His broad frame fills his cramped bedroom, which is littered with filth-encrusted objects: old appliances, cookware, and furniture, many held together with tape. Because ISS aid only covers the bare minimum, Salim and his cohabitants hunt for clothes and other household essentials in a nearby garbage dump.
Salim says the ISS does not provide adequate medical care. "When I am sick, the doctors say, 'we cannot check you.'"
Instead they give him tablets of Panadol, a feeble painkiller that Beatson says refugees receive "whether they have migraines, dermatitis, venereal diseases, cancer, or are giving birth."
"The suffering caused is purposeful," continues Beatson. "[The government] causes so much slow pain that the people have no choice but to leave."
However, Miranda Ng, a spokesperson for ISS, says that each client is "individually assessed for needs, special concerns, and vulnerabilities," and that medical assistance is provided at the discretion of social workers. In response to suggestions that aid is insufficient, she replies "any assistance program will always be a compromise."
ISS does not determine aid levels, she adds, as the agency is funded directly by the government and only carries out government instructions.
Officials stand behind the austere policy, which they say is designed to keep its welfare system from getting overloaded with outsiders. "The objective of humanitarian assistance is to provide support, which is considered sufficient to prevent a person from becoming destitute while at the same time not creating a magnet effect," Hong Kong's Social Welfare Department wrote in a statement emailed to CNN.
Salim has a simpler explanation: "The Hong Kong government doesn't care. To them, we are not people."
'Like finding out heaven is fake'
Claimants who persist long enough to receive a status determination are often devastated to find they have been rejected without explanation.
According to Vision First, Hong Kong has received over 12,000 torture claims in the last 21 years -- and has accepted five. "This number is unbelievable," says Beatson. "It's an effective zero percent recognition rate."
For those in Ping Che waiting to be screened, these figures cause despair.
"It's a tunnel with no light at the end," says Beatson. "When it dawns on refugees what they're stuck in, they're in shock. They conclude that Hong Kong is safe, but they would've rather died. It's like finding out that heaven is fake."
To alleviate refugees' suffering, a small group of Hong Kong NGOs has formed what it calls the Refugee Concern Network to try and coordinate help.
One of its members is Julee Allen, who manages a refugee aid center in Hong Kong's Chungking Mansions. The center provides psycho-social support for more than 300 clients. But the work, she says, is very difficult.
In her first month on the job, a man suddenly broke down into tears. "He pulled up his shirt and showed me stab wounds all over his torso and started explaining what has happened in his country.
"When he left and shut the door behind him, I lost it. I spent 30 minutes crying, just saying, 'My God, how can we help someone who has been so deeply, deeply wounded?'"
Beatson says that the aid organizations simply cannot help everyone.
"All the charities combined only have about three million HKD (US$128,926). We need hundreds of millions," he says. "Our work might help five hundred people a little, but how do you help 6,000?
"We have to put pressure on the government," he adds.