John El-Jor, Rotana Tarabzouni, Ali Louis Bourzgui, and Michael Khalid Photo by Joan Marcus

It wasn't that long ago, roughly 2010-12, yet it's largely receded into the memories of many of us Americans, overtaken by more local and (de)pressing matters. But for a while the Arab Spring made world headlines and promoted the heartening notion that massive resistance to the status quo can, in fact, make a difference. We Live in Cairo limits that resistance to six twentysomethings, and weighs them down with perhaps more personal and romantic baggage than they can comfortably carry. But it does resonate.

The first protester we meet is, at the outset, the least dedicated. Layla (Nadina Hassan, with a winning sincerity and a clarion voice for any musical theatre genre), a photographer, is finding her way to an underground gallery where political dissent meets artistic expression, and at first she's reluctant to take up the dangerous ideas being espoused. But she sure comes around fast, for reasons we don't see, the first instance of the Lazour brothers' disappointing inability to give plot developments enough breathing room. She's lured into the cause by Fadwa (Rotana Tarabzouni), the group firebrand, newly out of prison and ever willing to risk her freedom in the name of the cause; in many ways, Fadwa's a downtown cousin to Raya, the incendiary heroine of Manhattan Theater Club's Vladimir. And it doesn't hurt that Layla's also there to see Amir (Ali Louis Bourzgui), a talented young singer-guitarist and budding boyfriend, and a writer of plangent protest songs. He also has a brother, Hany (Michael Khalid Karadsheh), who has no personality at all for the first act and develops an unappealing one in the second. Layla is Muslim and Amir Christian, another stumbling block the Lazours drop in without ever really resolving.

But that's a minor conflict compared with that of Karim (John El-Jor) and Hassan (Drew Elhamalawy, refreshingly low-key, until he erupts). Karim, Fadwa's cousin, wealthier than his compatriots and a self-described satirist, spray-paints unflattering caricatures of Mubarak on Cairo walls–an act of protest virtually certain to land him in trouble, whatever his connections. Hassan admires these murals and signs on as Karim's pupil. And the two begin a romance, or would, but for Hassan's roots in the Muslim Brotherhood, a horribly homophobic traditionalist sect that might throw him off a roof if he were found out. This, too, is trotted out, and leads to a well-written second-act confrontation between the two, but we're left hanging as to how it ends.

Six mostly attractive young rabble-rousers (Hany, who dreams of studying law in New York, remains something of a stiff), dedicated to uprooting injustice and injecting liberty into a long-repressive society. All very appealing, isn't it? (Probably wisely, to keep the audience on their good side, the authors never utter the word "Israel.")

Tilly Grimes's rather shabby set suggests a well-worn stomping ground where friends can be at ease despite ominous surroundings, while David Bengali's projections do the heavy narrative lifting–notably when the protesters occupy Tahrir Square for 18 days in 2011, leading to Mubarak's resignation, and intermission. The anthem Amir writes for the occupation, "Tahrir Is Now," is repetitive but a rouser. And it's topped by "Genealogy of Revolution," the lovely a cappella Act Two opener, which spins a sentiment not unlike "Seasons of Love," in the same spot in Rent.

Actually, a lot of the Lazours' lyrics are repetitive–and not always easy to hear, via Justin Stasiw's hyper sound design. But their music is tangy light rock, masterfully orchestrated by Daniel Lazour and Michael Starobin to emphasize its Middle Eastern underpinnings. Several cast members occasionally add to Mona Seyed-Bolorforosh's seven-piece orchestra, John Doyle-style, and there's surely not a weak voice in the company. Taibi Magar's direction lingers a bit–there's no reason this story has to occupy more than two and a half hours, even if we'd like more plot explanation and resolution–and Ann Yee, charged with "choreography and movement direction," concocts some frisky moves for this band of spirited, energetic would-be world changers.

Their enthusiasm is infectious, and the Lazours' determination to remind us of the revolutionaries' bravery and resolve commendable. (But how do they feel about Abd Fattah el-Sisi, in power since 2014? Not a clue.) The performers are dedicated; every cast bio in the program ends with, "I am deeply proud to be Arab." The brothers have been working on We Live in Cairo since 2013, it's had a couple of productions, and they may not be done tweaking it yet. Their passion for their subject is plain, and counts for a lot. Yet in its inexpert mixing of the political and the personal, its plotlines that wander around and sometimes end up nowhere, it still seems that We Live in Cairo hasn't entirely dotted its alifs and crossed its taas.