The Politics of fishball

By Noel Galon de Leon

In the history of the Philippines, there are moments that not only capture public attention but also open broader conversations about politics and the daily struggles of the poor. One such story is that of a humble street vendor. It was a Sunday, a day when he could have earned additional income, yet instead of setting up his cart to sell kwek-kwek, kikiam, tokneneng, fishball, and calamares, he chose to participate in a protest against corruption. He was not there to lead chants or carry a placard but simply to stand among the crowd, one small and weary voice demanding accountability.

But instead of being heard, he was mocked. Some people brushed him off as if he were just a paid protester. When someone asked what he was fighting for, his answer was simple but it went viral. He said, “bring down the price of fishball, bring down kwek-kwek, kikiam, tokneneng, and calamares.” Social media turned his words into a meme and people laughed, but behind the jokes there was a hard truth. Dressed in worn clothes and looking scruffy, he became an easy target for ridicule. Yet his message carried the weight of survival.

If you really understood what he meant, it was clear this wasn’t a joke. When he said “bring down the price of fishball,” he was pointing to inflation. When he said “bring down the price of kwek-kwek,” he was talking about the rising cost of basic goods. For his customers, who were ordinary people like him, even a one-peso increase in calamares had a big impact. That single peso meant some of them could no longer afford to buy.

The timing made his cry even more powerful. The protest, called the Trillion Peso March, happened on September 21, the anniversary of Martial Law. It was a day of remembrance and pain. In that moment, the vendor wasn’t talking about ideology or theory. He was talking about food. That was what made it radical. He pulled the conversation down from trillions and billions into the level of the stomach. What good is a billion-peso project if a father cannot buy fishball for his children?

Still, he was mocked by some members of the middle class and those with power. For them, the scene was funny, absurd, and not worth taking seriously. But that is the problem. Hunger and poverty are treated as jokes. Fishball was turned into a meme, but the message behind it was ignored. Poverty was reduced to “content” instead of being understood as a political crisis.

There was another layer that made the story heavier. The vendor and his backpack suddenly disappeared. His mother’s search for him turned the story from a punchline into a symbol of vulnerability. In the Philippines, protest has never been safe. Disappearances, intimidation, and ridicule are all part of silencing the poor. Whether a person literally vanishes or is simply forgotten in the rush of the news, the effect is the same. The voices of the poor are always at risk of being erased.

We also have to remember that food itself is a political battlefield. In 2025, the rice crisis and the food security emergency showed how fragile the state was. The prices of basic goods kept climbing, proving that the government could not even handle the most basic needs. The vendor was not asking for luxury. He was not asking for steak or imported goods. He was asking for something simple, that street food should stay affordable for everyone. If the government cannot even make sure of that, isn’t it already a clear sign of systemic failure?

In Filipino culture, food is not only survival but also a symbol. The fishball cart on the street corner is a democratic space. Students, vendors, tricycle drivers, and office workers all gather around the same sauce container. When prices rise, it is no longer about a few cents or pesos. It becomes about exclusion. It is as if society is saying that even in the humblest of places, the poor no longer belong.

While the administration proudly says the economy is growing and big projects are coming in, the contradiction becomes obvious. How can we say the nation is moving forward if people cannot even afford food? The gap between trillion peso projects and a ten peso fishball is the most honest political fracture of our time.

In the end, the cry for cheaper fishball was never absurd. It was not just a quirky anecdote. It was a deep political critique. It showed that corruption is not only about missing billions. It is also about the daily hunger of citizens. It reminded us that inflation is not abstract. It lives in the growling stomachs of the poor. Protest is not only about elite politics. It is also about the struggle of ordinary people to survive with dignity.

Laughter may try to wipe away its seriousness, but it cannot erase it. The voice of the vendor remains, louder than statistics and louder than propaganda. What good is a trillion peso march if a man cannot even afford a stick of fishball?