Among my fondest days as a kid were those camping in tents.
In winter.
In a meter of snow.
Rethink your invasion plans.
You might not really want to be there.
My Dad spent the record-cold winter of 1945 as an infantryman, sleeping in foxholes if the ground wasn’t too hard to shovel. His task as a newbie in the Hurtgen Forest/Ardennes was to retrieve dead and injured from the hillsides in hip-deep snow. Under fire.
He told me of nights they marched until they dropped, slept til they woke from shivering, rinse and repeat. Machine gun fire, rockets and air warfare were frequent companions. All to help in the cause of making Europe free and ensuring our own freedom.
The “refugees” might think of that as they await sleep on a cold night.
The generous bennies offered by a first world country may not be collectible if you freeze to death.