Babes in veils dance to a whole new beat for young Islamic women

So, 16-year-old Melbourne schoolgirl Ayten Ahmet wants to be a teen beauty queen. Why any girl would subject herself to a mindless cattle call is baffling enough. But putting aside the disturbing re-emergence of the vapid beauty parade – and the rise of a celebrity-obsessed raunch culture – Ayten’s desire to be ”a positive role model” is nevertheless worthy of note.

Talented women still bouncing off the corporate glass ceiling

With yet another embarrassed and frustrated senior executive quitting AWB this week, after a harrowing appearance at the oil for food inquiry, the embattled wheat exporter must be ready for some serious soul- searching.Perhaps it can start by asking if its mess might have been less if it didn’t exclude women from its boardroom. While AWB’s 12 men at the top make a botch of it, ambitious women in the company who aspire to rise need to look down to spot a potential role model. There she is, at executive management level: two lonely women surrounded by nine blokes.

Question for a profile puzzle: who could have picked them?

I don’t know what 23-year-old Cossor Ali looks like, but I can guess. Let’s see. I reckon she wears a thick, grey hijab tucked tightly around her face, with the peak shadowing a suspicious brow. She’s got dark, cold eyes with heavy lids, bushy unplucked brows, doughy complexion, no make-up, and pale dry lips. Her ugly flat sandals and grey socks poke out from under a long, black coat-dress, with hidden buttons. She’s sexless, humourless and dangerous.

Why do women hate Maureen Dowd?

It’s one of the great ironies of Australian feminism. Despite 40 years of maturation, we still play the man – and not the ball. We can’t help ourselves. Well before we consider the content and ruminate on the argument a woman might pose, we sharpen our squint, asking: “But who is she?”

If the messenger’s smart, sassy and sexy, shoot her

It’s one of the great ironies of Australian feminism. Despite 40 years of maturation, we still play the man – and not the ball. We can’t help ourselves. Well before we consider the content and ruminate on the argument a woman might pose, we sharpen our squint, asking: “But who is she?”