On her way home to Yokneam after a long day she thought would end just like any other, Monik Konfino’s phone suddenly rang. It rang again. “I was still driving,” she remembers, “and I received calls from first from Haim Bibas, Chairman of the Federation of Local Authorities in Israel and later from Eli Dukorsky, the Foundation’s Chairman and mayor of Kiryat Bailik, informing me I was selected as CEO of the Shalem Foundation.” Having just completed ten years as CEO of Yokneam Municipality, Konfino wasn’t seeking a major career change. Nonetheless, something about the role she applied for, the CEO position at Keren Shalem, captured her interest. “Something there attracted me,” she recalled.
Konfino speaks swiftly, with the practiced cadence of someone experienced in city council meetings, emergency updates, and budget talks, but beneath her eloquent delivery is a steadfast worldview. “I truly believe in people, in the individual” she states, almost as her guiding principle. Yet, while seasoned in leadership, Konfino’s professional journey started far from disability policy or philanthropy, in Israel’s high-tech industry.
The change came not through ideology but through volunteering. When her daughter was in first grade, Konfino agreed to chair the Yokneam parents’ association – the city was expanding quickly, yet some schools still lacked covered playgrounds. “I went to the see mayor Simon Alfasi and said, ‘We need roofing,’” she recalls. Alfasi – the mayor who by now became a near-mythic figure in the city, responsible for transforming Yokneam from a small, backwater town into north Israel’s tech hub – mentioned bureaucracy constraints, to which she simply replied, “Listen, we need roofing.” A moment of a parent not backing down when confronting the system, creating something that later became legendary in the town. Konfino rallied parents, partnered with Mifal HaPais, and secured funding for a pilot project, and the latter’s success eventually prompted the municipality to fund roofing for all schools.
More significantly, it transformed Konfino’s sense of agency. “I realized that when you truly want something, and you’re willing to work for it with partners, you can overcome any obstacle. What matters is having a shared goal and leading it.” This realization led her to local government, where later, when the mayor invited her to manage a youth center that had closed, she accepted a substantial pay cut. “He told me plainly: I can pay you very little, but I need you to revive the center.” She succeeded, and within four years, it became one of the country's top youth centers in a city where, as she mentions, “70 percent of residents are under 40.”
That was when she realized she had, in her words, “the public-sector bug.” She explained, “Salaries and title didn’t interest me. What really interested me was making a tangible difference in people’s lives.” Her career following that moment was steady: ten years as CEO of the Yokneam municipality, managing everything from sanitation to a 50-million-shekel cultural center. “I touched every aspect of life,” she notes, “from a trash bin that wasn’t emptied in the morning to major infrastructure projects.” She guided the city through COVID-19 and the subsequent war after October 7. “We proved again that local government provides the first response to its residents,” she states. She later decided to step down, and received private sector offers, including leadership roles in major real estate firms. “Probably means I did something right,” she adds with a smile.
It was only when Konfino read the job posting for Keren Shalem, a public fund dedicated to the advancement and visibility of people with disabilities, she felt an unexpected pull. "What drew me in was that it supports people with disabilities and their families through local authorities,” she explains. “I thought: if I could expand what I did in Yokneam to a national level for a population that truly needs it, that would be very meaningful.”
Almost zero bureaucracy
Keren Shalem, a public foundation of local government operating in partnership with the Ministry of Social Welfare and Social Security, is not widely known outside professional circles. Konfino herself admits that even as a city CEO, she “didn’t really know it.” What she discovered upon arriving surprised her. “This is the only platform of its kind in Israel,” she says, and possibly in the world.
“There is no other foundation that brings together local government, a government ministry, and designated funds like this.” The foundation manages funds transferred from the Ministry of Social Welfare and redistributes them to municipalities as targeted grants. “It’s almost zero bureaucracy,” she emphasizes. “Of course there are criteria and rules, but it’s nothing like a government ministry.”
The numbers are anything but trivial: Keren Shalem operates on an annual budget of around 60 million shekels, and in 2025 alone, Konfino says, the foundation saw 15 percent growth and approved 514 projects. “Once a month we convene a professional committee,” she explains. “I chair it. Welfare directors from municipalities bring the needs from the field. Representatives from the ministry are there, and every month, projects are approved. You don’t see that anywhere else.”
She argues that the structure's importance is rooted in both political and administrative reasons. Before the foundation's establishment, disability-related funds were directly allocated to municipalities. “Then the mayor has priorities,” she points out, "not because he doesn’t want to invest in people with disabilities, but simply because most people don’t have disabilities, and funding is focused on the majority." Conversely, Keren Shalem guarantees that the funds “actually go to people who needs them."
When Konfino took charge, only about 100 of Israel’s 260 local authorities actively utilized the foundation. "First, people need to know it exists,” she states, putting her money where her mouth is, as one of her initial actions was to invite Keren Shalem to the annual Local Government Conference, marking its first appearance in 30 years. "Looking back, that was like a rehearsal,” she says, “We didn’t even imagine then that we’d be going to Miami.”
At the conference, alongside major institutions like Mifal HaPais, the foundation introduced an unconventional, small grant of 20,000 shekels with no matching requirement, aimed at encouraging municipalities to host inclusive cultural performances in the summer that focus on “accepting difference and otherness.”
The response exceeded expectations, with “One hundred and seventy municipalities jumped,” she reports, leading to a budget increase. The grant was intentionally modest because “If I come to a mayor and say, ‘Let’s build a rehabilitative daycare center,’ that takes time,” Konfino notes. “This was about getting our foot in the door.” Once mayors realized what the foundation could do, demand grew. She found that the main obstacle was not lack of good intentions but lack of information – “You sit with a mayor, and he doesn’t even know what disability services exist in his city.”
Leadership turnover worsens this issue, with “Every five years, a hundred mayors are replaced.” Municipal planning generally operates at a “low resolution,” with new neighborhoods built with schools and standard daycare centers but rarely with rehabilitative ones. “It’s always after the fact,” she says, “like emergency medicine.”
With a very clear vision and a good sense of what not to do, Konfino focus is on long-term planning. Starting early 2026, Keren Shalem and the Ministry of Social Welfare will collaboratively fund municipal master plans for disability services. “There will be mapping,” she clarifies. “Then a vision. A mayor designing a new neighborhood will automatically include, in the plan, a rehabilitative daycare, an employment center, and a day center.” She admits not all facilities will be built right away. “But the plan will be there – that’s a new standard.”
During crises, the foundation’s work has become especially urgent. When schools and care facilities shut down at the start of the war, children with disabilities were confined to safe rooms. “I quickly wrote an emergency grant," Konfino recalls. “A small one.” Within 48 hours, 178 municipalities used it to buy activity kits. “Mayors arrived with those kits almost immediately,” she says. “We received photos. I had tears in my eyes.” She emphasizes that Keren Shalem does not need to be “at the front.” “We must be the engine,” she states. “The one creating opportunities.”
Konfino repeatedly emphasizes that inclusion benefits everyone. She mentions funding coffee carts inside municipal buildings staffed by people with disabilities, highlighting that residents encounter them daily, the municipality improves efficiency, and human capital scores increase – and it works.
When looking toward the future, whether to Miami, international collaborations, or a new branch abroad, she chooses her words carefully. “We’re not coming from a place of weakness,” she asserts, "We’re coming with solutions." She points out that disability exists worldwide and that Israel’s model is worth exporting. “I’ll stand on that stage and say, ‘Keren Shalem is here,’” she says, and adds, almost quietly, “Change happens step by step. Practically. By rolling up your sleeves.” This isn’t a revolutionary declaration but a distinctly Israeli and perhaps more lasting belief: that systems can be subtly influenced, budgets reallocated, and standards quietly changed – if someone is willing to pick up the phone, make the call, and refuse to accept bureaucracy as an answer.
This article was written in collaboration with the Shalem Foundation.