A colonel from the Ministry of the Interior stated on national television — on the night of February 27, 2026 — that Maritza Lugo was the main financier of a group of ten Cubans living in the United States who were allegedly planning to bring weapons into the island by sea.

Aboard a speedboat, those Cubans had been shot two days earlier in Cuban territorial waters north of Villa Clara. Four of them died instantly and six were taken to medical facilities. Not much else is known about how the confrontation occurred. On March 4, the regime’s Prosecutor’s Office charged the surviving crew members with terrorism; that same day one of the wounded men, Roberto Álvarez, died, the Ministry of the Interior reported a day later.

Speaking to journalist Mario Penton on Martí Noticias, Maritza said that the accusations made against her by the regime in Havana were infamous. She said she was not responsible for training or financing the group of ten Cubans intercepted by the coast guard.

But who is Maritza Lugo?

For many people, this is probably the first time they have heard her name; they may wonder about the story of this Cuban woman who was publicly accused of terrorism by the regime’s enforcers. Others have known very well who Maritza Lugo is for quite some time.

Screenshot from the Cuban TV program accusing Maritza.

I spoke with Maritza two years ago, in 2024. One evening, after she finished her chores, we talked about her opposition activity in Cuba, her family, the punishments she endured, her years in prison, and her exile.

Maritza’s testimony is one of many that make up the history of Cuban political dissent, so often buried and belittled by the State. Her story is one of induced suffering, of bodily experiences of pain and anguish that were constantly moderated and conditioned by the Cuban regime. When I asked her in 2024 how she would describe herself, one of the first things she said was: “I am a woman who has suffered tremendously.”

Social suffering seriously damages subjectivity. Maritza is a wounded woman. That does not mean she has not resisted or rebuilt herself in the best way she could; that she has not risen from the darkness that a prison cell casts over the soul and conscience; that she has not stared into the void in order to find other ways to fill it.

From somewhere in the United States, she continues to think about and do what she believes is right for Cuba, like almost all exiles and like almost all former political prisoners who manage to escape the country.

This is her testimony. It has been carefully edited, but without altering the rhythm or arguments of the conversation.

***

My name is Maritza Lugo, former political prisoner. Considered a prisoner of conscience by Amnesty International.

I am a Cuban country woman who has dedicated her life to defending the human rights of our people. I have suffered imprisonment, torture, and every kind of abuse for confronting the Castro-communist dictatorship. I am a simple person. I did not go to university because they did not allow me to. They wanted to force me to study nursing, and I wanted to be a veterinarian.

They cut my opportunities short because from a very young age I refused to join the ranks of the Castro regime. They ruined my family. They destroyed everything. I am an exile.

I was born in Santa Maria del Rosario, in Havana province, in 1963. When I was born, the diabolical Revolution had already triumphed. My family was humble, rural. From a young age I realized that what existed in Cuba was not what I wanted for my country, for my people, for my family, because I saw a lot of abuse, misery, and discrimination.

When I was in pre-university school, in the 1980s, I saw how my classmates (families) who were leaving the country or wanted to emigrate were mistreated; those were the times of the Mariel exodus, and they were beaten and stoned. I defended them because I believed that was a crime, a great abuse. I confronted teachers and many people at the school. Because I practiced martial arts, they respected me a lot.

Screenshot / Documentary Manto Negro (2004), by Eduardo Palmer.

I didn’t defend those young people because at that time I was fighting against the government, but because I was fighting against injustice. Without realizing it, I began to stand out as a young anti-communist because I did not approve of or support certain actions of the regime.

One day, State Security officers came to recruit me at the school where I practiced sports; they wanted me to work for them. I told them no: “I don’t like military life, I don’t like the system, I don’t want to be part of any repression.” My refusal ended up hurting me a lot because afterward they did not allow me to go on to university.

Since I was a child, I also saw my grandfather hiding at night to listen to foreign radio stations. I noticed and thought: “This is like a big prison because my grandfather has to listen to the radio in secret.” From that moment on I developed a natural rebelliousness; I had been born with that Revolution and did not know what freedom was, did not know what democracy was.

***

I married quite young. The father of my daughters, Rafael Ibarra Roque, began working in a human rights organization, and that is where our struggle began. We gathered around the “Frank Pais” November 30 Democratic Party and tried to build that organization. From then on, what began to happen to us was horrible. Constant searches of our home, surveillance, and they ended up arresting Rafael; he was sentenced to 20 years in prison for crimes against State Security. Later, I myself would serve five years in prison.

The party was founded in 1991. At first I was like a kind of secretary, taking notes at meetings. We carried out civic activities; we never committed acts of violence or anything like that. But for the regime, if you were against the system, whatever you did you were already a terrorist, anti-communist, criminal. We even tried to legalize the organization, and of course it was denied.

We tried to organize people so they would have an alternative different from the Communist Party. We taught them that there were rights in the world worth fighting for, we spread the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and we tried to help people learn and become aware that it was necessary to struggle so that in the future they could have what people anywhere else in the world have. But every time we met, they would come and arrest us. For the regime, meeting was a serious crime.

When Rafael was arrested in 1994, I decided, so that so much sacrifice would not be lost, to continue with the Party. Then came more detentions, house arrests, and confinement in punishment cells.

Rafael was always a very good man, a church man, a good father, a good son. When he was detained, he spent about six months under investigation at State Security headquarters. Later, without any proof of the crime he was accused of, he was sentenced by conviction*. To sentence someone by conviction means that the regime is convinced the person committed the act and therefore does not need proof.

***

When Rafael was sentenced, we already had our two daughters. The youngest does not remember her father free. She felt that she had no father because she only saw him from time to time; he felt like a stranger to her. Even after coming into exile, she continued to feel very strange with him. Those are blows that prisoners also suffer. It is very hard for your children barely to know you.

***

I was kept several times in isolation cells, torture cells. My family would go ask about me and they would say I was under investigation; months would pass and they would not sentence me. They moved me from one prison or investigation center to another. For example, they would put me in Cien y Aldabó and keep me there for months, then take me out and bring me to Villa Marista.

Eventually they sentenced me twice. They accused me of supposedly “inciting criminal acts”; they sent me to prison for that charge and for “bribery.” The officers said I had bribed a guard in a prison. I had gone to visit a political prisoner who had a 20-year sentence and had no family; I pretended to be his wife. He would give me reports about what was happening inside the prison. Then they discovered a tape recorder. It’s true that I brought a recorder into the prison so prisoners could give me information, but at the trial they said I had bribed a guard to bring it in, which was a lie.

I was in Manto Negro prison [the women’s prison of western Cuba], which is on the outskirts of Havana. Imagine that: the father of my daughters serving 20 years and me imprisoned as well. My daughters were practically alone, with family, but one time with one relative and another time with another, and with the difficult situation in Cuba. It was not easy at all.

***

When I entered Manto Negro for the first time, I said: “Either I go to heaven or I go home. I have no reason to be in prison.” I told the guard: “I have not committed any crime, I have no reason to be here. It’s incredible, I haven’t done anything wrong; I have simply fought for the rights of Cubans, but I haven’t killed anyone, I haven’t committed any offense.” What I did was go on a hunger strike. I did not know that many years earlier other former political prisoners had carried out great hunger strikes in Cuba. I decided to do it as an act of rebellion to show the whole world that I had no reason to be imprisoned, that I had committed no crime.

Screenshot / Vilaplana Films.