Growing up in the '60's and '70's, I remember a local barber, Bert McCulloch, and was always puzzled why some passed him in the street and refused to talk to him.
I found out, later, that he had been a conshie - because he was a Plymouth Brethren.
He was sent down the mines to work - and the mining community ostracised him as well. Apparently, his fellow workers would urinate on his lunch - or replace it with faeces. He was forced to take his lunch underground in a locked cash box.
Things only improved when he saved three trapped miners from a seam which was unstable, at the risk to his own life.
However, for decades after the war, Bert was referred to, in conversation, as 'the conshie'.
It took a certain amount of guts to stand by one's convictions in the face