that began during a Jewish holiday celebration—tragedy outpaced even rumor. Police would later confirm: Sajid Akram and his son Naveed, their motives murky and their methods chilling, murdered fifteen people, including a child not yet eleven. Officers eventually stopped them, but not before the human toll was seared into the city’s memory.As for Ahmed, lying in a hospital bed in Sydney, he was caught between exhaustion and the relentless restlessness trauma leaves behind. When asked about that moment—shot through, adrenaline fading—he didn’t linger on the violence. “I didn’t shoot him because I was doing it as humility, to stop him to kill more innocent human beings,” he explained, almost matter-of-factly. It’s a sentiment that carries the weight of both simplicity and complexity; Ahmed frames his decision not as heroism, but as duty. “My target was just to take the gun from him and to stop him from killing a human being, life, and not killing innocent people,” he told reporters, sometimes haltingly, still weak from his injuries.That resolve resonated, perhaps because it contrasts so starkly with the chaos surrounding it. Back home, news of his actions traveled fast—and so did gestures of gratitude. Donations flooded in from every corner of Australia. There were phone calls, letters, visits, and, ultimately, more than $2.5 million raised to help Ahmed recover. In a world frequently divided by suspicion, people seemed almost desperate to rally around something as unambiguous as his courage.Arriving in the United States under the watchful care of FBI agents, Ahmed appeared physically diminished but unbowed in spirit. He let slip his admiration for Donald Trump—“He is a hero of the world, of course. I love him. He’s a strong man.” It’s the sort of comment that, in another context, might have stayed private. Instead, it captured headlines, especially among Trump supporters quick to welcome him as an example of direct action against violence.Later, in New York’s bustling Jewish enclaves, Ahmed was greeted not as a stranger but as kin. At the Colel Chabad awards, he sat among other honorees and grieving families, including those of a rabbi felled in the attack. The event, always somber but this time galvanized by fresh tragedy, placed Ahmed’s name alongside those remembered for bravery—or, in too many cases, for their loss.He gave interviews on national television—CNN and CBS, among others—always careful to return to the value of life, not vengeance. Even as his body struggled to heal through surgeries and cross-continental flights, Ahmed repeated his hopes plainly online: “I kindly ask everyone to keep me in their prayers.” The reply? A groundswell of empathy, crossing borders, faiths, and backgrounds.In D.C., he waits, unsure if he’ll meet Trump—a meeting he’s sought, though nothing official has taken shape. If it happens, it will be the continuation of an unlikely journey—a Syrian-Australian named Ahmed, hailed by many as a hero, confronting the very ideas of strength and mercy in places where such words rarely coexist.Late one evening, asked if he ever thought about how close things came to spiraling further out of control, Ahmed offered a half-shrug: “My blood for my country, Australia and for human beings around the whole world, anywhere and any place.” It’s not just a headline; it’s a statement tougher and more lasting than any award.His story—part action, part reflection—reminds us: heroism is rarely neat, and its aftermath is gauged as much by humility as by headlines. In Ahmed, thousands have found a symbol not just of bravery, but of enduring hope and, perhaps, the resilience we all want to believe lives in ordinary people everywhere.