After storms and other disasters, a recurring pattern has emerged: far‑right activists, militias and conspiracists travel to hard‑hit communities offering help — but often to recruit, polish their image and amplify anti‑government messages. 60 Minutes traced that phenomenon in the wake of Hurricane Helene in North Carolina and other recent disasters.
Sheriff Lowell Griffin of Burke County described an influx of outside groups after Helene. Some came to help; others arrived as antigovernment, far‑right actors who, he said, created confusion and drew law‑enforcement resources away from search and rescue. Sheriff Griffin told 60 Minutes that some outsiders tried to act like militias, even bringing weapons and proposing to “self‑deploy law and order,” forcing responders to divert attention to deal with them.
Among those who showed up were people tied to the Active Club network and Patriot Front. Active Club — cofounded in 2020 by Robert Rundo — is described by watchdogs as a fast‑growing white‑supremacist network with dozens of chapters that combines political organizing with mixed‑martial‑arts gatherings. In interviews and public statements, Rundo framed relief work in racial terms — “going to a disaster relief is directly helping our people,” and “my people are white people” — and acknowledged using relief videos and outreach to change perceptions and recruit followers. He and others in the movement have tried to portray themselves as more mainstream and masculine, downplaying overt Nazi imagery while promoting “wholesome” activities that appeal to young men.
Patriot Front members were seen in some places clearing trees and handing out supplies. Extremist‑watch groups and researchers say that white‑supremacist groups tend to arrive after disasters to generate social‑media content — a practice freelance investigators call “disaster tourism.” They produce videos of relief work and use those images to soften their image and win over locals who associate them with help provided in a crisis. John Kelly of Graphika noted that natural disasters focus public attention and provide an opportunity to reach a wide audience.
Freddy Cruz of the Western States Center, which tracks hate groups, described these actors as hoping to “build a following” by doing visible relief work and then leaving after they have created viral content. That contrasts with established relief organizations such as Team Rubicon or Samaritan’s Purse, which coordinate with local authorities and stay to support longer‑term recovery.
Even when groups present themselves as helpers, officials said there are real harms. Local law enforcement reported confusion, competition over supplies, and deployments that complicated official response plans. Sheriff Griffin said false rumors generated by outside actors — such as claims of people still stranded or bodies in waterways, or allegations that FEMA was “rationing supplies” — made a bad situation worse. He urged those who want to help to get information from official sources rather than social media.
Some vigilante or conspiracist groups have caused direct problems in disaster zones. In North Carolina, the Arizona‑based group Veterans on Patrol was reported by authorities to have created chaos while organizing supplies. In Helene’s aftermath, FEMA personnel briefly had to pull back amid concerns about militia activity, and rumors circulated online that the government had somehow engineered the storm (a claim tied to weather‑weapon conspiracies). These kinds of conspiracy narratives, investigators say, help fringe groups attract attention and followers.
Extremists’ approach to disaster relief is often strategic. Rundo admitted that Active Club hands out flyers and uses social media to encourage contact afterward. He framed in‑person relief work as a way to “change somebody’s opinion” by showing a different face when a movement is called out as violent or extreme. Other influencers outside organized groups, some with large social followings, have echoed and amplified antisemitic and white‑nationalist talking points while exploring political opportunities.
Watching for how such content spreads online is part of the intelligence work of firms like Graphika. Analysts say extremist networks have adapted their imagery and tactics to appeal to a broader audience — toning down shocking symbols in favor of community service, sports, or “wholesome” images that normalize the groups and make recruitment easier.
What officials and researchers recommend is vigilance: local authorities and residents should verify reports with official channels, be cautious about outsiders offering uncoordinated help, and ask groups to work with incident commanders. Sheriff Griffin emphasized that outside volunteers who genuinely want to help should “get their information from official sources and not from TikTok or Facebook or whatever the flavor of the day is with social media.”
60 Minutes’ reporting includes on‑the‑record interviews, on‑camera statements from group leaders, and law‑enforcement accounts describing which organizations appeared at recent disaster sites and how they operated. The pattern they documented — relief work used as a recruitment and image‑rehabilitation tool — recurred across storms and fires: groups show up, hand out water or supplies, film the activity, push narratives critical of government response, and leave once their content has been created.
In sum, the coverage finds that while some outsiders legitimately want to help, far‑right groups and conspiracists increasingly use disaster zones to gain influence: providing visible aid, seeking to “soften” perceptions of their movements, and using social media to amplify recruitment messages — sometimes adding confusion, misinformation, and security risks to communities already coping with loss.