After three miserable years of dispute and a life filled with fear, subjected to foul oaths directed at her by her husband, ferocious pounding on the door from bill collectors demanding money for debts she knew nothing about, 45-year-old Chen took her three young daughters and vanished to a place where she hoped her husband could never find her.

Chen never know why or how her husband ended up owing so much money that had caused constant harassment to the family. She was unaware even of the amount. But the arguments that grew from the family’s financial troubles escalated to violence and physical abuse.

“We are scared,” Chen, a new immigrant to the city, manages to say in poor, strongly accented Cantonese. Though her face is hidden behind a mask, her hair covered by a hat, Chen sit with her head down, barely looking up as she spoke.

The decision to separate from her husband was not an easy one, financially or emotionally. Her husband had provided her sole support in Hong Kong, and was the only one in any way close to her. Chen has no income, no savings, only primary school education and three kids — the youngest was only two.

After fleeing the family home, Chen, with her three kids, checked in at a temporary shelter operated by Caritas Family Crisis Support Centre, to give herself time to make the transition. The shelter whose mission is to offer help to women traumatized by family crises usually provides free accommodation for up to two weeks.

Chen’s stay was a lot longer. She got stuck there and had to remain for two months. She couldn’t find a place to live. The rents were beyond her ability to pay.

“Even sub-divided units are very expensive today,” said Paulina Kwok Chi-ying, a social worker at the shelter. Kwok, who is also the supervisor at the center, observed that cases similar to Chen’s are increasing.

When the shelter was founded in 2002, most that came seeking refuge remained for only one to three days. Since the second quarter of 2010, the occupancy rate has remained above 120 percent. In some years, the rate almost reached 140 percent. The shelter with 42 fixed beds had to add additional beds in wherever space could be found.

“About 30 percent among those who live for more than 14 days failed to rent a place in the increasingly expensive private rental market,” Kwok said.

Another temporary shelter is experiencing similar problems with overcrowding and relocating residents.

Queenie Tao How-wah, executive director of Harmony House noted the trend began from 2009.

The house provides free accommodation for women and children fleeing from domestic violence. The duration of their stay can be up to three months.

“(Finding a place) Within three months has become an impractical goal in these years.” Tao told China Daily.

She says in the present climate, many residents at Harmony House take about five months from check-in to check-out.

“I feel that affordable houses, I mean for rental, not for selling, are coming down,” she added, noting that a 30-square-feet flat could cost HK$6,000-7,000 a month.

“They are obviously staying longer than before. There is one case that’s been here for about a year or so. But I know she’s not abusing the resources. She tried.”

Since 2009, the shelter has constantly added beds. Capacity has increased more than 50 percent in the past two years, from 40 to 65. Even then, social workers still have to set up extra additional beds occasionally, when the capacity is exceeded.

“Under no circumstances will we throw them out,” Tao said.

Overstaying certainly affects others in need of shelter. But what’s worse,  “the unfavorable environment outside makes it very difficult for them to settle down on their own, right away. (They need) finally to have enough courage to leave abusive husbands and sick marriages and get independence,” she added.

The long, difficult work of house hunting overwhelmed Chen.

“Some house owners and agents look down on her. She always looked sad, frustrated and anxious during that time,” Kwok recalled.

Chen was looking mainly for sub-divided units. She expected those tiny units would be an affordable choice for her and her three kids.  She thought that type of united, sub-divided from a normal flat, comprising around 100 sq ft with a toilet would be cheap. She was disappointed again and again. A sub-divided unit is usually rent at an high price, at least HK$4,000.

Chen herself is not eligible for the government financial assistance that provided to permanent residents. Her debt-ridden husband can provide her no support. All she has is the HK$3,330 rent allowance under the Comprehensive Social Security Assistance (CSSA) Scheme, provided by the Social Welfare Department to her three children.

“I have to take care of the three kids. It’s hard for me to work outside,” Chen said.

Even if she could cope with monthly rental of HK$4,000, Kwok said, she would still need to come up with at least HK$12,000 to cover the first month’s rent and a security deposit equal to two months’ rent. And that’s under the condition that no agent fee is charged.

What is happening more and more often, is that many owners prefer not to lend rooms to unemployed single mothers like Chen.

Although the fire that killed four people on Ma Tau Wai road last year exposed the dangers of sub-divided units, the rents charged for these tiny rooms were not affected. Rents for the tiny units actually are increasing, fueled by strong demands among people who are scrambling for available places, even though they have jobs. Some of these are university graduates.

“There was one agent who flip-flopped, and lent the same unit to some others in the next day,” Kwok added.

Finally, a message  from the mother of a classmate of one of  Chen’s daughters put her in the right direction and ended her despair. Chen was directed to a very old stone house at a corner of Sham Shui Po. The monthly rent is still HK4,000, but she was not required to pay the security deposit or agent fee.

“It was a flat around 150 sq ft, good enough to place two double bunk beds, a dinner table, and a closet. That’s all,” Kwok added. “They are very satisfied.”

“They are not asking for a lot. They are not complaining about terrible living conditions. A nasty room in our eyes could mean hope to them, a chance to lead a new life,” Tao said.

She recalled a women with two young children who recently checked out of the shelter and ended up in a cubicle room, separated from the rest of the flat by wooden boards in Sham Shui Po.

“Wooden boards are not sound-proofing. Now she’s worried the owner will kick them out because her kids are noisy,” said Tao, as always carefully avoided any disclosures that might reveal the identity of location of the woman.

Safety concerns remain, including fire hazards and personal safety. “They are young women and kids. But there are all sorts around there,” Tao added.

Those tiny, wooden-board rooms are known for lacking in privacy. Peeping toms adjacent to cubicles appear in newspapers from time to time.

“They don’t have much choices, except to wait for getting public housing. They may have to wait for a long time,” Tao said.

About 70 percent of the women who have come to the shelter for help are new immigrants. Their plight is becoming even more difficult by their lack of education and poor earning ability.

“Besides, single mothers seldom get high wages, they also find it difficult to work long hours,” Tao said.

There are over 55,000 single mothers living on the CSSA, according to 2010 statistics.

Under the CSSA scheme, a maximum rent allowance will be provided to them: HK$1,265 for a single-person, HK$2,550 for a two-person family, and HK$3,330 for a three-person family.

But even wooden-board cubicle rooms cost more than HK$2,000 a month.

“You know, in a cubicle room, you must have seen it on TV, they share a kitchen and a toilet. The condition is  just bad,” Tao sighed.

“This is one of the human sufferings. It’s sad, very sad,” she said.