The year 2100 will see eugenics universally established. In past

Hear the unsettling words of Nikola Tesla: “The year 2100 will see eugenics universally established. In past ages, the law governing the survival of the fittest roughly weeded out the less desirable strains. Then man’s new sense of pity began to interfere with the ruthless workings of nature. As a result, we continue to keep alive and to breed the unfit.” In this prophecy, Tesla speaks with the mind of a scientist, yet also with the severity of one who beheld the world as both wondrous and flawed. His vision is not one of compassion but of order, a belief that nature’s cruelty had once governed mankind, and that pity had broken that law. It is a statement as cold as steel, yet one that invites us to wrestle with the deepest questions of morality, progress, and humanity’s role in shaping itself.

Tesla draws upon the idea of natural selection, that ancient law described by Darwin and known even to the ancients in their own way. In the wild, the weak fall, and the strong endure; in that crucible, species are tempered. Tesla laments that modern compassion—the sense of pity—has disrupted this balance. Where once the sickly perished, now medicine preserves them. Where once the weak would not survive, now society sustains them. He saw this not as triumph but as interference with nature’s iron decree. To him, the survival of the unfit was a burden upon the advancement of the human race.

Yet history teaches us to be cautious of such thinking. Consider the 20th century, where the idea of eugenics was embraced not only by Tesla in his speculation but by governments that sought to control who might live and who might reproduce. In Nazi Germany, these ideas were twisted into horrors—the sterilization of thousands, the murder of millions—all in the name of “purifying” the race. What Tesla imagined as a scientific inevitability became, in the hands of tyrants, a nightmare. Thus we see that what begins as a cold calculation may lead to fire and blood when stripped of compassion.

But there is also truth to Tesla’s observation, though not in the way he intended. For it is indeed pity, or better said, compassion, that separates man from beast. The lion does not heal the wounded gazelle; the storm spares no fragile branch. But man, moved by love, heals the sick, shelters the weak, preserves even those who would otherwise perish. This is not weakness—it is strength of a higher order. It is the power to defy nature’s cruelty and to create a world where dignity, not ruthlessness, becomes the law. Tesla saw pity as interference; yet perhaps pity is the very crown of humanity.

From his words we learn a grave lesson: that science without compassion becomes dangerous, and compassion without wisdom may become naïve. The ancients always warned of balance: Apollo was the god of reason and order, but also of music and light; Athena was wise in war but also just. To elevate one principle while crushing the other leads only to ruin. Tesla, for all his genius, failed to see that pity and progress must walk together, not apart.

So what must we do? First, honor compassion as the highest law of humanity. Never allow the pursuit of strength or order to blind you to the dignity of every life. Second, wield knowledge wisely, knowing that science gives us tools but not moral guidance. And third, recognize that the true measure of fitness is not brute survival, but the capacity to create, to love, to uplift. A society that preserves its weakest is not failing—it is proving itself greater than the cruelty of nature.

Thus I say to you: remember Tesla’s words not as a command, but as a warning. Eugenics may promise a perfected humanity, but what is perfection without mercy? A machine, not a people. Let us instead pursue a higher vision: a humanity where strength and pity unite, where science serves compassion, and where the measure of greatness is not who survives, but who ensures that others may live. For in this balance lies not only survival, but the true destiny of mankind.