The video was posted on Sept. 21, the day marked by huge rallies at Rizal Park, Edsa and elsewhere protesting the large-scale corruption in flood control projects and calling for the accountability of crooked contractors and state officials.

It shows a man wearing a red shirt, with his right fist raised, and looking straight at the camera. He is shouting in Filipino that the costs of street food—kikiam, fishball, tokneneng, kwek-kwek, calamares—should be brought down. It elicited mostly laughing emojis and quickly went viral, and netizens christened the man as, variously, “fishball warrior,” “kwek-kwek boy,” and “tusok-tusok boy.”

But hours later, a photo of him wearing the same red shirt and showing him being dragged by a policeman in anti-riot gear circulated online. As news spread of the rioting that occurred on C.M. Recto in Manila, some netizens theorized that he was among those injured (or worse).

I searched diligently for information on the so-called “fishball warrior.” From online comments, I found out his name: Alvin Karingal. And that he lives not far from where I live.

I saw a longer version of the video in which he also shouts in Filipino: “Back to the provinces! Lower the price of rice, laptops, and cellphones!”

Another video that also went viral was that of Alvin’s mother, Mean Karingal, looking for him on the night of Sept. 21 and appealing for help to find him. Alvin, it turns out, has special needs. From then until Sept. 24, I searched for a way to track down his mother and get the latest news about him. I hoped he was okay.

Thankfully, in an update on her social media account, lawyer Maria Sol Taule of the rights group Karapatan said she was allowed to see those arrested and held by the police and that she had given Alvin his medication on Sept. 23.

Through our church organization, I found Jo, who is acquainted with Mean Karingal. On Sept. 24, Mean sent word to me that we could talk the next morning.

Mean’s account

Reaching Mean’s neighborhood from my house required a jeepney ride and a walk through a complicated web of one-meter-wide alleys that receive very little sunlight. The Karingal dwelling is a one-room affair measuring 15-20 square meters. Besides Mean and her only son Alvin, her mother and her aunt also live here.

I bring the good news that my friend, a mental health advocate, is willing to help Alvin with a steady supply of his medication. Mean is profusely grateful but her most pressing concern is that since Sept. 21, Alvin has not come home.

Here is Mean’s account to CoverStory, narrated in Filipino:

On Sept. 21 Mean was on her way home after serving at the evening Mass at the Sto. Nino de Pandacan parish church (she is a member of the Mother Butler Guild) when someone showed her the video of Alvin among those marching to Mendiola. She had been wondering all day where her son was, and looking at the video made her heart pound: “I had heard that violence had erupted and I was worried.”

Soon after she got home, a barangay tanod and a pedicab driver knocked on her door and told her that Alvin had been arrested by Manila police.

Immediately she headed to the headquarters of the Manila Police District (MPD) on United Nations Avenue. She got there around 8 p.m. and joined the crowd of people milling outside, many of them weeping. Frantic, she asked the first policeman she saw to check if her son was among those arrested. He replied that, so far, they only had minors aged 11 to 19 inside. He told her to wait for the truck that would bring in a second batch.

At 9 p.m. Mean was wracked by anxiety and could not stay still, so she inquired about Alvin from another policeman. He also replied that so far they only had minors in custody. (According to Attorney Taule, police records show that a total of 91 minors were arrested.)

Mean wondered why, with so many policemen around, they couldn’t list the names of those they had in custody, so that those looking for family members could have some answers, to allay their fears. She wondered why the police had no compassion for mothers.

While waiting, she heard whispers that some protesters had been shot dead, that some had been beaten up and taken to hospital.

She thought of looking for Alvin in the nearby hospitals instead of standing idly. She went by jeepney to the Philippine General Hospital, then Ospital ng Maynila, then San Lazaro Hospital, and finally Jose Reyes Medical Center. But she did not find him.

She got back at the MPD headquarters past midnight. Again, she asked the police about her son, but all she was told was that they were understaffed given the large volume of arrests, and thus could not yet provide answers to those looking for their children. The police said they were still waiting for word from their chief, and told the restless crowd to return at 10 a.m.

Mean arrived home at 3 a.m. on Sept. 22, exhausted but unable to sleep.

Same answer

Here is the rest of Mean’s account to CoverStory, narrated in Filipino:

She was back at 10 a.m. on the dot at the MPD headquarters and asked about her son. The answer was the same: Only minors in custody, no list yet.

She learned that some of those waiting patiently outside had not bothered to go home and instead found spots to sit and manage a catnap. She joined them and found out from whispers that the police had rounded up more than 200 persons.

By dusk of Sept. 22, she still had to receive word about Alvin. A church friend suggested that she check the precincts nearby. As she waited for the rain to subside, her phone rang. It was a member of the GMA News crew that she met the previous night, offering to take her in their van wherever she needed to go.

They first went to Precinct 10, where the officer in charge confirmed that Alvin had been taken there. She felt such huge relief. But she had to wait a little more: He had been taken to the MPD headquarters and would return shortly.

When Mean finally saw Alvin arrive at the precinct with police escorts, she was beyond relieved. She asked him how he was. “I’m OK, Ma,” he said.

Honor student

Alvin was born in 1992. He received his primary education at Celedonio Salvador Elementary School in Paco and attended high school at Erda Technical and Vocational School in Pandacan. He was a consistent honor student but by the end of his sophomore year, he got bored and dropped out. He eventually passed and earned an Alternative Learning System certificate. He enrolled in a computer science course at Informatics on Recto. He was even a scholar of then Manila Vice Mayor Isko Moreno. But at the end of the first semester, on the day of the final exams, he walked out of the class. When his mother asked him why, he simply said he had a headache and decided to go home.

“I realize now that I should have taken him to a medical professional then,” Mean said.

The single mother worked in Saipan for two years, but swiftly returned after she was told that Alvin had been neglecting his personal hygiene, sometimes not even bathing.

In 2018, Alvin was diagnosed with schizophrenia. The Department of Health said in 2023 that more than 3.6 million Filipinos are afflicted with mental disorders, and schizophrenia is among the most common.

Alvin’s last checkup at the National Center for Mental Health was in July. He has not been back because, Mean said, he doesn’t want to as he refuses to accept that he is ill. Updated prescriptions are required; otherwise, the Malasakit Center staff will not give her the medicines for free. She has since had to buy them, including one that Alvin is supposed to take twice daily.

Mean supports her mother, aunt, and son from income she makes selling such food items as biscuits and peanut butter.

Alvin is popular in their community. According to Jo, who lives in the adjacent barangay, she sometimes hears him talking about the latest national issues. He even ran independently as mayor of Manila in the last election, in which his opponents included Isko Moreno, now the incumbent, and Honey Lacuna. Upon his loss, he said he would run for barangay captain next.

He is regarded as a fixture in the neighborhood, of no cause for concern. In jest, they have come to call him “Mayor.”

At the inquest held on Thursday afternoon, Mean showed the fiscal Alvin’s ID as a person with disability, the doctor’s diagnosis, and prescriptions. She was told that these would be noted in his file.

According to Ricky Balicas Jr., RN, PhD, the founder of the Anxiety and Depression Support Group, people with special needs should not be held in the conditions that Alvin experienced.

The time period is also well beyond the allowed 36-hour window for cases to be brought against those arrested without a warrant, per the Revised Penal Code.

Still in custody

CoverStory’s conversation with Mean was interrupted by a phone call from her lawyer telling her to come to the MPD headquarters. She immediately got ready. It is only about 300 meters from her house. There is a mini-bus that passes by the MPD, for ₱15, but it is infrequent. Because she was in a hurry, she took a pedicab for ₱20 to the main road, then a tricycle to take her to the MPD, for ₱50.

As we got into the tricycle, the drivers standing around shouted that they were sending Alvin their regards. And that everyone should fight for the lowering of the prices of kwek kwek and other street food.

Release Alvin, they shouted: “Palabasin nyo na ‘yan!”

As of this writing, Alvin remains in custody. Mean is worried about his welfare. “I can’t help but think, maybe he or someone else held there will get angry and lose his temper for no reason,” she said in Filipino. “Of course, you know the behavior of people inside; we don’t know what could happen. I hope nothing untoward will occur. I just pray. I’m trying to calm myself.”

I thought that this story is unravelling like a film by Lino Brocka or Ishmael Bernal, except that it’s another Marcos in the seat of power this time. Mean and Alvin’s tiny dwelling is only about three kilometers away from Malacañang Palace, the home of the President—but they are worlds away.

Read more: Return the money, jail the crooks: Vigorous protests again animate the motherland