A Story for Shabbat: When Torah Was Burned, He Turned to Arak

"I really don’t know how to say this," said the assistant apologetically. "But I was sent here under direct orders from the Rabbi."

The Rabbi in question was Rabbi Yitzchak Tayeb, the respected Chief Rabbi of Tunis. He was also the author of Torah works like Erech HaShulchan and Chukot HaPesach, and a towering Torah scholar in his generation. But this wasn’t an ordinary matter of halachah (Jewish law). It was personal.

Rabbi Yitzchak had become deeply troubled by the behavior of his uncle, the brilliant Rabbi Chai Tayeb. He had seen him, more than once, drinking to the point of unconsciousness.

So, Rabbi Yitzchak instructed his assistant to go to every store in the city and inform them: by rabbinic ruling, no one was to sell alcohol to Rabbi Chai until further notice.

What had brought Rabbi Chai Tayeb such a gifted scholar to this state? What pain had pushed him to seek comfort in a bottle?

To understand that, we need to go back to his youth.

At just seventeen years old, Rabbi Chai Tayeb was completely immersed in Torah learning. His dedication was so intense that he would only leave his room once a week for Shabbat prayers at the synagogue. The rest of the time, he stayed home, learning and praying privately.

His righteous mother supported him with devotion. Once a day, she would bring a tray of food to his room and quietly remove it when he was done. Apart from that, he was completely disconnected from the world around him.

Day after day, he filled page after page with brilliant Torah insights. They say there were thousands of pages, written in tight, beautiful script. These were chidushim, deep, original Torah thoughts that could have enlightened generations of Jews. But one day, everything changed.

It began with a neighbor.

She came over for what seemed like a casual visit and sat down to chat with Rabbi Chai’s mother. Then, lowering her voice, she whispered, “Aren’t you afraid your son will go mad? He’s hunched over his books all day. One day he’s going to crack. You need to make him get out and breathe fresh air!”

Rabbi Chai’s mother was puzzled. She had never heard of anyone losing their mind from studying Torah. But the neighbor wouldn’t let it go. She kept pressing until finally, the mother, unsure of what to do, admitted, “I have no way to get him out. He’s not interested in anything but his learning.”

Then came the terrible suggestion.

The neighbor leaned in and whispered, “The next time he steps out to the outhouse, sneak into his room, gather all his writings, and burn them. He’ll be forced to take a break. It will snap him out of this obsession.”

The mother, simple and well-meaning, wanted only the best for her son. She followed the neighbor’s advice.

When Rabbi Chai returned and saw his precious writings were gone, he was devastated. He asked his mother where they were. Her answer? They had been burned.

The pain was so intense, so overwhelming, that it was as if he had lost ten children in one moment. His heart shattered. Those pages were the fruit of his youth, his deepest thoughts, his purest hours of devotion and now they were ash.

In his grief, he turned to alcohol.

It dulled the pain, though it never made it go away.

Years later, his nephew Rabbi Yitzchak Tayeb had become a major Torah leader in Tunisia. Seeing the state of his uncle, he issued the order: no more alcohol was to be sold to Rabbi Chai. “A few days, maybe a week or two,” he reasoned. “He’ll adjust. He’ll learn to live without it.”

Three days after the ban, it was Shabbat HaGadol, the Shabbat right before Passover. Rabbi Yitzchak was scheduled to give the big sermon before the entire community. As he stood up to speak, Rabbi Chai stood quietly at the side of the room, listening.

Rabbi Yitzchak began: “The Gemara says…” But then he paused. Silence.

He tried again. Nothing.

He couldn’t remember the teaching. The words of the Gemara, usually on the tip of his tongue were suddenly gone.

Frustrated and confused, Rabbi Yitzchak asked aloud, “Is Rabbi Chai in the audience? Is it because of you that I’ve forgotten my sermon?”

Rabbi Chai replied calmly, “Order the shopkeepers to sell me drink again. And just as they open their stores for me, the gates of wisdom will open for you and you’ll be able to give your derasha (sermon).”

Someone ran to fetch a bottle of arak.

Rabbi Yitzchak, realizing that his uncle’s drinking was not what it seemed—that it hid a pain too deep for others to judge lifted the ban.

That day, Heaven itself seemed to agree.