They seem like characters from some ancient fairy tale. Not everyday people, with real lives. Maybe that's why in Uganda, pygmies are called "the forgotten people." But I cannot forget them. The Batwa pygmies sing in my dreams.

I met a community of Batwa pygmies while I worked as an intern for ADRA Uganda. I remember the morning vividly. Not because of the brilliant sky or the lush mountains, but because I had the flu. My stomach flinched at every bump in the dirt road. I rested my cheek on the vinyl seat and felt sorry for myself. I should be in bed, I thought. At the village, I stumbled out of the Land Cruiser and pushed hair out of my face. I zipped my jacket against the cool mountain air. I hadn't expected Africa to be so cold. We walked single file toward the huts set back from the road. A pygmy lady led the way. She was just a bit shorter than I. Her face was creased with wrinkles. A yellow cloth was wrapped efficiently around her body. She walked quickly, balancing a basket on her head.

I had my camera slung around my neck, the stereotype of an ugly American. I'm taking pictures for ADRA, not me, I chanted in my head. I still felt awkward taking photos of someone's tragedy.

By now, I was used to poverty. I knew the grim statistics. Globally, one in five people lives on less than a dollar a day. My economical trip to Taco Bell, my dollar laid casually on the counter, is all that another girl has to live on for the whole day.

The poverty of the Batwa Pygmies though went beyond statistics. The huts looked like the "after" picture of a natural disaster. The thatched roofs were sliding toward the dirt. There were gaps in the mud walls. One of the huts didn't even have any walls, it was just a lean-to. The nicest home in the village used a piece of metal for a door. The owner was a seventeen-year-old boy who had just gotten married. In that one-room hut, he lived with his bride, three younger siblings and his mother.

The matriarch of the community explained why the place looked so barren. This was not their home. They had only lived here for a couple of months. They only expected to live here for a couple more months, weeks, days-no one knew. And the irony is that the nicer they fixed things up, the sooner they'd be asked to leave.

Ten years ago, the Batwa pygmies were evicted from the forest in order to make a preserve for mountain gorillas. They were not given any land in exchange. The consequences were tragic. Uganda is an agricultural society. Land means money, food, education, a home, hope for the future. The Batwa pygmies have survived by living as squatters. They work in other people's fields in return for a place to build a home. They are virtually indentured servants.

But they don't have the same security. The matriarch told me that they always have to be ready to move-once the crop is harvested, once the seeds are planted, once the landlord changes his mind. Tomorrow can mean being homeless, starving.

For the Batwa pygmies, survival isn't about getting through a board meeting; it's about finding food. And forget showers, indoor toilets or even outhouses, for that matter. The Batwa pygmies are unable to practice good hygiene because their landlords will not allow them to build outhouses. And it's hard to bathe or wash your clothes often, if you must walk three miles to fetch water.

My own hands smelled like coconut, courtesy of the scented antibacterial hand gel I carried so I could "wash" my hands on the road. Now, I tugged at my jacket and felt pampered. What did I do to deserve being born into privilege?

The Batwa pygmy children surrounded me in a respectful circle. They gazed at my clean clothes, expensive camera, white skin. A movie star or princess would not have been met with more awe. Just when I was certain they must hate me, hate every comfort I was born into, they started singing.

The song was joyful, upbeat. A young girl skillfully played homemade drums. The matriarch began to dance. The words were lilting, effortless. Yet it was a new song.

The program's officer translated that they were singing a song about ADRA. They were thanking us for caring about them. They even sang about me.

But the tragedy is that although ADRA is assisting the Batwa pygmies by teaching them to read and helping them with investment projects, ADRA can't get them the one thing they need-land.

As we drove back to town the project manager, Esther Irankunda, lamented that they can't find anyone who will support a land project. "If the pygmies just had their own land," she waves a hand through the air letting the movement complete the sentence. "And it's so frustrating," she finally continued. "This whole cycle of poverty. It's unnecessary."

"Then, let's do it," I said. "We can tell the donors about the Batwa pygmies. We can raise funds. How much would it cost?"

Patiently, Esther explained to me that ADRA Uganda's projects are sponsored by two European countries. Red tape makes these donors unable to buy land in another country. The donors will pay for education, but not land. My eyes must have been burning with ideas, because Esther turned to me and smiled.

"What about churches?" I said. "What about colleges? We could write letters. If people just saw the pygmies, they'd want to help. This could work." I remembered a kid I read about in Reader's Digest. He was in elementary school and raised enough money to build a well in Uganda.

Instead of saying something practical, Esther grinned. "Maybe God sent you to help the pygmies."

I thought of the baby I'd seen that morning at the village. He was naked, shivering. His eyes were puffy, his mouth formed a miserable O. His legs were wrapped tightly around the teenage girl who held him. When I had reached out and tentatively touched his arm, it was as cold as marble.

I wanted to help that child. I wanted to help the Batwa pygmies. The solution seemed so simple. Buying land for the three hundred Batwa pygmies in the area would cost only 70,000 US dollars. But although I could see the solution, it became like a hologram disappearing every time I tried to make it a reality.

That's not the end of the story, though. I don't want it to be a tragedy and there is plenty of time left for a happy ending. The middle of the story is this-it's been four months since I visited the Batwa pygmies. The only money I've been able to raise is my own. But there is now an official ADRA project called the Ugandan Pygmy Land Fund. I dream of recruiting youth groups, churches, service clubs, schools, to help provide land for the pygmies. It's not an impossible dream.

If you would like to help the Batwa pygmies, call ADRA toll free at 1-888-237-2367 and give to the Ugandan Pygmy Land Fund. For more information, e-mail me: Sari Fordham sarikf@yahoo.com.