Officially, there is only one type of media in Cuba: state-owned. Journalists writing elsewhere —in foreign publications and underground magazines or on the Internet— have long lived in a sort of gray zone, often tolerated but usually harassed. In the 1990's, though, the state temporarily relaxed its grip as it sought to open its economy and survive the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Márquez was introduced to the Cuban opposition by her husband, Osvaldo Alfonso Valdés, an aspiring politician. ''He taught me the word 'dissident,''' she says. Like many independent journalists, she came to reject the ossified polemics that have become the signature of Castro and his hard-line foes in the United States. ''I don't like communism,'' she says. ''But nor do I like extremist thinking of any ideology.'' Instead, she explored the gritty side of Cuban life ignored by the official press.

In short, tart articles —mostly for CubaNet, a nonprofit, nonpartisan news site based in Florida that Cuba's government brands ''counterrevolutionary'' and blocks— Márquez has detailed the unacknowledged glass ceiling facing female workers, the failure of a machismo-filled culture to acknowledge a rise in HIV rates connected to gay prostitution and the disillusionment of Cuba's young. In person, Márquez is upbeat and prone to joke. But her work shows a sharper edge. In an article about Cuba's decrepit bus system, she writes, ''There are trips that last 43 years,'' alluding to Castro's long reign. ''And even if they move a bit, they lead nowhere.''

Such critiques and jabs were heard often from opposition writers. But on March 18, 2003, Castro cracked down. With the world fixated on the impending invasion of Iraq, which would take place the next day, the Cuban government rounded up almost 80 dissidents. Márquez herself wasn't arrested, probably because of her sex. [Only one of the 75 eventually sentenced was a woman.] In the ensuing show trials, only one dissident apparently ''confessed'' or expressed remorse: Márquez's husband.

''In our intent to undertake a peaceful struggle, we have responded in one way or another to the interests of the United States,'' Alfonso said during his trial, parts of which were broadcast on national television. The ''confession'' was a boon to the Cuban government, and Havana's foreign minister cited it in a news conference. Following his statement, Alfonso received an 18-year sentence in lieu of the typical 20, and unlike the others, he was sent to a jail close to Havana.

The seemingly subtle self-denunciation left many reeling, including Márquez. ''I felt disillusioned,'' she says. ''I always had an image of Osvaldo as a strong and valiant man. After more than a year, I still don't really understand what happened.''

Alfonso himself now feels ashamed of his statement, Márquez says. ''Whenever I visit him, he's always sad, and he cries. I think he feels culpable'' —a position Márquez herself seems to endorse. ''My compassion for him has been restrained. It's been very difficult.'' [In the fall of 2003, Alfonso tried to commit suicide, and he is now on a cocktail of antidepressants].

While on trial, Alfonso asked Márquez to stop working. A few months later, their 7-year-old son, Cristian, said much the same when Márquez told him his father was in jail. ''Mommy, don't you speak evil of Fidel,'' Márquez recalls Cristian telling her. ''They will take you away, too. And I will be crying a lot.''

Before the arrests, Márquez contributed to one of Cuba's best samizdat publications, De Cuba —''Of Cuba.'' After the crackdown claimed much of the staff, she tried to keep the publication alive. With help from another nonincarcerated editor, Tania Quintero, they cobbled together an issue that focused on the prisoners. Márquez and Quintero kept the original editors listed on the magazine's masthead, putting next to their names ''[imprisoned].''

Despite such successes, pressure mounted on Márquez. Alfonso's confession and his slightly lighter sentence caused anger and distrust among some dissidents. ''Some people suspected Claudia was working for state security or at least had been weakened to the point where she was helping them,'' says Sauro Gonzalez, a researcher at the Committee to Protect Journalists, who adds that the suspicions don't appear to have any basis in fact. ''The state managed to drive a wedge between the families.''

Soon after De Cuba was printed in October 2003, Márquez was brought in for questioning by state security officers and threatened with imprisonment. ''They asked me if I loved my 6-year-old son,'' she once recalled.

Márquez was shaken. Since the interrogation, she has lowered her profile. She is still writing, but not as often. ''Sometimes I feel sad and I don't want to look at my computer,'' she says. In March, Márquez applied to immigrate to the United States. ''I have always said I would never leave my country,'' she says. ''But now I am skeptical about the future. I don't think the government will ever accept the dissidents.''

Recently, when she was visiting her husband in prison, a security agent brought Márquez into another room for questioning. He pointed out that agents are still following her work. ''I don't know what they want,'' says Márquez, who needs the government's permission to leave. ''But I am so afraid. And I don't know what to do.''

* For The New York Times /  November 7, 2004
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