During a recent summer stroll near an Ivy League campus, I happened on an SUV with a decal on its rear window that read “The University of Rhodesia.”

The University of Rhodesia no longer exists, but it was located in Rhodesia, a self-declared state in southern Africa from 1965 to 1979 (the area now known as Zimbabwe). An independent state successor to the British colony of Southern Rhodesia, it was named after the British imperialist Cecil Rhodes.

WIRED OPINION ABOUT C. Brandon Ogbunu is an assistant professor at Brown University who specializes in computational biology and genetics.

In recent years, Rhodesian iconography has gained popularity among young men with white nationalist leanings. Infatuation with Rhodesia first received media attention after it was discovered that Dylann Roof—the white supremacist who killed 9 black churchgoers in 2015—had a personal website called “Last Rhodesian,” where he posted his manifesto. Soon after the mass shooting, we learned about Roof’s idolization of Rhodesia: The territory was led by Ian Smith, who famously declared that “the white man is master of Rhodesia. He has built it, and he intends to keep it.” It was a state defined by military conflicts with African people. To Dylann Roof and many others, Rhodesia is a symbol of militarized white nationalism and the fantasy of a race war.

Why do we see a “University of Rhodesia” decal in Rhode Island—or anywhere in the US, for that matter? Rhodesia has a history that is so alien to the places we’re seeing it celebrated that we should be curious. One likely suggestion is that Rhodesia is a stand-in for the more familiar Confederate flag or Nazi swastika. Because most people don’t know much about Rhodesia, its iconography functions as Confederate or Nazi messaging, but without the same consequences (for now, at least).

Newfound fascination with Rhodesia is just the latest iteration in the growth and diversification of white nationalism, much of it taking place in digital spaces. Two of the movement’s original symbols remain: Nazi Germany and the Confederacy. Despite the fact that these places are real—Nazi Germany, the Confederate South, and Rhodesia—their popularity among white nationalists can be attributed to an insidious finagling of historical source material that reads like storytelling, complete with mythological lands, heroes, and villains. In this way, the resurgence of white nationalism resembles the most ambitious kinds of fan fiction.

Fan fiction has many definitions, but it can be loosely defined by the use of source material (often, but not always, fiction) as inspiration for new and original stories written by someone other than the original author. It has existed as long as stories—and fanbases for those stories—have been around. The internet provided a niche for its expansion, and fan fiction rapidly transformed from boutique online gatherings to a thriving industry. The power of fan fiction is in its simplicity. Anyone can transform their love, hate, or fascination with a piece of fiction or history into new worlds.

Were you intrigued, as I always was, by Star Trek’s Romulan-Klingon relations? You can dream up your own version of their history, one that involves original tales of war, diplomacy, love, and religion.

Are you curious how Wreck-It Ralph came to occupy his space in that particular game, in that universe? In only seconds, I could share my version of his origin with millions.

Based on the definitions provided and countless other examples, I assert that white nationalism operates as a dangerous perversion of the fan fiction model. Though white nationalist fantasies are loosely based on real events, modern elaborations are often authored by people with no actual connection to the original place or people, and their fairy tales can be self-propagating. Faux historical tales beget more cartoonish historical tales.

Conveniently, the trio of white nationalist regimes that I’ve discussed so far—Rhodesia, Nazi Germany, and the Confederacy—feature similar fan-fictionalization DNA:

1. Valorization. Whatever the actual historical fate of the states, their “fans” transform them into places of triumph—or, at least, tragic tales of paradise lost.