Creative Writing Response
“Encountering conflict changes one’s values.”

Friday afternoon, finally. Barely 4pm and she’d already snuggled down into the warmth of her bed, exhausted, miserable. Relieved that she didn’t have to face school again for a couple of days, the stares, the giggles, the shoves in the corridor. The relentless whispering and snide remarks.
Pathetic bullies, she thought bitterly. That’s all they are.
But despite her brave words, her eyes still smarted and she ached with the knowledge that there was nothing she could do. She hated it, the injustice of the way those girls treated her, treated others too, and she wanted to be brave. But she could never stand up to them. They could exile her completely, spread more rumours about her. What if she ended up with no friends, a social disaster, a freak? Her eyes stung as she struggled within herself. Better to stay quiet. Better to keep her head down, ignore them, wait for it to end. The injustice of the situation bruised her to her core, but she could never face losing the little popularity she had.
She sunk down into her pillow and blissful sleep washed over her, easing her aching heart.

A playful breeze danced around her and Gran as they walked together down by the pond. Gran was small and impossibly old, but she was sturdy, with a thick French accent and a thousand wrinkles. She was currently recounting her recent trip to the hospital, dismissing her heart palpitations as nothing serious, nothing wrong.
“That’s your problem,” the girl said to Gran with a laugh, “you think you’re tougher than you really are.”
Gran shook her head, banging her walking stick along the ground with each step. “Not me, my dear!” she countered. “Once you have lived through war like me, you are tough enough for anything.”
Gran always rambled on about the war. The girl had never absorbed any of it before. The impossible claims and stories, told in the rolling accent, the broken English. But this time, it caught her attention. She looked over at Gran’s weather-beaten face. “What… what did you do in the war?” she queried tentatively.
Gran snorted loudly. “What did I not do! I was female fighter in the Resistance. I was spy, and I was soldier to fight against the Germans. I have seen the things you have not never seen.”
“It can’t have been that bad,” teased the girl, poking Gran in the ribs.
But Gran looked at her, shaking her head. Her eyes were sad, doused in memory. “No. You do not understand. I had seen the Germans beating the Jewish women and the children. They shoot the men, and I had seen a woman covered in gas and set on fire for helping the Jews. They tear my beautiful France apart, they spit on us like dogs. And the next morning, I am having to wait in line to buy the bread and the milk from them, just for feeding my family. I am having to give my money to those awful men.”
Gran’s brow was furrowed and she was still shaking her head, clutching her walking stick with trembling hands. The girl looked at her, shocked into silence. She gazed at Gran with eyes that suddenly saw the stories behind the weathered face.
“I would rather I have been tortured than surrender to the Germans,” Gran muttered. “But I am having to feed my children.”
“But you joined the Resistance. You fought back,” said the girl quietly.
Gran looked at her and smiled gently. “Yes,” she murmured. “I fought back.”

As Mum bustled in the kitchen, the girl sat down at the stool and leant her chin in her palms. “Gran was telling me about the war,” she said, watching Mum wipe the bench. “I had no idea she was such a fighter.”
Mum looked up and smiled fondly. “She certainly was. Her whole life, even before the war, she was a tower of strength. Never let anything stop her.”
The girl shook her head, still in bewilderment. “It’s just hard to imagine. I don’t get it. She’s seen so much and she never backed down. Conflict like that could just… I dunno. Break someone.”
Mum frowned thoughtfully, leant against the counter. “It certainly breaks some people. But I think they’re the kind who want to break, rather than face any kind of punishment. Mum always valued strength and courage, and she never gave in to anyone, even the Germans. I guess difficult situations like that don’t change those kind of values. They make them stronger.”
The girl felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of her own weakness. Her own desire to be brave. She looked at Mum and had a thought.
“What about Grandpa?” she asked. “What happened to him?”
Mum’s face clouded over. “I don’t remember him. He left us and Mum to join the Germans: saved his own hide. Mum never spoke highly of him after that, to say the least. Said he always valued social privileges over his own family, that she should’ve seen it coming. Always a weak man, your Gran said. I guess the weak stay weak.” Her face became angry. “I’m ashamed to be his daughter, honestly. His name is mud to me now.”
The girl stayed silent as Mum resumed cleaning. Her mind churned. She thought of Gran, her unrelenting resilience and positivity that inspired so many others, and helped defeat the Germans. She thought of the Grandpa she’d never met, sacrificing his family for the sake of self-preservation, forever to live with a tainted name. The hero and the coward, both creating a lasting impact with their actions, in such vastly different ways. And, lastly, she thought of herself. The weak stay weak. Mum thought people never change during hardship. But could the weak really never become the strong? She was young, and she hadn’t even discovered her own self, but she thought perhaps they could.

Monday morning, again. The school corridors teamed with girls in uniform, standing in huddles. As she walked past a group of them, they stared, whispered, giggled. But she wasn’t going to keep her head down. She wasn’t going to let the weak stay the weak. Not this time.

1044 words