Shadows Over Tumbler Ridge: How a Transgender Teen’s Deadly Rampage Tore Through a Tiny Canadian Town and Sparked a National Reckoning

A blanket of fresh snow still covered the quiet streets of Tumbler Ridge when the first gunshots shattered the morning calm on February 10, 2026. In this remote British Columbia mining community of barely 2,000 residents—where everyone knows everyone’s name, kids walk to school unchaperoned, and the biggest drama is usually who won the weekend hockey game—eight lives were stolen in less than an hour. The perpetrator was not an outsider. She was Jesse Van Rootselaar, an 18-year-old transgender woman who had once sat in the very classrooms she later turned into killing fields.

Jesse began her rampage at home. According to RCMP statements and court documents filed the following day, she shot and killed her 39-year-old mother, Jennifer Strang, in the family’s modest split-level house on the edge of town. Jennifer was found slumped in the living room, still wearing the fuzzy pink robe she often wore while making breakfast. Lying nearby was Jennifer’s 11-year-old son from a previous relationship—Jesse’s much younger stepbrother—shot once in the chest and once in the head. Neighbors later recalled hearing what they thought were firecrackers or a car backfiring around 7:15 a.m. No one called police. In Tumbler Ridge, loud noises are common; the coal trains rumble through several times a day.

Armed with what investigators describe as a legally purchased semi-automatic rifle and additional ammunition, Jesse then drove the short distance to Tumbler Ridge Secondary School. She arrived just as classes were settling in for first period. Security footage—portions of which were later leaked and widely circulated—shows her walking calmly through the main entrance wearing a black hoodie, jeans, and a backpack. She carried the rifle slung over one shoulder like a student carrying a sports bag.

Inside the hallways the shooting began almost immediately. Jesse moved methodically from classroom to classroom on the east wing, targeting rooms filled mostly with Grade 7 and 8 students aged 12 and 13. Within twelve minutes she fired more than thirty rounds. Six children died at the scene; two more succumbed later in hospital despite heroic efforts by paramedics and volunteer firefighters who rushed in while the building was still “hot.” One teacher, a 39-year-old woman who had taught art and drama for fifteen years, was killed while trying to barricade her classroom door with a desk.

Among the youngest victims was Kylie Smith, twelve years old, described by her father Lance Younge in a tearful television interview as “the light of our entire family.” Kylie loved sketching anime characters, collecting colorful gel pens, and planning a future move to Toronto for art school. Her younger brother Ethan, ten, survived by crawling into a janitor’s closet and remaining silent for nearly forty minutes while footsteps and screams echoed outside. When police finally cleared the building, Ethan emerged covered in dust and someone else’s blood, clutching a broken pencil he had been using to draw on the closet wall.

Another child lost was Abel Mwansa, also twelve. Abel’s father posted a heartbreaking tribute on Facebook the evening of the shooting: “I raised him to respect elders, smile every day, never miss school, and be kind no matter what. He cried when I once suggested homeschooling during a bad flu season because he loved being with his friends so much.” Photos shared by the family show a beaming boy with braces, holding a soccer ball, standing proudly beside his report card covered in A’s and “Excellent” stickers.

The teacher who died shielding students has not been publicly named at the family’s request, but colleagues remember her as the kind of educator who kept a box of spare mittens, granola bars, and tampons in her desk for any child in need. She reportedly yelled “Run!” and threw herself between the shooter and a group of fleeing preteens. Several students credit her final act with saving their lives.

Jesse ended the attack by turning the rifle on herself in an empty science lab. She was pronounced dead at 8:47 a.m. By then the school was locked down, helicopters circled overhead, and parents were sprinting through snowdrifts toward the yellow police tape that ringed the building.

Tumbler Ridge is not a place accustomed to national headlines. The town was built in the early 1980s to house workers for the Quintette coal mine; when the mine closed in 2015 many families left, but those who stayed rebuilt a close-knit life around hockey rinks, community barbecues, and the breathtaking wilderness that surrounds them. The shooting has left scars deeper than the open-pit mines that once defined the economy.

Within hours of the news breaking, social media exploded with speculation, outrage, and conspiracy theories. Because Jesse had transitioned six years earlier—around age twelve—and had occasionally posted about her identity struggles on now-deleted accounts, certain corners of the internet immediately framed the massacre as “trans violence” or proof that gender-affirming care “creates monsters.” Others countered that mental-health support for transgender youth in rural Canada is woefully inadequate, pointing to long waitlists, stigma, and a lack of specialized therapists within hundreds of kilometers.

RCMP Commissioner Mike Duheme addressed the speculation head-on during a February 12 press conference in Prince George. “We are investigating every aspect of this individual’s life, including online activity, medical history, family dynamics, and access to firearms,” he said. “At this stage we have no evidence that gender identity was the primary motive. What we do see is a deeply troubled young person who planned and executed multiple murders.” Authorities confirmed Jesse legally purchased the rifle in late 2025 after passing the required Canadian Firearms Safety Course and background check. No criminal record existed prior to that morning.

Jennifer Strang’s final months emerge in fragments from friends and archived social-media posts. She had become increasingly vocal online about her concerns for Jesse’s mental state, writing in one 2025 post: “My kid is hurting so bad inside and nobody seems to know how to help. I’m trying everything but I’m scared I’m losing her.” Friends say Jennifer had sought emergency psychiatric care for Jesse twice in the previous year, only to be told there were no inpatient adolescent beds available north of Vancouver. One close friend, speaking anonymously to CBC, claimed Jennifer had recently discovered violent content on Jesse’s phone—graphic drawings and manifestos—but feared reporting it would lead to her daughter being institutionalized or estranged.

The community response has been both heart-wrenching and inspiring. On the evening of February 10, more than 800 people—nearly half the town—gathered in the community center parking lot for a candlelight vigil. Temperatures hovered at -18°C, yet no one left early. Mayor Darryl Krakowka stood on the back of a pickup truck and spoke through chattering teeth: “We are one big, hurting family tonight. If you need to cry, cry. If you need a hug, reach out. We carry this together.” Parents held photos of the lost children aloft; some wore the school’s blue-and-gold hockey jerseys in tribute.

Funeral preparations are underway for all eight victims. Kylie Smith’s service is scheduled for February 17 at the local United Church, where she once sang in the children’s choir. Abel Mwansa’s family has asked for soccer balls and school supplies to be donated in his memory rather than flowers. A GoFundMe for the surviving students and grieving families surpassed $1.2 million within forty-eight hours, a staggering sum for such a small town.

Politically, the shooting has reignited fierce debates. Prime Minister Justin Trudeau called for “urgent reflection on how we protect our children and support those in crisis,” while Conservative Leader Pierre Poilievre demanded an immediate review of youth mental-health funding in rural and northern regions. Gun-control advocates point out that Canada already has some of the strictest laws in the world—yet Jesse still obtained a restricted firearm. Others argue the real failure lies in the mental-health and child-welfare systems that allowed warning signs to go unheeded for years.

For the people of Tumbler Ridge, statistics and policy debates feel distant. What matters is the empty desk in homeroom, the hockey jersey that will never be worn again, the breakfast table with one less chair. Parents now walk their children to school even though the building remains closed indefinitely. Teachers who survived are attending trauma counseling in shifts. The mine has offered paid leave to any employee who needs time to grieve or support a hurting family.

Jesse Van Rootselaar’s name is rarely spoken aloud in town these days. When it is, the tone is a mixture of sorrow, bewilderment, and anger. “She was one of ours,” an elderly neighbor told a reporter off-camera. “We watched her grow up, saw the changes, saw her struggle. We failed her—and because we failed her, eight beautiful souls are gone.”

As snow continues to fall over the silent streets, Tumbler Ridge begins the long, painful work of healing. Candles still burn in windows along main street. Teddy bears and handwritten notes pile up outside the school gates. And in quiet kitchens across town, families hug their children a little tighter, whispering promises they hope they can keep: “You are safe. We will watch over you. We will never let this happen again.”

Yet everyone knows the promise is fragile. In a place where the mountains stand eternal and unchanging, safety no longer feels certain.