The shock of a shooting will cut deeply - but if anywhere can find hope in the face of despair, Providence can

"Most of us live off hope" - the text of a colourful mural, painted on a wall on Hope Street, Providence.

On most days, the neighbourhood around Brown University feels like a place of quiet optimism, swimming against the negative tide.

The shock of a shooting, that has claimed two lives and left eight others critically wounded, will cut deeply here.

Violence feels not just intrusive but incompatible with the spirit of a place that is governed by thought, not threat.

When the university president said "this is a day we hoped would never come", she spoke for the whole town.

Providence, Rhode Island, is a place I know well. My daughter, her husband and their two little girls live there.

It is a college town with a college vibe, the compact campus priding itself on openness - architecturally, intellectually and emotionally.

They rehearse "shelter-in-place" scenarios, as every university does, but they are not experienced at living behind locked doors.

Rhode Island, the smallest state, has one of the lowest gun-death rates in America, zero mass shooting events in 2024.

Earlier this year, the state banned the sale and manufacture of assault weapons, but it didn't include those already owned.

Even in a Democratic, liberal state like Rhode Island, they are struggling to find a solution to America's gun problem.

The age-old constitutional right to bear arms continues to trump the most human of all rights - the right to life.

This is a community that assumes safety, not because it is naïve, but because it has grown accustomed to trust.

College Hill rises in gentle brick and ivy, its narrow streets winding past houses with verandas designed for long conversations.

They take place in hushed tones right now, but if anywhere can find its way out of despair, Providence can.

On the historic street along its east side and in the college on the corner, most people live off hope.