“THEY CALLED HER A CHILD, BUT SHE FOUGHT LIKE A GUARDIAN.” — 12-YEAR-OLD MAYA FIGHTS FOR LIFE AFTER SHIELDING HER CLASSMATES FROM THE UNTHINKABLE.

In the quiet mountain town of Tumbler Ridge, British Columbia—a remote community of just over 2,000 souls nestled amid the Rockies—February 10, 2026, began as an ordinary Tuesday. Students shuffled into classes at Tumbler Ridge Secondary School, laughing in hallways, trading snacks, dreaming of weekend hockey games or weekend hikes. By mid-afternoon, that ordinary day had shattered into one of Canada’s most devastating tragedies: a mass shooting that claimed eight lives, wounded more than two dozen others, and left an entire nation grappling with grief and disbelief.

At the heart of the horror stands 12-year-old Maya Gebala (also referred to in some early reports as Maya Edmonds, using her mother’s surname), a Grade 7 student described by family as outgoing, spirited, and fiercely protective of those she loves. When chaos erupted in the school’s library around 2:20 p.m., Maya didn’t freeze. She didn’t hide. Witnesses and survivor accounts paint a picture of extraordinary bravery: the young girl rushing toward the massive wooden doors of the library, desperately trying to secure the lock as gunfire echoed through the corridors just inches away. The lock was broken—perhaps long before that fateful day—but Maya’s split-second act of defiance bought precious seconds for her classmates to scatter, dive under tables, or flee to safety. In those frantic moments, she became a guardian, a shield, a hero in the body of a child.

The cost was unimaginable. Maya was struck multiple times—reports confirm at least three gunshot wounds to the head and neck. She collapsed amid the terror, blood staining the library floor where books once offered escape. First responders airlifted her to BC Children’s Hospital in Vancouver, where she underwent hours of grueling emergency surgery. As of mid-February 2026, she remains in “extreme critical” condition, fighting for every breath in intensive care. Doctors describe her injuries as catastrophic—bullets lodged in her brain, fragments scattered, swelling that doctors battle daily. Yet small signs of hope flicker: slight movements on her left side, tiny independent breaths, eye flickers that bring tears to her family’s eyes.

Her mother, Cia Edmonds, has become the voice of both anguish and unyielding faith. In a verified GoFundMe update that has raised hundreds of thousands for medical costs and family support, Cia wrote: “Today started as any other. Now, however, my 12-year-old daughter is fighting for life while they try to repair the damage from gunshot wounds to the head.” In interviews with CBC and other outlets, Cia and Maya’s father, David Gebala, have shared raw glimpses into their vigil: sitting bedside, holding hands that once gripped hockey sticks, whispering encouragement to a girl they call their “Maya moon.” “She’s progressing a little bit each day,” Cia posted in one update. “The swelling is going down… but there is still a bullet in her. There are shards in her brain. She still cannot breathe on her own.” The words land like blows—yet threaded through them is fierce maternal conviction: Maya will pull through.

Amid the heartbreak, a detail from the crime scene has ignited speculation and deepened the mystery. Authorities have not officially confirmed it, but early witness statements and leaked reports suggest an item was found clutched tightly in Maya’s hand as paramedics reached her: a small object that hints she may have sensed danger long before the first shot rang out. Some describe it as a note, a warning, perhaps a phone or a personal token that carried significance. Police remain tight-lipped during the ongoing investigation, but the detail has fueled online discussions and added layers to an already incomprehensible tragedy. Did Maya know something was wrong? Was she trying to alert others even as she fought to bar the door? These questions hang unanswered, amplifying the sense of a child who carried more awareness—and more courage—than any 12-year-old should ever need.

The shooter was Jesse Van Rootselaar, an 18-year-old former student at the school who had dropped out years earlier. Police identified Van Rootselaar—born biologically male and having transitioned approximately six years prior—as the perpetrator. Before arriving at the school, Van Rootselaar fatally shot their mother, Jennifer Jacobs (39), and 11-year-old half-brother Emmett Jacobs at their home. At the school, the rampage unfolded primarily in the library and a stairwell. Five students (aged 12–13) and one education assistant perished there; Van Rootselaar then died by suicide as officers closed in. The total death toll reached eight victims plus the suspect.

Tumbler Ridge Secondary, a modest red-brick building serving grades 7–12, had never prepared for such violence. Canada’s strict gun laws make school shootings extraordinarily rare; this event ranks among the deadliest in the nation’s modern history. The community—built around coal mining, outdoor recreation, and tight-knit bonds—has been shattered. Makeshift memorials of flowers, hockey sticks, and children’s drawings line the streets. The public library stays open as a gathering place for grief-stricken families seeking normalcy away from media glare. Prime Minister visits, federal leaders offer condolences, but words feel inadequate against such loss.

Survivors speak in hushed tones of the terror. One classmate, Courtney, told CBC she had left the building shortly before the shooting began. “Maya Gebala and all the other kids… I’m really praying she’s going to pull through,” she said, voice cracking. Parents of victims like Kylie Smith, Ticaria Lampert, and Abel Mwansa share memories of artistic dreamers, aspiring scientists, kind souls who thought of others first. The pain is collective: in a town where everyone knows every face, every loss feels personal.

Maya’s story cuts deepest because of her age and her actions. At 12, she loved ice hockey, sports, laughter with friends. Her aunt described her as “outgoing and full of life.” Yet in crisis, she embodied something timeless: the instinct to protect. Witnesses credit her attempt to lock the door with saving lives—seconds that allowed others to hide or escape. “She tried to be a hero,” one report noted. “Now she exists in the shadows between life and death where prayers rule more than medicine.”

The nation watches, prays, donates. The GoFundMe for Maya has surpassed hundreds of thousands, funding airlifts, specialists, and the long rehabilitation ahead—if she survives. Cia Edmonds has expressed compassion even for the shooter’s family, urging against politicization or hatred. “We are all hurting,” she said in one interview. “Support Tumbler Ridge. Support each other.”

As February 18, 2026, dawns, Maya remains in critical condition, her small body battling against overwhelming odds. Doctors monitor every flicker, every breath. Her family clings to hope: the swelling recedes slightly, limbs twitch, eyes move. “Still a long road for my Maya moon,” Cia wrote. But in the face of unimaginable evil, a child’s courage shines brightest.

Maya Gebala didn’t run from danger—she ran toward it. They called her a child, but she fought like a guardian. Now Canada holds its breath, willing a miracle for the girl who shielded her classmates with her own body. Prayers rise from coast to coast: Come back, Maya. The world needs your light.