In April, a wave of tornadoes swept across more than 20 states—more than 200 twisters in a short span—leaving widespread damage as hurricane season approached. In the wake of such events, a recurring pattern has emerged: militias, conspiracy-minded activists, and white supremacists turn up in hard-hit communities offering help. Advocates and researchers have begun calling this phenomenon “disaster tourism”—short-term, highly visible assistance aimed as much at shaping perceptions and winning followers as at delivering relief.
A stark example came in September 2024, when Hurricane Helene struck North Carolina. The storm hit the small town of Bat Cave particularly hard, lifting homes and stripping the landscape of trees. Sheriff Lowell Griffin described the scene as if “taking a box of toothpicks and dumpin’ ’em on your kitchen counter.” After days of heavy rain and storm damage, outside groups began arriving.
“These folks that we’re talking about, they were in the minority. However that minority can create chaos. And that’s what we ran into,” Griffin said. Some outsiders tried to operate like militias, hoping to impose their own version of law and order, and some arrived armed—actions that diverted responders’ time and attention from rescues.
Among those who showed up were members linked to the white nationalist network Active Club. Robert Rundo, who co-founded Active Club in 2020, defended showing up at disaster scenes as helping “our people.” In interviews he described himself as “a nationalist,” explaining, “It means I put my people first.” When pressed on whether that meant white people, Rundo replied yes, and suggested organizations “are geared towards other ethnic groups,” adding, “If we don’t look out for ourselves, who is?”
Rundo has characterized Active Club as a place where young white men train and socialize while sharing an ideology. With roughly 90 chapters nationwide, watchdog groups describe Active Club as one of the faster-growing white supremacist networks—antisemitic, anti-immigrant and hostile to democratic norms—that also organizes mixed martial arts events. Rundo has framed the group’s activities in upbeat terms, at one point saying, “You know, there’s fun in fascism,” and acknowledged handing out flyers at relief efforts, arguing that helping in a crisis can alter people’s impressions: “That’s the guy who came when my house was on fire and helped me out.”
Other organized groups have followed similar tactics. Patriot Front members in North Carolina were filmed cutting trees and handing out bread. Freddy Cruz of the Western States Center, which tracks hate groups, said these actors primarily use disasters to create followings. “What we’re seeing is actually these groups will show up and generate a whole bunch of social media content. We’re dubbing it disaster tourism,” Cruz said. Unlike established relief organizations—veterans’ groups like Team Rubicon or faith-based groups such as Samaritan’s Purse that coordinate with authorities and often remain for weeks—these outside actors frequently do short, visible stints designed to produce shareable material before leaving.
Analysts say disasters offer a rare moment when public attention focuses on one place, creating an opportunity to reach a broad audience. “There are very few things that bring the public’s attention to focus on one thing in unison. And natural disasters is one of those,” said John Kelly, an analyst at Graphika. Many contemporary extremist groups are trying to appear more mainstream; Kelly noted they often keep overtly triggering symbols out of sight to attract a wider pool of recruits rather than marching with traditional iconography.
Rundo himself has described avoiding extreme imagery and cultivating a rugged, wholesome image to appeal to younger men. That strategy echoes broader influencer-driven currents: online personalities and political extremists who tone down explicit symbolism while promoting xenophobic or authoritarian ideas. The article’s sources cited figures who have pushed such themes publicly, showing how extremist currents can seep into more mainstream or political spaces.
Members of Active Club often conceal their faces in footage from disaster sites; Rundo, who has acted as a spokesman though he has not always been physically present, has a criminal record he has discussed—stints in prison as a teenager after a gang fight and another sentence for confrontations at 2017 rallies. He has described Active Club as “ultra-nationalists, far right, fascists,” and when asked about an ultimate goal—such as a racially exclusive state—he criticized democracy as a “scam” and suggested he favors a more militant, less democratic order.
Relief-based appearances also create openings to attack government response and spread misinformation. Videos from these groups during Helene falsely alleged FEMA was seizing supplies, rationing aid, or that bodies were floating in rivers. Some conspiracy claims went further, accusing the government of weaponizing weather—a rumor that Sheriff Griffin said was baseless. Concerns about armed outsiders and militias prompted visiting federal rescuers to pull back temporarily amid safety fears.
Groups such as Veterans on Patrol and various militias arrived to distribute supplies or clear debris, but law enforcement officials say their presence sometimes compounded problems. “Misinformation took a bad situation and actually complicated a bad, bad situation,” Sheriff Griffin said, urging volunteer helpers to coordinate with official channels rather than relying on social media.
Local officials and watchdogs worry this approach could become routine: extremists and conspiracy-driven outsiders descending on disaster zones to do quick, photogenic work that generates online attention, even as it sows doubt about official responders, spreads false claims, and recruits new followers. The net effect, they warn, is to erode trust in coordinated, long-term relief efforts just as communities need those systems most.