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When Jim Caruso heard the news of the school shooting in Tumbler Ridge, he knew immediately he needed to be there. He packed his bags and boarded a plane for the community 700 miles away. “I wanted to be here to bring some level of comfort,” he said. “I wanted to hug people, pray for them and, most importantly, to cry with them.”
On Tuesday, a shooter opened fire in the town’s secondary school, killing eight people, most of them young children. It was one of the deadliest attacks in Canada’s history and has left the country reeling.
But it has also elicited a wave of support for the British Columbia town from across Canada, in the form of civic resources, grief and trauma counsellors, therapy animals, food and donations. Hotels are fully booked, pushing new arrivals to towns more than a hour’s drive away.
Caruso, who retired four years ago, worked as a paramedic, pastor and police chaplain – a career at the nexus of grief, tragedy and compassion that he said made him suited to the moment.
“It’s hard but I’m wired for this. I spent my life with first responders. And so I know the police, firefighters, paramedics – they’re just wrecked. They’re destroyed,” he said. “But so are the people here in Tumbler Ridge. And how they’re cared for right now is so important.”
On Friday, police said the shooter had been, “for lack of a better term, hunting”. Armed with two guns, “they were prepared and engaging anybody and everybody they could come in contact with”.
Investigators have identified the suspect as Jesse Van Rootselaar. Police said Van Rootselaar is a transgender woman.
The prime minister, Mark Carney, who travelled to Tumbler Ridge with other federal party leaders in a show of national unity, praised the heroism of first responders and the courage of students and teachers who had been trapped in the school as the shooter stalked the halls..
“Standing here together in your home, we wanted you to hear that Canadians are with you and we will always be with you,” Carney said. “Whatever portion of your sadness that Canadians can bear to help you ease your heavy load, we will gladly do so.”
Caruso said the grim details of the attack would add a layer to how counsellors and support workers would help victims and the broader community navigate the unpredictable and turbulent nature of grief.
“It’s not like there was a car accident. It’s not like it’s a terminal illness. This was murder. Someone did this in cold blood. And as a result, something innocent was stolen,” he said. “I’ve learned over the years that life will go on. But it will also take a piece of you.”
Caruso and his wife intend to spend the next months in town to help residents rebuild emotionally. “It’s hard to not to ask what if I had been here earlier, if we could have been here to bring compassion,” he said. “But there is hope. It might not feel like there is for the parents who lost their kids, or the victims that are gone. But there’s hope for those that remain. That’s what funerals are all about. It’s not for the person that’s gone. It’s for the people around you.”
Speaking at a vigil, Carney said Tumbler Ridge was defined by people who cared for each other. “You held each other – as you’re holding each other right now. This is grace. It’s what we do for each other; it’s what we receive from each other,” he said. “Open hearts when the world falls apart.”
That the tragedy occurred in a community of less than 2,500 people means first responders knew the victims and not a single person was untouched by loss. In a part of the province known as the Peace region, when the residents of Tumbler Ridge hurt, the pain is felt deeply nearby.
“I just wanted to be part of the solution and to do whatever I could to help people,” said Milo MacDonald, the city manager of nearby Fort St John, who had recently arrived in Tumbler Ridge with colleagues. “There’s an awful lot of people right now that want to help. They want to reduce suffering.”
Neighbouring communities are sending large-scale resources and small gestures that have an outsized impact. MacDonald said lifeguards and skating technicians had been sent down from his community to ensure places such as the community swimming pool and ice rink could remain open for children.
MacDonald, who worked as a police officer for 25 years, including relief stints in Tumbler Ridge, said he was devastated by the horror inflicted on a group of “genuinely good” people.
“I experienced tragedies as a police officer, but never anything close to this magnitude,” he said. “And I’ll admit it’s incredibly hard because my sons are a similar age. My hope is that these kinds of things make us focus on our humanity and our common ground. In moments like this you need a confirmation of humanity.”
While the droves of people arriving from outside the community have overwhelmed the town’s infrastructure, their presence is nonetheless welcomed by residents.
Lynn Way, 82, who has lived in the town for more than three decades, said: “When I lost my son not too long ago, I wanted to just shut the world out. I wanted to just die. He didn’t want a service but I had a get-together and people came from all over. People I didn’t even know. I knew then how much my son was loved. And they wanted to come and let me know. That’s what’s happening in this town right now.”
Way said there was a “heaviness” in the air when she stepped outside, but Tumbler Ridge was still a safe town. “You can still leave your door unlocked. That hasn’t changed. This town will get through it, but those poor people that lost their children and their loved ones, it’s going to take longer. That’s a fact of life. All we can do is just say: ‘Hey, if you need something, I’m here for you.’”
In recent days, a logo with mountain peaks and a red heart has appeared with the words Tumbler Ridge Strong, a nod to the collective resilience needed in the town and a confidence that it exists within each resident.
“What feels so hard right now is that none of this is real,” Way said. “It won’t be real until the first funeral. Then you see the grief you never thought possible. When you lose someone close to you, it takes a year before you can really live with it. And you do. But you don’t ever forget. Ever.”
