When I Went to the Lashkar-e-Taiba Headquarters in Pakistan’s Muridke

I managed to breach the high-security gates of Muridke — now damaged by missiles — twice, writes Harinder Baweja.

While referencing Muridke, the government said that that was where Ajmal Kasab and David Coleman Headley, the Pakistan-born American terrorist, who videographed various sites in Mumbai, had been trained.

(Photo: Aroop Mishra/The Quint)

Two weeks after 10 gun-wielding terrorists brought Mumbai, India’s financial capital, to its knees in 2008, I was dialling the headquarters of the Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT) in Pakistan’s Muridke, a short drive out of the city of Lahore.

By then, it was clear that the LeT was behind the attacks that killed 166 and maimed large numbers of people. By then, Ajmal Kasab, the lone terrorist to be captured alive, had begun talking to his interrogators. He told them about his training in Muridke and about his interactions with Hafiz Saeed, the Lashkar founder, a proscribed terrorist.

When the Indian government held a media briefing, on 7 May, to list out the nine targets it had aimed its precision missiles against—two weeks after the deadly killing of 26 tourists in the picturesque meadow in Pahalgam—my mind raced back in time. Markaz Taiba, Muridke was amongst the targets that India said had been significantly damaged under an operation codenamed, Operation Sindoor.

Col Sofiya Qureshi and Wing Commander Vyomika Singh provided details of the strikes conducted by the Indian Armed Forces. While referencing Muridke, the government said that that was where Kasab and David Coleman Headley, the Pakistan-born American terrorist, who videographed various sites in Mumbai, had been trained.

Dialling Lashkar Headquarters: Days After 26/11

I managed to breach the high-security gates of Muridke—now damaged by missiles—not once, but twice.

My first visit was within a fortnight of the audacious 26/11 attacks, and I remain the only Indian journalist to have been escorted through the complex, which is now being flashed across television screens.

The headquarters was apparently struck four times and visuals of damaged hallways with gaping holes have been released by the government.

In 2008, I had begun calling the Lashkar headquarters even before I boarded the flight to Lahore. I was surprised that I, then the editor in charge of investigations at Tehelka, had been granted a visa when it was clear that Pakistan had trained and armed the terrorists that struck Mumbai.

I managed to breach the high-security gates of Muridke—now damaged by missiles—not once, but twice.

(Photo: Aaj Tak)

I visited Muridke for a second time, in 2010, when I was working with Headlines Today news channel (now renamed, India Today). Both trips were important: I was allowed inside the headquarters even though the Lashkar and the Jamaat-ud-Dawah, the new name the LeT had resurfaced as, were both banned by the United Nations Security Council.

I was allowed inside the headquarters even though the Lashkar was banned by the United Nations Security Council.

(Photo: Aaj Tak)

The trip to Pakistan in 2008 was a challenging assignment and I wrote a report for Tehelka magazine—as I did two years later for Headlines Today—but there are several details that I later researched. The new research is a part of an upcoming book, They will Shoot you, Madam: My Life Through Conflict. Roli Books, my publisher, gave me permission to quote a few passages from the book which is slated to be released in September.

Between Ministers and Militants

In a chapter, titled The Masters of Muridke, I have written about how I gained access to the headquarters which was being guarded by Kalashnikov-wielding gunmen of the LeT.

By 2010, when I made my second trip, the government of Pakistan had claimed that it had taken control of the complex, but the gates opened only after the Lashkar minders, accompanying me, ordered that we be allowed in. The "takeover" was a farce that I witnessed, firsthand.

Publicity is vital oxygen for terror groups and in 2008, I was desperately dialling Abdullah Muntazir, information secretary of LeT, based in Lahore.

He was not taking calls from an Indian number even though he was the person in charge of speaking to the international media. He had already guided a group of foreign journalists through the complex, a few days before I got my visa, to make the point that the complex at Muridke was actually a charitable organisation. The LeT was operating under the charitable alias, Jamaat-ud-Dawa.

“Was I being unreasonable in thinking that the Lashkar—which by then had changed its name to Jamaat-ud-Dawa—would open its gates to an 'enemy' journalist?” I asked in my book.

After reaching Lahore, I called Muntazir from a local number. I called persistently, till he finally answered and I introduced myself.

"What’s your name again?" he asked.

"Shammy Baweja," I replied. I did not say Harinder, a name Pakistanis have always had problems pronouncing. My email and social media profiles are all based on my pet name, a trend most Punjabi families have adhered to for long.

Unknown to me, Muntazir was Googling Shammy Baweja.

"There is no such byline," he said.

"Try Harinder Baweja," I urged, giving him the spelling.

"You have already lied. How do I trust you, you are an Indian after all," he said, castigating me."Let me see. I don’t know if we can allow an Indian into Muridke," he said, hanging up.

The next day I went to have lunch with a powerful former minister in the Nawaz Sharif government. I had met him several times over the years, since my work often took me to Pakistan. I told him that I wanted to go to Muridke and was surprised when he said: "I’ll try and help out. They owe me one. They have often called for help when their associates have been picked up by the police.

The nexus between the state and non-state actors was clear. A former minister was conceding the connection. He picked up his phone and called someone. Even before I finished lunch with him, a group of men were waiting in the anteroom.

The same Muntazir, who had refused to take my calls, was sitting in the minister’s waiting room. There was a second person named Khalid Waleed. He turned out to be the son-in-law of Hafiz Saeed, one of India’s most wanted terrorists who masterminded 26/11.

We fixed a time for the next morning. When I asked them about the logistics, Muntazir was acerbic: "You want us to hire a car for you? Please book a cab. We will pick you up from the hotel gate," he said. He was not happy with the task at hand but could not refuse the minister.

Lashkar HQ: A Guided Tour Through Denial

The next morning, I, an Indian journalist, was following several cars belonging to the Lashkar, or the "Army of the pure" as they like to call themselves, to Muridke. Several armed men stood guard at the gates of a "charitable organisation." It was not a complex you could just drive into. It was a fortress, but Khalid Waleed, Hafiz Saeed’s son-in-law had full access to it.

"Welcome to the headquarters of the Lashkar-e-Taiba," said Muntazir, looking me straight in the eye before continuing , "You are in an educational complex and the Jamaat-ud-Dawa is a charitable organisation, but you are from India so it will take you time to change your mind."

"I was within the precincts of a complex where Kasab said he had been trained. The name may have been changed to Jamaat-ud-Dawa, but it was known worldwide to be the headquarters of the LeT. I could barely hold my breath," I have written in the book.

The guided tour took me through a neatly laid out 60-bed hospital, schools for boys and girls, a madrasa, a mosque, an extravagantly large swimming pool, and a guest house. The hospital beds were empty. There were no doctors or nurses in sight. The white hospital sheets looked unused. I saw a few uniformed school children; young girls with white scarves covering their heads.

I did not go there thinking I’d see firing ranges or target shooting in progress, but the tour itself was surreal.

As I walked through the neatly trimmed lawns, passing the hostel, mosque, and the hospital, the conversation was dotted with words such as terrorism, Lashkar, and in my case, Kashmir.

Conversations with Terror’s Inner Circle

Even though the gates were opened to dispel the impression of Muridke being the training camp that "India has made it out to be," the conversation between Muntazir, Waleed, and me was not about the school syllabus, but solely about how India was the enemy.

Muntazir and Waleed did not deny the fact that Kasab "schooled" in Muridke.

So, did Kasab study here, in Muridke, I asked, pointedly.

"Even if he did, we are not responsible for what any one of our students does after passing out."

Do you support the Lashkar-e-Taiba?

"We used to," replied Muntazir.

You used to?

"Yes, we were like-minded but the group was banned after Indian propaganda, following the attack on its Parliament, which was done by the Jaish-e-Mohammad and not the LeT. We used to provide logistical help to the Lashkar, collect funds for them and look after their publicity."

Did you also provide them arms?

"They must have bought weapons with the money we gave them. They were obviously not using the money to buy flowers for the Indian Army."

Your Amir, Hafiz Saeed, has given calls for jihad…

"He supports the freedom movement in Kashmir. We think it is right. It is ridiculous to call him a terrorist. Even when a thorn pricks India, the whole world stands up."

Pervez Musharraf, the former president, was in negotiations with India on Kashmir…

"Who is Musharraf to speak about Kashmir…"

Does the ISI support you?

Muntazir just laughed. "Would you like to spend the night here?"

No, thank you. I have another appointment.

I left wondering if Kasab had learnt to swim in the gigantic pool I saw within the precincts of the Lashkar headquarters. I was also amazed with Muntazir’s denigration of Musharraf. They were a power unto themselves, answerable to seniors in the ISI or the army. Former chiefs didn’t matter.

Khalid Waleed was also my minder when I visited Muridke for the second time. I tried calling him today – 7 May 2025 – the day India announced its strikes against terrorist infrastructure based in Pakistan.

Hitting the Heart, Not Just the Fringe

Operation Sindoor stands out from the previous two surgical strikes sanctioned by the Narendra Modi government. Unlike Uri (2016) and Balakot (2019), the strikes post-Pahalgam struck at the heart of the Punjab province, where the Lashkar and the Jaish-e-Mohammad are headquartered. The strikes were aimed higher and not just at foot soldiers occupying launch pads. 2025 is unlike 2016 and 2019.

The television screens are now showing visuals of coffins being carried through the sprawling complex in Muridke. Waleed’s phone was switched off. I tried several times. Each time, a recorded message said, “The number you are trying to reach has been powered off.”

Have the precision strikes "powered off" the terror factories? The answer to that question will only come in the future.

Postscript: My second trip to Muridke was arranged with the help of a former Pakistani prime minister. I am not at liberty to reveal that portion from the upcoming book.

(Harinder Baweja is a senior journalist and author. She has been reporting on current affairs, with a particular emphasis on conflict, for the last four decades. She can be reached at @shammybaweja on Instagram and X. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)